Saturday, December 29, 2012

A Survival Guide to Slasher Films

DISCLAIMER: Before beginning this post, I'd like to point out that I do at times seek out quality programming. I enjoy documentaries on just about anything, Wes Anderson and John Sayles films, and watching Richard Wolff go to great lengths detailing the evils of capitalism on Link TV. Please, just keep this in mind.





A couple of months ago my friend Tim and I decided it might be fun to watch Friday the 13th. I should mention this is not the same Tim who writes such wonderfully reflective pieces on his blog about hope, kindness, and the human spirit. No, this is my other friend Tim who repeatedly buys liquor at the grocery store because he gets lured in by the pretty color only to remember, after taking one drink, he hates alcohol. I just thought I should make this distinction. In fairness to Tim O.

Anyway, what began as a joke soon turned into a scenario in which Tricia grabbed her blanket, stood up, and said "I'm going to bed!" It seems she does not find slasher movies funny. That's just as well because this meant neither Tim or I had to feel the least bit self-conscious for giggling endlessly or yelling at the screen "NO, DON'T GO CHECK THE CIRCUIT BREAKER!"

 After the first movie we decided we should really see the second. See, number two is the first movie featuring Jason. And then we had to see the third because this is the one where he gets the hockey mask. After that one we wanted to watch the fourth installment because not only was it 3D but it also had Corey Feldman. The only reason we watched number five was so we could get to number six which had an appearance by Horseshack from Welcome Back, Kotter. At this point we'd seen so many there was really nothing else we could do but commit ourselves to seeing the entire series.

So now we're up to Friday the 13th: Jason Takes Manhattan. Yeah, I know - but we're no quitters! Not too long from now we'll be watching one in which Jason travels into space to attack unsuspecting teens on a space station. Wait...how did teens get on a space station? And how will they go skinny dipping?

One thing you'll notice when watching these movies is that people in slasher movies are just stupid. I cannot imagine how they manage each time to single themselves off from the group to be killed. Or how they remain completely unaware that their friends are being picked off one-by-one all around them. But they do.

So, should you ever find yourself trapped inside a slasher movie I 'm going to offer you twenty suggestions to help survive.


20. Make sure your car's engine is in good working order and has plenty of gas.

19. Never say, "I'll be right back."

18. Don't walk around naked. On a related note, don't skinny dip alone.

17. Do not take drugs.

16. DEFINITELY do not have sex.

15. Do not show up in the credits as "Second Deputy" or "Hitchhiker".

14. Pay attention to news reports about psychopathic killers on the loose.

13. Do not be in a wheelchair.

12. Do not be overweight.

11. Never go check what that noise was.

10. Do not build houses on ancient burial grounds.

9. If you are being chased by the killer, never stop to rest against a wall, door, or window thinking you've escaped.

8. If you come across your prankster buddy who seems to be lying dead in a pool of his own blood he is just trying to fool you. However, when this happens a second time turn and run. You're about to get axed.

7. Don't get a bunch of your friends together to stay in a cabin at a lake where other groups of people have been brutally murdered each and every summer the past six years.

6. If you find a good hiding spot, for God's sakes...stay there!

5. ALWAYS finish the job when given the chance. Do not assume the killer is dead.

4. Absolutely do not try to lift off the mask of the seemingly dead killer.

3. Do not be named Tina. According to some sources, Tinas statistically die more often in slasher movies.

2. Be a cute, virginal girl who does not drink, smoke, or do drugs. It would help if you have some sort of sad backstory. However, it would not be wise to show up in the sequel. If you do chances are you'll be dead within the first ten minutes.

1. And the best way to survive a slasher movie: be the killer. Even if you die you'll be magically resurrected in the next film.

Time well spent, my friends. Time well spent.




Wednesday, December 26, 2012

Old Friends

A few days ago I was in line at the gas station when Harper and Ainsley's former kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Mattox, walked through the door.

"Hey there!" she said. "How are you?"

"Great," I replied. No master of small talk I quickly offered, "Hey, the girls are out in the car."

Without hesitation she turned on her heel and headed right back out the door. When I came out I found the girls filling her in on the past couple of years - new teachers, middle school, Christmas plans. Because both Harper and Ainsley switched schools to be with me they really haven't seen Mrs. Mattox all that much over the past few years. A few moments later Tricia made her way over to the van and we all exchanged pleasantries before the girls received one final hug from their old friend.

Seeing old students is always so wonderful. When I walk my third graders over to the middle school for lunch I often happen across someone I taught just a few years ago. I can always count on a big smile and, occasionally, even a warm hug.

I've been lucky in that I have had a few students over the years who've worked to keep in touch with me. I receive letters in the mail letting me know about family trips, e-mails from parents letting me know their children are keeping at some of things we used to do together in class, or phone calls breaking sad news about family tragedies. I doubt the kids or parents could ever know how important this correspondence is. It's not a "thank you" teachers want so much as an opportunity to see how it all turns out. Or, better yet, to keep up  or rekindle old friendships.

When I was in college I was told that under no circumstances what-so-ever should a teacher become friends with their students. "Friendly, yes. Friends, no." It's a faulty logic built unsteadily upon a simple truth - the teacher is the authority figure. I tend to remember that at the time I agreed with this notion of keeping our kids at arm's length. At least, I did until I actually became a teacher and found it near impossible to subscribe to such an outdated philosophy. How can we spend more than a thousand hours together each year and not swap stories, share laughs, and grow so close that the last day of school is as bitter as it is sweet?

My first couple of years teaching were spent in St. Louis. Each year I had sixteen new faces greet me on the first day of school and over the course of one hundred eighty days we read, talked, explored, played, wondered, and laughed together. While I was still trying to figure out how to be a teacher I learned quickly how important it was to get to know my kids as more than just readers or writers or mathematicians. I learned to get to know them as people. As a result of this, and  contrary to what I had been taught in those undergraduate classes, I can look back now and see that some of my favorite friendships in life took place in that second grade classroom. Friendships that, yes, were different from those with other adults - but friendships all the same.

A few days ago I had the  privilege to reconnect with one of the kids from those second grade years. Claudia, who greeted me on the first day by warning me "I'm Rose's sister but we're nothing alike!", was the type of kid you'd want your own children to be like - funny, thoughtful, curious, and quirky. She wasn't like any of the other kids and, getting to know her, you'd never want her to be. I completely fell in love with her. In the years since leaving St. Louis I've wondered many, many times what happened to her. So when out of nowhere last week I happened across her mother Lori (one of the nicest people you'd ever hope to meet) I was in a state of near-shock. We chatted for about twenty minutes and after exchanging contact information she said "Claudia's coming into town tomorrow. If you're free I know she'd love to see you." Our time in St. Louis this Christmas was so short and tightly scheduled but how could I possibly pass up this opportunity. The only time we had available was early Sunday morning but Lori assured me "Don't worry. For you she'll get up early!"

So on Sunday morning Tricia and I met Lori, Rose, and Claudia at the Bread Company and spent what was easily the best two hours of my entire trip. We shared a few old stories and caught up on the last ten years. Claudia is now twenty-one years old and working at Indiana University. Rose works in the cancer center at Barnes Jewish Hospital. And Lori has another little one making his way through New City School - currently in the same classroom where I was once Rose's student teacher. Go figure.

As random and unexpected as this was I can only hope it marks the beginning of friendships that are both old and new.




Thursday, December 20, 2012

Bag of Goodies


Have you seen the series of ads that ask, "What's in your wallet?" It's an interesting question - if we pretend not to notice they're actually wanting to know what kind of credit card you carry. When I was a kid I had a  red St. Louis Cardinal wallet with a velcro strap, an ad for KHTR Hit Radio, and many, many pockets. When you're nine years old you don't really need all these pockets in your wallet. Just a place to keep a few dollar bills and maybe some change. I would fill the other spots with random stuff- baseball cards, bits of paper, and such.

My wallet today is quite different. No longer bright red, it's a boring black leather model that holds my drivers license as well as an assortment of credit cards and insurance cards. Rarely is there any real money in it. Or pictures. Or much of anything. If it were left as an artifact to help future generations better understand what life was like in 2012 I believe they would be unimpressed. Bored, even.

There's this really great book I like to use in my classroom called Material World. The authors of the book traveled the world asking people from various nations to pull everything out of their house to be photographed. It provides a great look into how cultures, subcultures really, go about accumulating stuff so differently - or not at all. There are those with lots and lots of things like this family...


And then there are those with almost nothing at all...


You can probably imagine what the photos of the American families looked like. Loads of things all over their yard, in the driveway, and spilling out into the road. We are a nation of consumers, collectors, and  - occasionally - hoarders.

I don't mean to pass judgment or sneer down my nose at anyone. How could I? You should see what I keep just in my backpack. Yesterday we left straight from school and drove twelve hours into St. Louis to visit family and friends. When we were loading up our things before school Tricia reached down to grab my school backpack for me and about fell over from its weight.

"What do you have in here?" she asked, making a second attempt to hoist it up onto her shoulder.

"Oh, just the regular stuff," I said. "Plus a few extras for the trip."

I didn't think much more about it until I woke up this morning and decided that maybe I should clean my bag out a bit - just in case there were any extra things in there I had forgotten about. Boy, were there!



I pulled everything out onto the bed and began trying to sort it into categories. It was alarming. First, there
were the  holiday cards I had collected from people at school - students, teachers, friends. In this same pile were gift cards for Dunkin' Donuts and Starbucks, not to mention: the list of people I plan to give beer to when I make too much, a phone number on a random scrap of paper, a receipt from Panera, a Dum Dum sucker, a page from Parenting Magazine about math on the playground, a membership form for the Early Childhood Assembly of NCTE, breath strips, a makeshift ruler constructed from notebook paper, a form from USC I was supposed to fill out a month ago, two brass pipe nipples, and a brass coupling.


In another loosely organized pile were a video camera, Parts of Speech sticker, two CDs from my buddy Tim, an external hardrive, a piece of paper with the name Sean written on it, my glasses, some notes from class at USC, way more pencils and pens than anyone could ever need, a chord for the video camera, a nametag necklace from a conference I attended last month, four books (Clone Brews, The Education of Little Tree, Teachers as Intellectuals, and Schoolyard-Enhanced Learning), and two Time magazines.


The next pile held three digital camera USB chords, two charger chords for a cell phone, a wall charger for a camera battery, and a power chord for the laptop. Why I need three different USB chords for digital cameras would be a fair question - and one I'm not certain I could answer. At this point I was beginning to feel a bit like Data from the movie The Goonies. Data carried all sorts of things in his backpack so that whenever a moment of trouble arose he was able to reach into the depths of his bag and pull out exactly the right tool or gadget to save the day. I'm not certain what scenario would call for two phone chargers but I guess you never know.

Perhaps the most logical pile was the one that held school papers from my students - the ones that should have seen the light of day long ago but became lost in all this mess. There was also a folder Ainsley's teacher handed out on the first day of school to help us all understand his beliefs and practices. I held on to it because there was lots of stuff in there I imagined I might one day want to share with the parents in my own classroom - that is, if I can remember that the folder has been strategically "filed" among all this junk. This pile also held a post-it note and a piece of paper on which I had scribbled: POWER - Intellectual Power, Physical Power, Gender Power, Racial Power (books), Age Power, Financial Power, Religious Power, and Oral Language Power. I had created this list to help organize my thoughts around a photography project I've been envisioning for my students. When the time comes to begin planning this I'll know just where to find my notes!

The last pile held a pile of change, two cameras (one is missing from the photo), a draft of a paper Heidi Mills passed along to me, an excellent article that Rachael Carson wrote for Companion magazine in 1956, a packet of information on harassment and bulllying, and the draft of Tim's short story called Smoke and Coffee - which I read last spring. Just to the right of the items in this photograph are four small photo albums, a glue stick, my i-pod, three paperclips, twelve guitar picks, my teaching journal, and a small notebook a friend gave me a few years ago to capture the things I see.




Missing in all this is the laptop I'm using right now. That's a lot of stuff. Too much stuff. However, just think of the many scenarios for which I am prepared. Two digital cameras, a video camera, photo albums, a laptop, brass fittings, parts of speech, a ruler...

Just imagine the all the tight spots Mac Gyver could escape with such a bag of goodies!


Sunday, December 9, 2012

For Tim

I recently read a short essay by Jeffrey Cramer, curator of collections at The Thoreau Institute at Walden Woods, called The Toad Not Taken. In part, it talks about our willingness, or more often our unwillingness, to help others without first weighing the consequences of what such actions would mean for ourselves. Often when we read something we really like we immediately think of others who would equally appreciate the experience of having read it - and, more importantly, thinking about it. When I read this essay I thought of my buddy Tim who has been away for a while - helping. Tim, this passage reminds me so much of you as a teacher, a parent, and a person. I'm going to share it in hopes that you will enjoy it too.

*****
There were no cries. There was no noise but the occasionally frantic fluttering of wings. Voiceless, so as not to attract predators, it struggled in the net. How long it had been there, I did no know, but by the way its right leg was completely immobilized by the twisting of the net and some of the netting had entrapped part of its left leg, its wing, and tail, it had to have been there a while.

Our neighbors were away for the weekend, and while Julia and I were outside playing with Kazia, we noticed a bird caught in their downed volleyball net. I went over to take a close look. By the time we found it, it would struggle only when it suspected danger. As I approached, it began a frantic attempt to escape, jumping, flapping one wing, with each useless push away from me only succeeding in further tightening the net's grip.

Slowly I wrapped my hand around it. In my hand it stopped struggling. With one finger Kazia stroked its head. It was one of those brief moments, rarely offered, when she might be able to make contact with, no touch, a free and natural creature. It was not domesticated, it was not caged, and it allowed her, by not struggling or showing fear, to touch it. She touched it, unknowing of the gift offered her, and I knew that it would soon be forgotten in the days to come.

We knew we couldn't untangle the net enough to free it. Do we dare cut our neighbors' net? Would the bird live if we did? Its right leg seemed immobile, perhaps broken. If it had to die, wouldn't it be better to leave it there for our neighbors to find, to teach them what carelessly leaving this net on the ground can do? And if we did leave the bird there to die, plainly in view of our dining room window, what kind of lesson were we teaching our children?

I began to tell her that no matter how hard we might try, we would not be able to get the bird out of the net, that sometimes we can't help no matter how much we want to, that things die. We walked away.

I knew I was calculating the cost of a new net against the life of this bird, the destruction of our neighbors' property, however small and replaceable, with the saving of another kind of neighbor, small and irreplaceable. It seemed hypocritical to give money to save a whale, save a rainforest, save the planet, and not be willing to do something in a more tangible way. I knew I was doing something incalculably wrong by walking away.

At home we called a local department store to find out the price of a new volleyball net. They quoted us $15. Would we pay $15 to save the life of one bird? We didn't even know what kind of bird it was.

We got out the guidebook. A juvenile European starling. A descendant of one, actually of two, of one hundred starlings - sixty one year, followed by another forty the year after - introduced in New York City a century ago. Very adaptive, these immigrants made a strong foothold in North America, increasing more than a millionfold. Considered  pests by some, these birds are here to stay.

I know of a woman who has done much for helping bluebirds, but she does this at the expense of other birds. She has no qualms about destroying a starling's nest because they are interlopers, nonnatives who have taken over the habitat of bluebirds and others. When I heard her calmly tell of destroying these nests to protect her chosen species, I was indignant. Who made her the savior of the bluebird, and what savior has the right to bless with one hand and smite with the other? It was easy for me to ask, "Who did she think she was who could say which species could live and which could die?" Now I had to ask, "Who did we think we were?"

It seems a fact, on that we as a species should be ashamed of, that helping is no longer an instinct, that it is something we must think out and plot the costs and the consequences of. We rarely reach out to help without considering the most far-reaching repercussions. We are unwilling to take responsibility for actions that may not, in the final analysis, bring about the beneficial solution we desired. We have become unwilling to be wrong, and so, in many cases, we have simply become unwilling to respond, period - to other creatures, to other people, to ourselves, to our children.

We went back, scissors in hand. We put twenty dollars in an envelope with an apologetic note and slipped it into our neighbors' mailbox. The starling struggled again as we approached but quickly calmed in my hand. I held it as my wife cut and unwrapped pieces of netting until, with a push of its legs, the starling leapt from my hand and flew away. I longed for some Disney-esque ending in which, free at last, the starling would look back, tilting its head in comprehension, before flying away - some anthropomorphic sense of gratitude. Instead, it disappeared quickly, with a no-nonsense, self-preserving efficiency that in itself was a joy to watch.

Sunday, November 25, 2012

Hooked on Vegas - NOT



Tricia and I recently spent a long weekend in Las Vegas at a teachers conference. While I can't say either of us have ever had any real desire to visit Vegas it was interesting to see what's there - basically, a lot of flashing lights, ringing bells, cigarette smoke, and shows of every sort. In our hotel alone there was Cirque du Soleil, David Copperfield, The Eagles, and a comedy club. Add to this the dozen or more restaurants in the hotel alongside high-priced boutiques and other specialty stores and you now have a general idea of how busy it is in just one of the more than one hundred hotels and casinos that call Las Vegas home.


After our meetings Tricia and I took to the streets to see what else Vegas held. We found replicas of both the Statue of Liberty and Eiffel Tower, an elaborate fountain show outside the Bellagio, and a Truman Show-like experience inside the Venetian that transported you to the streets of Venice with restaurants, storefronts, canals, and even cloudy skies. Someone quipped "This is even better than Venice, Italy. It's cleaner and more authentic."

On one of the street corners we were subjected to a crazed religious fanatic as we waited for the light to change. "DO YOU GIVE YOUR SOUL TO OUR LORD SAVIOR?" he shouted into our ears. "BE NOT TEMPTED BY THE FALSE RICHES OF THIS LIFE MY CHILDREN. FOR YOUR LORD IN HEAVEN IS ALL THINGS..." At one point he asked the couple next to us if they would denounce their Lord and Savior. Without hesitation the woman nodded her said and said, "Yeah, I would." We all laughed. It wasn't so much that his religion was offensive as was the way in which he circled around everyone shouting into their ears. He reminded me of a woman I once encountered on the New York City subway.

By far, my least favorite part of the walk down the strip was the dozens of men wearing "GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS" t-shirts. It was their job to snap the corners of  cards at you as you passed and then attempt to force the cards into your hand. These business cards were advertisements for prostitutes and it did not matter if you were holding your wife's hand and surrounded by two or three other women - they would still try to give you a card.


As if the cards weren't enough there were other modes of advertisement. Some people would walk around with a sign strapped to their back...


Even more bold were the trucks that would drive up and down the strip promising twenty minute delivery. Ugh!


I obviously knew prostitution was legal in LV. However, I guess I didn't realize it was thrust into your face at nearly every turn. My idea of prostitutes had always come from movies. You know...meth addicts, crack heads, etc. These girls DID NOT look like that. It made me wonder if in Las Vegas prostitution has it's own booth at the local high school job and college fairs. Should any of us be surprised? I Googled to see what prostitutes in LV make and my thorough research (the first site I clicked on) found that they get about $500/hr in the earliest parts of the evening but drop their asking prices to $250 - $300 later as there are fewer potential clients. Prostitutes can pull in about $150,000 a year if they are "successful."

Las Vegas is bizarre. Over the past few years it's been trying to do more to appeal to families. While we did see a few there I can't imagine taking our kids any time soon.

Or, more realistically - EVER.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Yosemite - Nine Months Out

I never intended to turn this blog into a place for posting videos yet here I go again. In my defense...I really like these videos AND I'm crazy busy right now writing an assortment of things for school.

So, here's a great little video highlighting how breathtakingly beautiful Yosemite is. The song, Almost There, is one of my newest favorites by a band out of California named Opus Orange.

Enjoy.


Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Thank You, Phil Snider


This is Missouri Pastor Phil Snider making an argument in front of the Springfield City Council regarding gay rights. Though you might wonder, at first, why I have posted this I beg of you to watch the whole thing. You'll find out!

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Campaign Slogans

"We Polked you in '44, We Shall Pierce you in '52"

How's that for a political campaign slogan? That gem is old-school, coming from the Franklin Pierce for President campaign back in 1852. Bad violent puns must have been quite the rage given that Pierce went on to win the election and become the 14th president of the United States.

Jump ahead 160 years and you'll find that bad campaign slogans are still somewhat commonplace. Since Pierce's day we've been subjected to these...

In Your Heart You Know He's Right (Goldwater)
Not Just Peanuts (Carter)
Real Plans for Real People (W.)
Let America Be America Again (Kerry)
How About Ross for Boss? (Perot)
Country First (McCain)
Forward. (Obama)

These slogans are rather meaningless. They say nothing. This time of year there are political signs on nearly every corner. While the presidential race may garner all the attention let us not forget all those folks running for less glamorous offices such as school board, county clerk, and - my favorite - comptroller. The folks running for these offices are not only complete unknowns but the majority of the population probably has little to no idea what a school board member, county clerk, or comptroller does.

Still, these low level politician wanna-bes have to rely on snappy signs to grab our attention. I noticed this one the other day as I was on a walk.


That's right...Carrie Suber O'Neal not only makes the claim "I make a difference," but also offers her belief in "Educating every child academically."

What does that even mean? Isn't this kind of the expectation already?

But this wasn't even the best sign I saw on my walk. No, the best sign belonged to Kamau Marcharia who is running for a post on the Fairfield County Council. What is the slogan he has crafted to win such a pivotal election?




"Without a vision we perish."

I guess I had somehow failed to realize that our entire existence relied upon the race for Fairfield County Council District Four. I guess we can no longer say we weren't warned.


Saturday, September 8, 2012

Bedroom Walls

I think how you choose to decorate your bedroom says a lot about you. Certainly it does when you're young. Often bedroom decorations share current and past interests. When I was a kid my walls were filled with St. Louis Cardinal paraphernalia and a Nerf basketball hoop. That's it. I wasn't necessarily all that worldly.

As I got older my interests broadened. Popular culture became increasingly important to me and my room reflected this. And while some of the things on my bedroom walls reflected who I was at the time I think even more of them reflected how I wished others would see me. That's what teenaged years are for, right? Trying on different identities in hopes of finding your own.


 One of my favorite posters at the time was of a shirtless Jim Morrison adorned in a hippy bead necklace with his arms stretched out to the sides. This poster received the prime real estate on my wall just beside the bedroom door. Across the bottom it read "American Poet". That Jim Morrison had been an addict who basked in his fame while mistreating nearly every single human being he came into contact with was lost on me at the time. I just thought he was reckless and super cool. I wanted to be reckless and super cool too.

Another favorite poster was of James Dean. I had seen each of his three films and had watched a number of documentaries about him. Even then I knew his acting was cheesy but I couldn't help enjoying him all the same. Like Jim Morrison he seemed to have a disregard for what other people thought or expected from him and refused to conform in any way. I wasn't at all like this at a fifteen year old but I sure wished I could have been.


Not all of the  posters on my wall were of men. I also had a Samantha Fox poster near the window. It was much more suggestive than the example above (evidently I felt it was okay to display in my bedroom back then but NOT okay to publish on this blog). In addition to thinking Samantha Fox was totally hot I liked the idea that this poster probably made my mom uncomfortable. It was my small rebellion.

My bedroom today is pretty boring. Tricia and I are surrounded by four tan walls that have a grand total of three randomly placed small items. One is a picture of my old school in St. Louis. It was given to me as a parting gift when I left. Another is a sketch of the Preservation Hall jazz players jamming on the sidewalk in front of their historical building. The third is a small tile with a well known painting on it. To be honest, neither Tricia nor I know what the painting is but it looks as though it's probably well known to other people who actually have some working knowledge of fine art. As you can imagine, it was a gift.

That's it. Our walls are probably about 95% empty. We could argue that we just moved in a year ago but our bedroom in the last house was just as bare. What does this say about us? Yikes, I hope bedrooms really don't say all that much about you as an adult because if so I'm an awfully dull guy.

Ainsley is now in the process of filling up her bedroom walls. She has a wide variety- from cute animals to a map of the USA to a homemade poster declaring her love of Harry Potter (not the book but the fictional boy wizard). She just added a new picture to her wall this morning. She saw it in one of my backpacking magazines and asked if I might cut it out for her.

It is of Bear Grylls, star of Man vs Wild. In this "reality" show Bear is dropped into the middle of nowhere and demonstrates various survival skills for escaping. We were all watching together a few nights ago when I turned to inform Tricia that should the opportunity ever arise I would understand if she wanted to leave me for Bear. Unlike Jim Morrison, Bear really is super cool.

Ainsley must have agreed. Before pinning the picture above her bed she colored in a number of colored hearts around him and even added an impression of her lips near the top of his right ear. While I can understand the sentiment I have to say I'm a bit concerned by her boldness. If this is what she's hanging up at eight years old what can we expect at sixteen?

Monday, September 3, 2012

Fun at the Lake


In place of a text post, this week I am going to share one of my first attempts at playing around with the new video camera.

Sunday, August 26, 2012

Inked


Poor Tom Arnold. At the time, getting a tattoo of his new bride's face on his chest seemed like such a romantic gesture. However, more than fifteen years after their bitter divorce I'm sure he has some regret. I can't imagine his girlfriends have been all that fond of seeing Roseanne Barr smiling at them from beneath all that chest hair.

That's the think with tattoos. They're forever.

Our kids have more than a hundred of those little stick-on ones that last  for a couple of days, depending on how regularly they shower. Most of these are animals, insects, and flowers. There used to be a lot of peace signs in the tattoo jar but most of these were used up right away. Our general rule with the tattoos is that they can apply one or two at a time but no more. No sleeves. Or back murals. We have somehow come to the conclusion that a few are okay but too many will inevitably lead to a life of Busch beer, biker gangs, and heroin use. It all begins with one too many sparkly butterflies.

Sometimes they want something a little more permanent - like a Sharpie tattoo. For this they bring me a collection of permanent markers and I make my best tbuzzing noise while coloring in cartoon-ish pictures on arms, backs, and legs. I'm not really much of an artist but can manage a respectable heart, baseball, smiley face, or flower. The kids had friends over this weekend and they wanted some Sharpie tattoos. You always have to wonder what their parents think when they come home with a manly anchor and chain inked onto their arm.

Still, these are playful and, most importantly, temporary. What about the real things? How does one go about deciding what to have permanently colored onto their skin? Olympic swimmer Missy Franklin made that decision this past week when she had the Olympic rings put onto her upper leg, just below the cut of her swimsuit. The rings represented her status as an Olympian and the location ensured that it would only be visible when she wore a swimsuit. She was also careful to pick a spot where, later in life, the rings would not sag into ugly egg-shaped ovals.

In what was a surprise to many people, Tricia got a tattoo last week as well. It was actually something we have both talked about for the past fifteen years. With her birthday approaching I made the joke I was going to get her a tattoo for her gift. Instead of laughing she said, "Okay." Fifty dollars and thirty minutes later she was permanently inked. No, she didn't get a picture of my face or even a skull with a dagger and serpent protruding from the eye sockets. She decided, instead, on a small daisy near her ankle. It's simple, cute, and discreet.  

No sleeve. Or back mural.

But there are plenty more birthdays to come. So who knows.






Friday, August 17, 2012

Yosemite - Eleven Months Out

Here is a short video featuring the breathtaking landscape I cannot wait to explore next summer as we make the long haul West toward Yosemite National Forest. I was thinking of Yosemite yesterday as I sat in a teacher meeting. We were reading a lovely article by naturalist Rachel Carson about the benefits of walking beside our children and, together, living in awe of the beauty and wonder of nature. Not that I have high expectations or anything, but I'm already feeling that if I were allowed to visit only one place my entire life this would be it.

If you haven't been to the Yosemite Valley you might want to join us after seeing this. (Oh, and make sure click "full screen.")



“As long as I live, I'll hear waterfalls and birds and winds sing. I'll interpret the rocks, learn the language of flood, storm, and the avalanche. I'll acquaint myself with the glaciers and wild gardens, and get as near the heart of the world as I can."
                                                    - John Muir

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Olympic Haze



Last week I heard that President Obama had taken the time to call the US women's gymnastics team to congratulate them on their gold medal in London. He quoted himself as having told them "The wonderful thing about the Olympics is that it reminds us for all our differences, when it comes down to our country we're Americans first and we could not be prouder of them and everything they're doing on our behalf."

This made me think of the advertisement Visa began running before the games began. At the end of the ad it read simply  "Go World." In this vein, I would have preferred to have heard Obama say that first and foremost we are members of a global community. And that despite our differences we are united as one. However, that's not what the games seem to be about. The Olympics provide that once-every-four-years opportunity to root madly for some previously unknown American to beat the bejeezes out of that cocky looking [insert any other nationality] swimmer in lane four.

I remember watching the Olympics as a child. Rooting interests were crystal clear - we watched and prayed that the United States would beat the much-hated Russians. Supremacy over communism was being waged in the form of boxing, sprinting, and pommel horse. It seems silly now but I really got wrapped up in it back then. I don't know that there's so much of that anymore. Maybe if Syria or Libia had better beach volleyball teams?

For the most part I don't really care for the Olympics anymore. We have watched more of them this year thinking that it might provide some worthwhile family time together every few evenings. The first night we coerced the kids into watching the opening ceremonies. After about half an hour of a symbolic reenactment of British history Ty looked over and asked "What ARE the Olympics?" I tried to ensure him it would be about sports but he didn't look all that convinced.

Over the next few nights we all sat and watched a good bit of gymnastics and swimming.

"Wow, America wins at almost everything!" Muluken declared.

"No, Muluken," I corrected. "They just show the sports on TV that are most popular. They're generally most popular because those are the sports we usually have a good chance of winning. In China they are probably not showing swimming. Just like here they're not showing so much ping pong or badminton."

These types of conversations popped up more than once. The sacrifices (and subsequently, priorities) of the gymnasts who leave their families to train under great pressure. The lone swimmer who passed on corporate money so she could remain eligible to swim with her high school team. Oh, and the advertising.

Especially the Olympic advertising.

There was one ad where a swimmer was training in the pool and at the end of his swim he pulled up at the edge of the lap lane where there was an ice cold bottle of Coca-Cola waiting for him. Smiling, he reached over and took a big drink.

"I don't think Olympic swimmers probably drink Coke while they're practicing," someone mentioned.

Another "favorite" came, not so surprisingly, from Mc Donalds. They were promoting a game where you can win food prizes as American athletes win gold medals. This struck us as an odd pairing. Basically, we win the opportunity to clog our arteries as reward for the athletes demonstrating great fitness and strength.

I tried my best to explain that these companies pay millions of dollars to attach themselves to the Olympics so that when you feel elated by the victory of athletes you might also feel elated by their products. It is as if you can become a part of this Olympic experience by purchasing a GE product or filling the refrigerator with Coke.



It's hard to pick which of these sponsorships is worse but, if pressed to do so, I might have to go with the trio of BP, Rio Tinto, and Dow Chemical Company. In what have been dubbed "The Green Olympic Games," these three companies serve as sponsors despite all the harm they cause to the Earth. Many have accused them of trying to "greenwash" the public concerning their many unethical corporate and environmental policies. Some protestors have taken to splashing their large print ads with oil.

After a few nights the kids lost interest and moved on to other things. Soon after, so did Tricia and I. The Olympics are about to come to a close and I think we are all relieved.

We're about Olympic-ed out.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Men vs Wild


Since moving into our house about a year ago Ty has tried repeatedly to catch a fish in the lake. His first attempts were made with a reel he received as a favor at a birthday party a few years ago. He would jab a worm on the end of the hook, cast it out, and wait a few seconds before deciding to reel it back in and start over. As much as he wanted to patiently wait for a fish he couldn't quite resist the urge to cast over and again.

Sometimes he would create his own fishing poles from sticks he collected in the woods. He would dig out lengths of my rope from the garage and tie them to the end. While these poles never worked they certainly weren't any less successful than the nice store-bought one he'd been using. Also, the creativity and perseverance he demonstrated in carefully putting them together could easily be considered reward enough.

Still, he really wanted to catch a fish. Last winter a friend of mine came over with his fishing gear and, although he didn't get any bites, assured Ty that there were plenty of fish in that lake just waiting to be caught. He suggested we keep at it. I wondered if this would be enough since I knew literally nothing about fishing other than where to put the hook and the worm.

A few weeks later I went to the sporting goods store and bought some new tackle, hoping this might help. The salesman filled my ears with lots of advice as well as a rundown of his greatest catches. I stood there trying my best to look adequately impressed. Much to the consternation of the salesman, I grabbed a few glow-in-the-dark bobbers and headed home. That evening I took the boys night fishing. Though we still didn't catch anything we did enjoy watching the tiny lights bobbing around on top of the black water. After twenty frigid minutes we headed back down the trail toward home with the understanding that we were just as bad at fishing in the dark as we were in the light of day.

 Finally, this past June someone saved the day.  Tricia's sister and her family dropped by on their way home from Florida to spend a few days with us. While they were here, the boys' Uncle Dan shared his knowledge, and love, of fishing. He patiently sat for hours sorting out mangled knots, replacing gear, and teaching everyone what lures to use (not to mention how to put them on the hook correctly).  Soon everyone was trying their luck.




 In just two days time we all  "worked" together to pull eighteen fish out of the lake. Despite a bit of initial hesitation the boys even learned how to take the hook out of the fishes' mouth and throw it back in.



 Now successful fisherman, there was just one thing left to do.

Eat the fish.

We all sat around the computer and watched a YouTube video explaining how to fillet a bass. The guy in the tutorial did a beautiful job in just under two minutes. He made it look so incredibly easy. After a heatwave and multiple summer trips the boys and I headed back to the lake to catch a few fish we would eat. We weren't nearly so successful as we had been when Uncle Dan was here but Muluken did manage to catch two large mouth bass for us. We dropped them into the bucket and listened to them flip around in the small bit of water we had put into the bottom. I found this sound to be unsettling. Ty, on the other hand, really wanted to watch them die. (I'm going to hope this is a natural eight year old reaction)

We brought the two fish back to the house and I taught the boys to clean them. I decided to put off something so sophisticated as filleting and stick with just the crude act of pulling the guts out. They slit open the fish along their bellies, pulled out the organs, and rinsed them off under the hose. We then wrapped them in foil, built a small campfire, and put them over the flames using the top grate from the barbeque grill. After about ten minutes we pulled the fish off the fire and spread them out on the table beside the fire ring. Though Muluken looked a bit unsure as to whether this was safe to eat, Ty dug right in. Within a few seconds all three of us were  pulling the fish apart and eating its flesh with our grubby fingers. Ainsley came out with a friend to see how it was going and wrinkled her nose at the sight. She wasn't interested in joining in.

After we finished, we threw the skeletal remains into the woods and our dog Tess ran out to ensure there was nothing left. As we were cleaning up Ty remarked "That was SO cool. Can we eat the fish again?"

"Not today. Or tomorrow. Or probably next week," I said. "But sometime. Maybe next time we'll try to fillet it like in the video."

I can only imagine this might not go so good. But it'll be part of the process of learning. We learn one little simple thing, like casting a lure, and then after some success begin to wonder what we could improve or learn more about to be even more successful. Thus, the layers of learning begin. This should say something about schooling, don't you think.

Somewhere along the timeline of this story Ty said to me, "You're the best dad ever. NO OTHER dad would let their kids eat the fish!!!" Of course, lots of dads would. And almost all of them would know a lot more about fishing, gutting, and cooking. Yet my lack of knowledge and experience didn't stand in the way of a good time. It was enough just to be learning together. And laughing.

I'm going to end with the final passage from the book I've been reading this summer, Last Child in the Woods: Saving Our Children from Nature-Deficit Disorder. This book spent a good bit of effort making the point that we don't have to know everything about nature to instill a sense of wonder and appreciation in our children. We need only enjoy ourselves alongside them.

As a side note: The following passage is so peaceful yet I'm using it alongside my own nature story that ends with the blunt killing and gutting of fish. I'm just sayin'...the contrast is not lost on me.

*****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****  *****

It seems like just the other day...

The boys are small. We're staying in a three-room cabin beside the Owens River on the east slope of the Sierras. We can hear the October wind move down from the mountains. Jason and Matthew are in their beds, and I read to them from the 1955 juvenile novel Lion Hound, by Jim Kjelgaard. I have read this book since junior high. I read: "When Johnny Torrington awoke, the autumn dawn was still two hours away...

The next evening, after Matthew goes into town with his mother, Jason and I walk a stretch of the Owens to fish with barbless flies. As we fish, we watch a great blue heron lift effortlessly, and I recall another heron rising above a pond in woods long ago, and I feel the awe that I felt then. I watch my son lift the line in a long loop above his head. Under the cottonwoods, he tells me with firmness that he wants to tie his own leader. And I understand it is time for me to put some distance between us on the river.

When it is too dark to see into the water, we walk toward home in the cold. We hear a noise in the bushes and look up to see seven mule deer watching us. Their heads and long ears are silhouetted against the dark lavender sky. We hear other sounds in the bushes. We reach the gravel road, and an Oldsmobile rolls up behind us and an old man cranks down his window and asks, "Do you need a ride or are you almost there?"

"We're almost there," I say.

We can see the light in our cabin. Matthew and his mother are waiting, and tonight I'll read a few more pages of Lion Hound before they sleep.


Jason is a man now, and on his own. Matthew is in college. I feel a sense of pride and relief that they have grown well, and a deep grief that my years as a parent of young children is over, except in memory. And I am thankful. The times I spent with my children in nature are among my most meaningful memories - and I hope theirs.

We have such a brief opportunity to pass on to our children our love for this Earth, and to tell our stories. These are the moments when the world is made whole. In my children's memories, the adventures we've had together in nature will always exist. These will be their tales.

Monday, July 23, 2012

On the Appalachian Trail: Nantahala Outdoor Center to Newfound Gap in Smoky Mountain National Park


Another year, another section hiked on the AT. Picking up where we left off last year, Nantahala Outdoor Center, all six of us headed UP into the woods and followed what is affectionately known as "the green tunnel."

Day One: NOC - Sassafras Gap Shelter   7 miles (142 total AT miles)

Tricia and the girls were joining us for our first day of hiking. The plan was to hike in seven miles to the first shelter together and then part ways the following morning - the boys and I heading on and Tricia and the girls heading back down to the car. That first day was a doozy. We gained 1700 feet in elevation in just two miles. It was tough going for each of us. There was a lot of encouragement, plenty of rest stops, and buckets of sweat. I think we were all thankful for the relatively cool mountain air because down in the gap the temperature would reach into the nineties.


One concern I had about this first day, outside of the really challenging climb, was the fact there were no water sources listed between the gap and our shelter. Seven miles is a long way to go with no water sources when you walk as slowly as we do. We generally average about a mile per hour including the various breaks we take to catch our breath, climb on a fallen tree, or reach for a midday snack. A few hours in we were all very low on water when Muluken noticed a small trickle falling down the rocks at the side of the trail. We were very excited. We all chugged what little was left of our bottles and patiently waited for them to fill up again. I treated the water with my Steripen and we were good to make the final few miles into camp.
Soon after we would get all the water we could ever want. Storm clouds moved in above us and a steady rain began to fall. We all stopped to put on our pack covers and Ainsley pulled on her rain jacket. The rest of us chose to let the rain cool us off a bit. It was refreshing and didn't last all that long. By the time we reached Sassafras Gap Shelter we were already dry - and relieved. The shelter was a bi-level structure with a small cooking/eating platform in the front. Alone, we unpacked our things and made ourselves at home.
Harper and Ainsley share a laugh.
Tricia and I enjoy a short break.
Three of the kids playing cards on the upper sleep platform.
While they played cards, Ainsley wrote about her day in her journal.
Three pots, two cans of fuel, and a few Mountain House dinners. You can see the straps of my pack hanging down from above. This did not prevent the shelter mice from rummaging through my pack. They chewed up a Jet Boil lid (which should have been hanging in the bear bag) and left a tiny "present" in the bottom of one of my pockets.
Day Two: Sassafras Gap Shelter - Cable Gap Shelter       15 miles (157 total AT miles)

Throughout the night we heard a variety of interesting noises. It's normal to hear the symphony of bugs buzzing once the sun sets. What is not so normal is to hear a loud screaming noise followed by the breaking of branches and crunching of sticks as something seemingly large comes storming down the mountain. I'm not certain what it was (a cub maybe?) but it definitely woke most of us up. Surprisingly, no one mentioned this until the next morning. Everyone just silently went back to sleep.

Once we were all packed up for our hikes the girls began crying because they didn't want us to leave. Ty had been in tears the night before claiming he did not want to hike anymore and wanted to go home. This was the end of his hike of the AT in its entirety. Muluken was silent. This was not the start I envisioned for the trip. I offered Muluken the opportunity to choose whether or not he wanted to do this trip and he responded "I'm NOT quitting. I want to hike." So hike we did. We gave our last hugs and, feeling like a terrible dad, I pulled away from the girls and headed off in the opposite direction. Just a few yards up the trail I called back "Hey, we left you a message on the trail. Be sure to look for it!"
The day before Muluken and I collected fallen flowers and made a heart for the girls. After a few hours of hiking they found it. It was still perfectly in tact. We might be lugheads most of the time but we can be sweet too.
Muluken and I soon found our stride. We were really making great time up and down the trail. We decided to stretch our planned eleven mile hike to fifteen miles. We were hoping to have a shorter hike the following day into Fontana Dam because we knew there'd be ice cream and soda. I don't really care that much for soda but somehow knowing you can't have something makes you want it all the more.

We stopped for the night at Cable Gap Shelter. We really were at the bottom of a deep gap. The shelter was small and dark - requiring a headlamp even before dusk. We ate our dinner (dehydrated ratatouille), brushed our teeth, hung all scented items over a distant tree, and climbed into the shelter for a game of rummy. I won. By a lot.

Day 3: Cable Gap Shelter - Fontana Dam Shelter   6 miles (163 total AT miles)

We were up at 6am and on the trail by 7. That's a bit of a slow start but with a short day ahead of us there was no need to hurry. It seems whenever we work ahead to get a short day - thinking this will make for an easy day - it always backfires. Short days seem to go slower, I guess because our focus shifts from the walking to the destination. This is a big no-no.

Our first climb was grueling - not so much because it was long or steep but because we were both a bit groggy and anxious. However, a few hours into the hike we each woke up and our legs loosened. Along the way we came across many trees that had been hollowed out. I talked Muluken into climbing into one to see if he could fit. It was tight with the backpack but he made it in with a few pushes from behind.

The last three miles were all downhill. Going downhill is the worse part of hiking. Your toes all get crunched into the front of your shoes and the impact on your knees really begins to take its toll. By the end of this descent I had the beginnings of five blisters and a spiking pain on the outside of my right knee.

The pain was worth it though. We hit the bottom, crossed a road, and walked into Fontana Dam. There was a bathroom, a phone, and a soda machine. After some small talk with two other hikers I made my way into the bathroom to wash my hands and face. It felt great. After a little more small talk I filled out our backcountry permits for the Smokies and we walked the final one mile into the shelter. We were excited because the Fontana shelter is known to hikers as the "Fontana Hilton" because it is so nice.

This shelter was amazing. Not only beautiful and clean, it was huge. We had it all to ourselves for the night. Only a hundred yards away was a bathroom with running water and a shower. This is all located on TVA land. TVA uses the dam to create electricity which it then sells to regional electric companies.
We met these two fellas as we came out of the woods. They had been hiking just ahead of us the past two days. 
Here is Fontana Lake. It sits at the base of the Smokies (seen at the top left). The water is remarkably clear.
As promised, the visitor center had ice cream bars.
A small path beside the shelter led down to the lake. Someone had tied a rope to the trunk of a tree to help ease down the steep grade leading to the water's edge.
Refreshing!
We enjoyed playing underwater with the new waterproof camera. As we hike north we will encounter many more trailside lakes and rivers.

There was a lot of talk about a bear cub who had been hanging around the dam. According to a maintenance worker, the cub was abandoned by its mother last year but survived the winter alone. We were told it was very small but to be careful should we sight it - it might walk right up to us to get food. Later that night as we sat playing cards at a picnic table beside the lake a car pulled up and an older gentleman climbed out and walked over to us. He told us he was looking for a bear he had seen a few nights ago sitting on a small rock wall just beside where we were playing. He showed us photos of it on his phone and it was definitely the cub we had been warned about. As we headed back to the shelter we were glad we had chosen to sleep on the upper platform. We pretended we didn't know that bears are really good climbers.

Day 4: Fontana Dam Shelter - Mollie's Ridge Shelter   11 miles (174 total AT miles)

 The day's hike was much easier than expected. Though there were a number of decent climbs we marched along quite easily. We found that a great attitude and careful pacing make all the difference. This was a great day of hiking.

We crossed over the top of the dam and made our way into the Smoky Mountains.

We were both very excited to get into GSMNP. However, I was a bit intimidated by the climbing I knew lay ahead of us. We would be gaining more than 2000 feet of elevation.
One of the things we noticed about the Smokies is that they have a lot more sings letting you know how far you are from various trails and shelters. There was also a sign at the entrance to the park about a day hiker who had gone missing last March. That was a bit unsettling.
Speaking of signs, we saw this one posted a number of times throughout the next few days. Evidently it is not advised to approach a bear. Go figure. Still, we REALLY wanted to see one.

This was typical of the trail for the first day in the Smokies. About twenty miles ahead the trail would drastically change.
We counted more than ten piles of bear scat on the trail during the day. Most were much larger than this one and did not contain so many undigested berries. This particular fellow must have been having stomach issues.

When we reached the shelter it was only about five o'clock in the afternoon. We were rained on during the last two miles of our hike and came into the shelter absolutely drenched and shivering. We changed into dry clothes, slid into our sleeping bags, and played a few rounds of poker while waiting to warm up. Around this time Muluken admitted he was homesick. Because of a baseball tournament, he had been away from the family for the past twelve days while we were in St. Louis. A long hike immediately after this separation was probably not the best planning. We decided to hike a long day tomorrow (17 miles) and then do another 12 the following day to get into Gatlinburg. We'd stay in a motel there, resupply, and head back out for two more days before getting picked up as we exited the Smokies. This would shorten our projected hike by about five days but only thirty-five miles.

Day 5: Mollie's Ridge Shelter - Clingman's Dome Observation Tower   22 miles (196 total AT miles)

We left the shelter early to get a head start on what we anticipated to be a long day of walking. We had never walked 17 miles before and weren't positive how long it might take us.

The rising sun peeks through the trees.

Muluken pretends to be asleep on a nice rock chair.
We don't dare eat most the things we find growing alongside the trail but blackberries we know are safe - and yummy.
Over the past two years we've seen a lot of different types of mushrooms. Many of them we have photographed. Can you believe the Smokies are home to more than 2,000 varieties of mushroom.
A rare toad sighting. What we see most are centipedes, millipedes, and snails. We paid close attention to the birds we heard today.  If you listen carefully you can identify a pattern to their songs. Pretty soon Muluken was excitedly sharing patterns he noticed coming from above.
Our clothes were still wet from hiking in the rain yesterday. When we reached Rocky Top (the subject of the famous song) we took off our shoes and socks and lay them out to dry. Due to the cloud cover it didn't work.

We passed a log that had the official AT emblem carved into it. There's talk of getting AT tattoos when we finish the trail.
Due to a shady character we encountered at the shelter we planned to sleep in for the night, we wound up hiking an extra six miles in the dark and the rain, getting lost, and sleeping exposed to the pouring rain with fifty mph winds snapping our bags this way and that. We hiked this extra distance with three guys we met earlier in the day. One began to collapse from exhaustion, another was certain he had broken his toe, and the other fell multiple times while trying to carry not only his own pack but his sick buddies as well. It was a long night - but an adventure.

Day Six: Clingman's Dome Observation Tower - Newfound Gap   8 miles (204 total AT miles)

After a long terrible night we were rewarded with a beautiful sunrise.

A coniferous rainforest, the top of Clingmans Dome is home to many dying trees. This is due to the balsam wooly adelgid - an insect introduced from trees imported from England.

Muluken and I hiked eight miles through Frazier firs to Newfound Gap. My feet were killing me from all the rocks and the multiple blisters that had been rubbed raw the evening before. I knew as we hiked into the gap we were going to have end our hike for the year. There had been enough drama, misfortune, and injury for one year. Never before had we had a hike where so many things seemingly worked against us. Still, we had fun and passed the 200 mile mark of our journey toward Maine. Next year we'll finish the Smokies and make our way into Hot Springs, North Carolina. That will put us about 1/8 of the way to finishing the trail. Ha, there's a lot of hiking still ahead.

Finishing up at Newfound Gap. Fitting it should be raining. Unable to get a shuttle or cell phone reception, we hitchhiked into Gatlinburg. Backpackers hitch a ride into town from this gap all the time so finding a ride was not all that difficult.
Within a few hours Tricia and the other kids were in the van and driving up to get us. We all had dinner, stayed the night in a motel, and spent the next morning doing small hikes in the Smokies as a whole family. A perfect ending!