tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67905546692153541392024-03-14T14:49:29.386-04:00Blog of WoodMike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-13567610675418364412021-06-14T21:20:00.002-04:002021-06-14T21:36:43.065-04:00Force Play<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMI9oNYO_k0FerPj_W8fLgWcP5M2la23GNeRSa0fc6RiS24PVyNVCv1Er8yiisGaNDjO5pNuIGBivxpw8kPgnPBqMi5GvS1w2n0hyI67dCHQFF2xSufxZQLgp8_GpWw0WVtfb3ZnDbk9Q/s2048/IMG_4466.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMI9oNYO_k0FerPj_W8fLgWcP5M2la23GNeRSa0fc6RiS24PVyNVCv1Er8yiisGaNDjO5pNuIGBivxpw8kPgnPBqMi5GvS1w2n0hyI67dCHQFF2xSufxZQLgp8_GpWw0WVtfb3ZnDbk9Q/s320/IMG_4466.JPG" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; text-align: center; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was your first practice, things will get better</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everyone else has been playing for years, of course they’re better than you</span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-bc2b3f58-7fff-13b5-a0db-22a97c2e9ac6"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stop stressing. It’s just a game. Games are supposed to be fun.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finish the season, and if you don't want to sign up next year, then fine.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I said all the “right” things as we drove home from that first baseball practice, but as much as I hate to admit it, watching my son flounder on the field was embarrassing. I felt bad </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">for</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> him, but I was also personally ashamed and irrationally irritated. I’m not a jock in any shape or form, nor do I need to live vicariously through his actions, I just wanted him to do well to feel good about himself - but - it was frustrating for </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">me</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to see him fail. And although I’m not one of those jerky dads yelling “encouragement” from the stands, in some ways, my silent judgement was even worse.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I knew deciding to </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">start</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Little League baseball at age 12 at the LL Majors level, where all the other kids were perfecting skills started back in tee ball, was going to be rough, but, after a fun foray in the relatively relaxed Fall Ball, my son went to that first practice expecting </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Sandlot</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, but left feeling blind-sided.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He didn’t say much about it over the following few days, but twenty minutes before the next practice, there were tears and complaints about not wanting to play anymore. My wife and I had to work hard to convince him to get his gear on and go, which, to his credit, he did. I doubt it was due to anything we said, as neither of us watch many sports movies, so didn't have much to say motivationally. All we said was he made a commitment to the team and they were counting on him, and that he didn't want to be the kid in the hall who “used to be on my team.” </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What wasn’t said was that quitting gets exponentially easier each time you do it, and should be used sparingly. I believe that each time you quit or give up on something, your definition of what’s “too hard” gets looser and looser, until you start to lose confidence in yourself to do even simple things. Confidence doesn't come from winning, it comes from recognizing that failing isn't the end of the world. Those that quit before they have a chance to succeed </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">or</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> fail don’t get to experience either, and end up afraid of both. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Obviously, that’s a lot for a 12-year old to process, so we just stuck with the whole, “you made a commitment” thing. There were no threats or promises or bribes. It was time for practice, and therefore time to go. End of story. I asked if he wanted me to stay for the whole practice, rather than do laps around the soccer field, and he said yes. With that settled, we set off to the field. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not sure who was more stressed that day, him or me. Every time the ball was hit in his direction or thrown to him (or at him while batting), my heart would stop. But it also swelled as I watched him giving it his best, listening to the coaches, adjusting his approach, and ignoring the rolled eyes and sighs of his teammates. I couldn’t even fault them for it, as I get equally frustrated when I’ve got places to be and the person in front of me doesn't know what they’re doing. They were actually pretty understanding and patient, all things considered, but they were also kids, and can only hold back so much, so my hopes quickly shifted from Do Well to Don’t Mess Up! And for the most part, he didn’t. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not messing up gave him enough confidence to go back to the third practice without complaint, other than him admitting to being nervous. As was I. Again, I stuck around for the whole time, getting pointers from the other dads and mentally taking notes on what we could work on at home. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Charge the ball!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Get that bat head up!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You’re swinging too early</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You’re swinging too late</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I soon found it is so much easier to say such things than actually do them. I’d bounce grounders towards him and give advice on what he should have done differently on the ones that got by, then he’d throw them back to me and they’d go right through my legs. I know you're supposed to crouch and center your body so if the ball takes an unexpected hop, it will bounce off your chest, or some even more vulnerable body part, and drop in front of you, but ouch! Who would willingly do that?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’d toss pop ups and critique his form, yet dropped half the ones tossed my way. And even with the glove on, some hurt my hand. I called out adjustments to his batting stance, but when I tried to mimic the coaches by hitting balls to the outfield for him to catch, I’d swing and miss every other time. I blamed it on being old. I claimed I wasn't giving 100% because I wasn't the one who needed the practice. But in reality, baseball is hard!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And that’s just the mechanics, the physical stuff. Come Game Day, when he has to add all the situational stuff, it gets crazy. The poor kid is out in Left Field putting all his energy into just catching or fielding the damn ball, but he also needs to know where and who to throw it to while listening for cues like Cut Two! Or Straight Through! At the plate, he’s focused on just making contact with the ball (and not vice versa!), but also has to keep track of balls and strikes while also watching the coach for bunt and hit signs. And if he does ever reach base, either via a hit or more likely a walk, he needs to know how many outs there are while keeping one eye on the third base coach for steal signs and the other on the pitcher, and somehow also watch his lead, track balls hit into the outfield, and then decide if he should stay on base, tag up, slide...</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Good swing!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s starting to come together</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That’s how you do it!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just make contact </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Practices were soon replaced by games, but unlike soccer, where an incorrect throw-in results in a chance to try again, and offsides calls are explained the first time they occur before they start blowing the whistle for real, here there were no do-overs. For my son, it was out of the frying pan and into the pressure cooker. But the kid is a trooper. He honestly wasn't doing much better from a stats perspective, but he was doing so much to </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">get</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> better that even the kids on the field and people in the stands were taking notice. The outfield wasn’t backing up when he stepped to the plate, but there were calls of encouragement and supportive comments coming from the dugout. A strong swing that resulted in a foul tip that went up and over the backstop elicited a legit cheer. He was gaining confidence, so much so that after games where he didn't get much playing time, he’d complain about not getting more at bats or balls hit in his direction. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And the best part was, just as he was settling in, Karma came after MY ass! Even though I was frequently telling him how proud I was of him for sticking it out and putting himself out there, I still had a debt to pay for my initial irritation and unreasonable expectations at that first practice. So one early Saturday morning, while he was with his coach learning signs, I was literally hanging signs. Two dozen big, heavy, full sheets of 3/4 inch plywood painted with sponsors’ logos that had to be hauled out from storage to center field and hung along the fence line by me, the one parent volunteer who showed up that day to help the league manager. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Before the third game, the coach came over to the bleachers and announced people were needed to man the concession stand. I assumed there was a group of trained parents with prior experience who would step up, but none did, leaving my wife and I to do it. I had never even bought a snack from the stand, never mind gone inside to run it! But suddenly I was in there, along with a flat grill, deep fryer, commercial coffee brewer, fridge full of eggs, burgers, and hotdogs, a freezer stuffed with mozzarella sticks and french fries, and no idea how to do anything except microwave popcorn...but no idea how much it cost or how to ring it up!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I need three burgers!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where’s the mustard? The ketchup?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Oh, and three Powerades and a Blow Pop and gummy bears.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Speed it up, dude! My kids at bat.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I could hear myself telling my son, “Charge the ball!” like it should be a simple thing, and now I was faced with similarly simple things, and totally stressed. How much do I charge for a soda? And does that include deposit? What do the hot dogs get served on? Do I hand them the ketchup packets or simply place the bin outside the shack? Which key opens the register? Is the fryer even on? How long do mozzarella sticks take? I was way out of my comfort zone, made even worse by the fact that people were counting on me to get the job done, and any screw ups would be instantly apparent. which made me think of my son, who was out there worrying about dropping pop flies in the outfield while I worried about dropping french fries in hot oil.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My wallet was also taking a beating. While I never mentioned money as a factor for him not quitting, it did flash through my mind that the $300 registration fee was a lot to pay for one practice. But once he agreed to stick it out, I found myself shelling out even more for more and more stuff. We bought batting tees and training tools to help improve his swing, ordered extra uniforms, paid for a private session with a trainer, and started using the batting cages...where one day I took a literal beating!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I thought I had prepaid for a cage with a pitching machine, but when we got there, it was just a cage with an L-screen and a bucket of balls. I get nervous when I’m out of my comfort zone, so rather than seek out an attendant, I decided to just pitch to the kid. As I also mentioned earlier, I am not an athlete! My first 20 “pitches” were low, barely making it over the plate. The rest were way outside. Before I knew it, the bucket was empty and the kid had not even made contact, the difference being, this time it was because </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> sucked! </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We collected the balls and tried again. This time, I noticed a dad, with nothing better to do while his kid was in the real cage, was watching me. And that got me extra stressed. I was already feeling like a failure, but now, I was a public failure, which did not improve my pitching. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Stop stressing. It’s just a game. Game’s are supposed to be fun, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I heard myself telling my son. But this was NOT fun. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I finally figured it out by the fourth bucket, and the kid was hitting line drives into the upper nets, at one point hitting 27 in a row! We left feeling pretty good about ourselves...for about an hour, when my arm basically fell off of my shoulder. I did the math, and five buckets of 30 balls is 150 pitches, which is precisely 149 more than my max pitch count. For the following days, my neck was sore and my right arm useless. But the next game was when the kid hit the ball up and over the backstop, so it was all worth it.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bend your knees</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Good eye!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wait for your pitch...</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take your base</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s midway through the season before the kid finally gets on base, courtesy of a wild pitcher. And even </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">that </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">was an adventure, as the boy went from 3-0 to a full count before getting walked. Regardless, there he was, on first base. Metaphorically and literally...and I do mean literally, as he was attached to first base. All the other kids take leads, bop back and forth off the bag to distract the pitcher, fake like they're going to steal, etc. but my son had his cleat firmly planted like a pivot foot in basketball. We had both been so fixated on getting ON base, we never really talked about what to do next. But before there was much time to think about it, a loud crack of the bat sent him scuttling to second and he’s safe! Another walked batter advances him to third, and a hit batter sends him jogging home with a huge smile on his face. It wasn't the most Hollywood of endings, but scoring that run and finally being able to contribute to the team was a great moment for Eli Wood.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time will tell if there will be more such moments. Maybe more tears. Maybe more smiles. Probably both. What I do know is my son’s foray into baseball has been building character and crushing spirits for </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">both</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> of us. I don’t care if he goes on to hit the game-winning home run in the play-offs, I could not be prouder of him than I am right now. Having the courage to take the field in a demanding world of unknown expectations and unfamiliar surroundings with undeveloped skills, while everyone else seems to know what they are doing, is incredibly brave. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.7999999999999998; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I know the skills and drills practiced and learned this season won’t come in all that handy in the real world, but knowing that he persevered and didn't quit </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">will</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> serve him well for the rest of his life. My friend, Rodney Walther, summed it up best in his novel, </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Broken Laces</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">: </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #3c4043; font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"Whether playing baseball, coaching kids, or raising a son...don’t settle for making contact. Make impact." </span></p></span>Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-53196929706313203112020-03-15T08:32:00.002-04:002020-03-15T09:33:56.728-04:00Not so Pretty Pleas...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So we’re all getting mixed messages, right? The national government isn’t providing much, and local governments are all on different pages. I’m not sure WHY there hasn’t been a national conference of governors yet (via facetime, of course), but as of right now, all we have are the media and business owners setting the tone. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The media GAINS from eyes on pages, sites, and broadcasts, so yes, they will hype the shit out of this, while the majority of business owners stand to LOSE millions of dollars, customers, and employees. So I am following THEIR lead. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When every major sport, concert venue, and ski mountain are VOLUNTARILY shutting down, followed by local small business like yoga studios and hair salons (people who stand to lose every thing) then I think we need to pay attention to them. THEY are the canaries in the coal mine, and if we wait for the government to admit and enforce that it’s time to stay home, their sacrifices will be for nothing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m not afraid of getting sick. The 3% fatality rate doesn’t scare me -BUT - that statistic does not include the millions of people who will be needing acute care in the near future for unrelated issues, like heart attacks, stroke, cancer, punctured lungs, pneumonia, diabetes, Alzheimer’s, MS, broken arms, torn muscles, concussions, stitches - all who will need hospital/ER care, only to find the doctors, nurses, and beds overwhelmed and overfilled with COVID-19 patients. </span>Not to mention, first responders are not immune. What happens when a policeman gets sick, and spreads it to the force? Or a fireman? Or the people who run the power plants, cable companies and banks? Most won't die, but they won't be able to go to work, and there goes your protection, electricity, and precious internet.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So WE need to have patience so doctors can treat their patients.We need to be vigilant to protect the people that keep us safe. The fact that carriers can be symptom free for days means we're all potential carriers, and need to act accordingly. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">People keep downplaying this, saying its a plot to get rid of Trump, but last I checked, Trump was not president of China, or Italy, or France…are they all in on this plot too? We know Big Business really runs this country, and when I see Big Business running the other way, I’m turning around and following their lead. And so should you.</span>Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-50889443035255052212020-01-29T21:40:00.001-05:002020-01-29T21:48:16.561-05:00Still (Irish) Kickin'<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCECUcVv7S9StcKYJoYEoBTEEB3NQQwADy7e-WLnQcMbAe7BPmRkFGbinNwK-OqYojqYW-yghQaRSh4qLUQZqUexE5pEaIUy-0lXBD1qg3hFndX9On4oViiP4q_cUInpTQ0z39b7uD2s4/s1600/irishkick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="960" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCECUcVv7S9StcKYJoYEoBTEEB3NQQwADy7e-WLnQcMbAe7BPmRkFGbinNwK-OqYojqYW-yghQaRSh4qLUQZqUexE5pEaIUy-0lXBD1qg3hFndX9On4oViiP4q_cUInpTQ0z39b7uD2s4/s320/irishkick.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Five years ago, I sat down to the unenviable task of writing a eulogy for a band that had been a big part of my life for close to twenty years. As someone with ZERO musical ability (seriously, I can’t even play the radio!) I considered myself extremely fortunate to have spent so much time in the company of such talented musicians, and there I was, trying to sum up their career while coping with them calling it quits. I understood their reasoning, but was still sad to think The Highland Rovers were playing their last show.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">At the time, I tried consoling myself with old adages like </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All good things must come to an end</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> and </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Dont be sad that it’s over, be glad that it happened.</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> But I </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">was </span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">sad, from the bottom of my heart to the soles of my feet. Only my liver was heaving a huge sigh of relief!</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I was sad that they wouldn’t be around to teach my then 5-year old son to dance to The Unicorn Song, or even how to swear, as many a young one has learned to shout “BULLSHIT” whenever they hear, “And his fate is still unlearned.” And god help those who ask who Alice is!</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">My son didn’t know what he was missing, but I did. And it truly was a tough time as my friends and fellow fans talked about who could take their place. Answer: No one! And Irish bars in the area began laying off staff while Jameson distributors had to take on second jobs. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And by sad time, I mean about two weeks, as the band changed their minds before playing the encore on their “final” show! The Boys (and Girl!) were back, and all was right with the world...well, except for that Trump guy.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And in the five years that followed, a beautiful thing happened: we became friends. Sure, they were always friend</span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ly</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> to me...well, except for the TWO times they broke my leg! More on that later. But until recently, I was just a fan and they were the band. Now, I’m doing yoga with Colleen, trading coats with Jimmy, exchanging gifts with Mike in Cape Cod, getting shout outs from Tommy, and commiserating with Al on facebook. I even get to hang with their lovely wives and families. It’s like Groupie Heaven! </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And not only that, my son (now 10) has sang on stage with them, knows all the words to every song, and has made three trips to Cape Cod’s Irish Village to see them play. The band now spans generations! Someday he’ll be telling his friends about his first show, they way I’m about to tell you mine:</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I first saw the Highland Rovers before they even had a name. I’m not sure if it was their </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">very</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> first show, but they were definitely soliciting the audience at the brand new Gaelic Club for suggestions. I admit, at the time I was more impressed with the discounted drink prices and incredible interior of the club, and frankly did not pay the band that much attention. But I was there! As were many others, who I would soon become quite familiar with in the coming years as they followed the band on their tipsy travels throughout the state…and beyond.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">The first time the band got MY attention was with a funny sing-a-long to the tune of Do-Re-Mi… only it was “Dough, is what we pay for beer. Ray, the guy who pours the beer. Me, the guy who drinks the beer. Fa’, the distance to the bar. So, I think I’ll have a beer. La, la la la la la laaa! T, tanks I’ll have a beer. And that brings us back to Do, oh, oh oh…” What can I say? I was young and fresh out of college and used to playing drinking games, and here were a trio of guys who were basically a living, breathing drinking game. What wasn’t to like?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">But I soon learned to appreciate them for their true talents. Whether it was spot-on renditions of Irish classics, truly original originals, or inspired covers of modern hits, the boys had talent. And their hilarious interplay between songs was worth the price of admission alone. They could sing. They could play. They could make you laugh. And they could drink! Again, I ask you, what wasn’t to like?</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And I was not alone. The size of the crowds continued to grow with each passing show. And as word of the boys’ charms spread, the look of the crowd changed as well. No longer was it just wool wrapped, kilt wearing, tam sporting Irishmen and women, there were other people there too. Hippies and yuppies and rockers and jocks. It was like the Breakfast Club. Make that the Irish Breakfast Club, minus the black pudding! And speaking of breakfast, the Rovers also introduced a new generation to the glorious, but overlooked, “classic” by the Fabulous Farquahr, “My Eggs Don’t Taste the Same Without You.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I also did my part to introduce new people to the band. While it was not always easy convincing my friends to give up a chance to see established (and, let’s be honest, cooler!) acts like Simple Jim, Deep Banana Blackout, or Gargantua Soul, in order to check out those “Irish guys in vests” - but once they did, they were hooked. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Unfortunately, no band is devoid of drama, and The Rovers had their “Behind the Music” moment when the trio became a duo (before remerging as a quintet, and ultimately a sextet!) But the changes added new life to the band and for whatever reason, seemed to push them to reach for new heights, both creatively and professionally. I wasn’t privy to the conversations, but imagine that the break-up was sort of a wake up call, where they realized how quickly things can change and that they needed to make the most of the situation. And did they ever!</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">As the years passed, the boys expanded their ever-growing fan base and journeyed further away from their home base. And while we’re talking about bases, who can forget their gig at Shea Stadium? Or their nationally televised appearance on FOX? Not to mention their Marshall Tucker period, where founding member, Doug Gray, served as mentor and head cheerleader, inviting the Rovers to open for, and join, his band on stage. But what impressed ME the most were their St. Patrick’s Day gigs, where they would play a full 3-hour set somewhere in Connecticut, complete with shots…and more shots, then jump on a bus and play another full set up in Boston!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">On a more personal note, the band was somewhat responsible for the completion of my first novel, </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Alchemy</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I had an idea for a story, and wrote the first chapter, back in the early 90’s, but it did nothing but collect dust until I tore my Achilles tendon dancing at a Highland Rovers show in 2004. Laid up for several months, and with nothing better to do with my time, I dug out the old manuscript and started typing away. A few years later, I was thrilled to be able to present them each with a copy of the finished book. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Equally thrilling was kissing my wife, Sarah, for the first time…which, wait for it, was at a Highland Rover’s St. Paddy’s show at O’Neill’s! Technically she wasn’t my wife at the time, but she soon would be (coincidentally right around the time the band released a song called </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sara,</span><span style="font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> which, even though it was about the birth of a band member’s daughter, and missing an H, applied to my new-found love as well: “Sara, you’re the answer to the questions my heart has been asking…”</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And then there was the wedding of my childhood friend, the VERY Irish Mary Callahan, who married the even MORE Irish Jimmy Kelleher, and naturally they hired the Rovers to play their reception. The highlight of the evening, and one of my favorite memories ever, was when they played “Goodbye, Mary” – an original song about a guy who finds out a lost love is getting married, which while having no connection to the bride, was both funny and apropos as it sent them on their merry way with the refrain, “I wish you all the happiness in the world.”</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">And I want to wish The Highland Rovers all the continued happiness in the world as they roll into their 25th year as a band. You guys (and gal) have provided me, and thousands of others, with wonderful music and memories for the past quarter century, and we owe you (and your patient families) a debt of gratitude for continuing to share your gifts with us.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">So let me end by saying thank you. Thank you all. Thank you, Tommy and Jimmy and Billy. Thank you, Al and Jeff and Michael. Thank you, Colleen and Turk and the Madden Group. Thank you to the Muscular Bongo Guy who I sort of forgot about! Thank you, friends and fans and families. Thank you for the music, the mayhem, and the memories. And thanks again for snapping my fucking tendon, you bastards!!!!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-variant-position: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I signed off my original eulogy with an apt line from The Parting Glass, b</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">ut am so happy to end this one on a more upbeat note with a line from a Rover's original: <i>"And so, it's the end of our show, but it's </i></span><i style="caret-color: rgb(37, 37, 37); white-space: pre-wrap;">not the end, </i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>we'll</i></span><i style="caret-color: rgb(37, 37, 37); white-space: pre-wrap;"> meet again. When you're lost and alone, may God lead you home, all roads lead to here..."</i></span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIVzMWxseckaMNBgePWP4kS8wmMiCfOwx3A5ZcM_cpfm8Z7MIF8rUXSZniBR2KntMCX9xdtkSD0Gi_RrubQGJvfF5mRW8r1l0JPlgsj2JYvQVi0nW1pHpf-aWn3u0VCt_fVnT8pX7Wrk/s1600/irishkicks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="background-color: white; color: black;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJIVzMWxseckaMNBgePWP4kS8wmMiCfOwx3A5ZcM_cpfm8Z7MIF8rUXSZniBR2KntMCX9xdtkSD0Gi_RrubQGJvfF5mRW8r1l0JPlgsj2JYvQVi0nW1pHpf-aWn3u0VCt_fVnT8pX7Wrk/s320/irishkicks.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white;">The shirt says it all: LUCKY!</span></td></tr>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">*Footnote (ha ha): At last year’s Irish Village show, I tore another muscle, in the same damn leg, dancing during the first set of the first show. It was nowhere as debilitating as a torn achilles, but still freaking hurt! </span></span><span style="font-family: "times new roman"; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span></div>
<span id="docs-internal-guid-6f294d6b-7fff-7331-f07c-388dceb9deda"></span><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-58456065465449020622017-04-06T14:33:00.001-04:002017-04-06T16:52:58.126-04:00The French Connection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidAIUmRvxIbexcTmvYSzSg4NPadhMdENXwV6c0fSZNuSLIcITBO5-vrjoOm2dj5NZb0TUu4WFH7vUnXHoDpGEFsEo3VwSihox7uyy7-q9OqNyaDm9zO2gcrjeHDqJIacz8UvfGhQOWsCQ/s1600/steve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidAIUmRvxIbexcTmvYSzSg4NPadhMdENXwV6c0fSZNuSLIcITBO5-vrjoOm2dj5NZb0TUu4WFH7vUnXHoDpGEFsEo3VwSihox7uyy7-q9OqNyaDm9zO2gcrjeHDqJIacz8UvfGhQOWsCQ/s320/steve.jpg" width="291" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I can’t believe I have to do this again, so soon after another beloved family member was taken too soon. Worse, when Mike Connors passed away, he did so knowing how much he was loved and appreciated, but I’m not sure if Steve French ever got that same feeling As much as he hated it, much of Steve’s life </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">was </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">dependent on others, and I fear he died feeling more like a burden than a benefit. And while 1000 words will not be enough to set the record straight, I’m going to try. To do so, I will focus on MY relationship with the guy, as to try and capture the incredible story behind my brother’s bond with him would take a book. In short, my brother Richard has done some pretty impressive things in his life: traveling the world, getting into top schools, becoming a doctor, running several practices - but what he did for, and with, Steve is what makes me most proud to call him my brother. </span></div>
<b id="docs-internal-guid-feeca503-4489-6837-ea1b-5aa7001729a2" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Back when I was 12, Richard was in a terrible car accident that left him with two shattered legs and a broken jaw, and during his year-long recovery, he spent some time at Gaylord Hospital, where a classmate of his was “recovering” from an even more horrific accident that left him in a coma due to a traumatic brain injury. His name was Steve French. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Prior to the accident, Steve was not what you would call a good guy. From what I understand, he was a bit of a bully with a mean streak and short fuse, and the Gold Glove boxing skills to back it up. So much so, that at the time of his accident, there were people saying it was karma, and he got what he deserved.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m not sure anyone deserves to go through what Steve did, but I do know that he came out of it a better man. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Even while still <i>in</i> the hospital, he was making changes. I’ll never forget wheeling him through the hospital so he could deliver a daily orange to his friend Gary, who was in even worse shape than Steve was. It took ten minutes for Steve to pass the orange to Gary, who could hardly hold it, never mind peel it. Gary lacked speech, and his face was typically contorted into a grimace, but he always managed a smile for Steve. </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have no idea what he did with all those oranges, but they certainly brightened his day.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, regardless of what he was like before the accident, </span><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Steve left that hospital a good man. A true source of inspiration and living proof about the power of the human spirit.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was also a pain in the ass!</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">From Day One, when I first met him slumped in a wheelchair (which in itself was amazing, as he spent weeks in a fetal position that doctors thought he would never come out of) he was a prankster. Mind you, I was 12, and unaccustomed to dealing with brain damaged people in wheelchairs, so I was nervous the first time I wheeled Steve into an elevator and pushed the button for his floor. Next thing I know, he’s screaming, with his finger apparently stuck in the door. I start to panic, and the guy pulls his hand away from the door and starts laughing, pointing the finger he faked getting stuck at me in a “Got you!” manner</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That was the first of many. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After he graduated to using a walker, his favorite trick was to pretend to be falling. He’d flail his arms and yelp, and I’d come running to catch him. Every time. And every time, he’d laugh, happy that he had fooled me again. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And when he started driving, he’d convince me to check his oil, or windshield wiper fluid, or headlights. And EVERY time I stuck my head under the hood or on front of the grill, he’d beep the damn horn, causing me to jump and bang my head.</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But it wasn’t just me. He had a knack for tricking pretty girls into groping him. His posture, gait, and garbled voice gave away that he had a brain injury, which made people more inclined to be helpful - so when he’d approach a stranger and ask for help getting his keys out of his pocket, many obliged. They’d reach into his front pants pocket, feel around, and come out empty. He’d then convince them to check the other pocket., then his back pockets, and so forth, until they caught onto the joke. Some never did!</span></div>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m sure most of it was pure fun and games, but I think part of it was Steve doing whatever it took to feel in control. He had lost so much control over his own life, physically, mentally, emotionally, that it must have felt good to have some situations he could take charge of. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What I don’t think he realized though was how much of an influence he </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>did</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> have on me, and pretty much everyone he met. He was not easy to deal with. He was slow, hard to understand, and stubborn - and to this day, I attribute my fairly high level of patience and tolerance to him.</span></div>
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And he was equally tolerant. I've seen him in pain, but never heard him complain. For Steve, every thing was a struggle, but he insisted on doing everything himself, no matter how much extra time it took. And for someone who was never supposed to walk again, he sure got around. He traveled Europe, worked in a grocery store, frequented Danny O's, lived on his own, retaught himself how to drive, and had an active social life.<br />
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He was proud. Maybe even a bit of a bragard or show-off, always flexing his muscles and squeezing my hand in a death grip - and well, since that annoyed me, I learned to be humble! But the way he went about getting those hard-earned muscles; the hours spent in the gym, willing his body to do things deemed impossible by others, taught me about perseverance and dedication. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: 14.666666984558105px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But under all those muscles, Steve was still a little mama's boy! He bought a house right next to his amazing mother, and when not visiting with her, was talking about her. Not that I needed any help in that department, but it was still nice to see their sweet relationship. Same goes for his siblings and nieces and nephews. He was constantly pulling out his wallet to show me their latest pictures and raving about their exploits. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was a teenager during the years that Steve was an integral part of the family, and while I’m sure I was no less self-centered than your typical teen, there was never any resentment over him being there. Sure, I got frustrated and annoyed with him, like any brother, and I had to train my girlfriends not to fall for the “Find my Keys” trick, but he added so much more to my life than he took.. And really, all he “took” was a little more time, patience, and understanding; three things we should all be grateful to share. And in return, he taught us all that life truly is what you make of it. People can change. Adversity can be overcome. Friends and family are important. And when life gives you lemons, give someone else an orange.</span></div>
Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-66162640370976598312017-02-15T22:48:00.002-05:002017-02-15T22:58:01.815-05:00Last Call <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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He went by many names, and worked at many bars, but I've only seen one expression on his face: a giant smile. And I do mean GIANT! Mike Connors was literally larger than life. Whether it was his raspy "Heyyy!' or gnarly handshake, he enveloped people with warmth every time he greeted them. And it's beyond shocking that he is no longer with us.<br />
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I knew <i>of</i> Mike before I knew him. I worked in a restaurant across the street from The Black Duck, and there was much talk of Wolfie. I lived a somewhat sheltered life, and always thought of the Duck as a biker bar. And to tell you the truth, the first few times I ventured in there, he scared me. Quick with a wink and drink for the girls I was with, he was not as cuddly towards me. He was big, and gruff, and clearly In Charge, and, well I was intimidated.<br />
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But I quickly saw the softer side (and, really, the only side) of Big Mike..<i>.after</i> learning he really did not like being called Wolfie by just anyone. And over the years we went from being patrons to friends to family. Like <i>actual</i> family, as he ended up marrying my sister in law (technically former sister in law, but we don't play that way!)<br />
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Mike could not have been a better choice for husband and step-dad to Kelly and her kids. My brother loved his family and brought them much joy, but he also left them in sad shape, and Mike just picked them all up on his strong shoulders and carried them through some tough times. I feel <i>very</i> confident speaking for my entire family when I say we not only accepted Mike, but respected and felt indebted to him for taking on such a challenge and keeping the family together.<br />
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And that's what Mike did. He brought people together. I lost count of how many couples and marriages are attributed to his doings, but I've got two nieces who owe their significant others to his presence. I also remember being at Viva Zapatas, sitting on the patio with some friends, being annoyed by these young kids who were acting like obnoxious dicks - until Mike showed up, All of the sudden, there was a hush, and I could hear them whispering, "It's Coach Connors!" Without his saying a word, or even knowing what they had been up to, they changed their attitude and were on their best behavior for the rest of the night.<br />
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He was big, but his physical strength was no match for his emotional side. Looking back I truly don't remember him ever saying an unkind word about anyone. Well, anyone NOT wearing a Dallas jersey! He was big, but not afraid to show his love for his furry little hamster-sized dogs! He was big, but had the gentlest of touches for the frailest of Grandmas.<br />
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But as big as he was, the hole that he is leaving is even bigger. It's only been six hours since I heard the news, but I've seen his face a dozen times on the digital frame in my kitchen, and each time it pops up, I smile along with him, until it hits me that he is gone. I know that no one that big, that important, that involved in so many lives can ever truly be gone, but right now, that doesn't help.<br />
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I hurt for his family. I hurt for his friends. I hurt for his former players and teammates and customers. It broke my heart having to tell my mother, as it felt like she had lost another son. And since he was technically not my bother in law, I always jokingly called him my brother in love. But it was no joke. I meant it<br />
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Mike spent a lot of time in, and behind, bars (not the jail kind!) and made many a Last Call - but tonight, instead of turning the lights on, an incredible light has unexpectedly gone out :(<br />
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RIP Mike Connors<br />
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<br />Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-23897840497149168402016-05-18T10:57:00.000-04:002016-05-18T19:58:01.439-04:00Total Lack of Diplomacy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbR2cslxJTXDiTVJyAJ_4x1XmUIGw5COvNamz2zoJqCOnNEw8jithmxfTNOgrxePXhfzWOoDoLKPgRf4a25xO3lB8Zh6gi_pUYH5-nT6NwY2X8_wpRLyedbfGjXF1SVkR0GkOetzmIGQ/s1600/13244809_1745469335696963_4945798374772530211_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbR2cslxJTXDiTVJyAJ_4x1XmUIGw5COvNamz2zoJqCOnNEw8jithmxfTNOgrxePXhfzWOoDoLKPgRf4a25xO3lB8Zh6gi_pUYH5-nT6NwY2X8_wpRLyedbfGjXF1SVkR0GkOetzmIGQ/s320/13244809_1745469335696963_4945798374772530211_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">My town has made the news again. For whatever reason, the
powers that be seem intent on making national news every May, even if it means
making a mockery of things many hold sacred. It started when James Tate turned the side of
the high school into his own personal bulletin board, using masking tape to post a
sign asking a girl to go to the prom with him. He was subsequently banned from the prom for
his “vandalism”, but after pressure from the community and appearances on <i>Jimmy
Kimmel</i> and the <i>Today</i> show, the decision was reversed. A few years later, the
school administration was back in the national spotlight, this time regarding
an 11<sup>th</sup> hour dress code that suddenly surfaced regarding the style
of prom dresses, threatening to ban any student who showed up in a gown that
had cut outs, side-slits, or exposed backs. Again there was an uproar and
influx of satellite trucks and news teams, and again the administration backed
down, or at least softened their stance. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">In both cases, I found myself sympathizing with the administrators
for trying to do the “right” thing. Sure, I was also shaking my head at the stupidity
of their seemingly knee-jerk reactions and complete lack of foresight in not seeing
how these decisions would blow up in their faces, but I could understand and
appreciate where they were coming from. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But their latest May headline grab is absolutely disgusting
and indefensible. The Shelton High senior pictured above was recently killed in a car accident,
and his parents were hoping he would be posthumously awarded his diploma at
graduation, along with his classmates. They were told no. No. No, we will not allow the name of your
dead son to be read aloud with the rest of his classmates. No, we will not
award a diploma, even though he was already accepted into college. No, we will
not provide any sense of closure, comfort, or common decency. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And why? Is there some legal issue we are not privy to that would
give them a legit reason for not honoring such a reasonable request? The answer
is no. The excuses they are giving range from rhetoric about World War II and
Korean soldiers receiving honorary degrees to the board of ed not being able to
find anything in their records to guide them and are therefor unwilling to set
a new precedent One BOE member even said “<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; line-height: 107%;">The implication was that others in the future would expect similar
treatment” Really? And that is a problem, why? We won’t award your dead son an
honorary diploma because then we’d have to give <i>every</i> kid who tragically passes away a diploma? Is paper that
expensive? Is decency that difficult? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I truly don’t get it. This
is not the first time Shelton has dealt with such a situation, and sadly, it
won’t be the last. But in every other instance, they did the right thing. The
only difference in this case are the people in charge – and to me, if I can’t count on them to do right by a single
dead student, how the hell can I trust them to make the truly difficult decisions
that affect the thousands of kids still in the school system, including my own
son? I mean, budget cuts are hard to make. Curriculum choices are very
difficult. Safety and security concerns are extremely challenging. I would
expect board of ed members to struggle with such decisions. But no one could have expected
such a no-brainer “decision” to show a little common sense and compassion to become such a problem. And that<i> is </i>a problem. I have lost all faith, trust, and
patience with this board of ed – and even if they repeat their May pattern of
reversing their decision, it will be too late. The damage has been done. If
they require past precedent in order to be decent, then we need some new people
in charge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; line-height: 107%;">I say this not just as a
concerned citizen or upset parent, but as a teacher. One, who every year, </span>gives
his students the same advice: “Don’t be the kid they dedicate the yearbook to.”
They look at me a little strange until I explain that, chances are, when they
show up in September as freshmen, one of the kids in their high school will not
live to see his or her graduation. And while
that kid will get a special page in the yearbook, and have balloons released in
his or her honor, and have the school rock painted in their favorite color, and
get the loudest cheer at graduation, you do NOT want to be that kid. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And you definitely don’t want to be that kid if you live in Shelton.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com85tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-52547702407388461372016-02-08T14:31:00.002-05:002016-02-08T14:55:54.036-05:00S'no Fun<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4smhRO7elacWMDVXD9gdDq13fi3BuaTAMZuANypNKxKpTf6NHZk5E6ESP1xk1fYsrNsVAp8k0KfzfUnnRI00TXt4UYr8ucR9iBtktTafDn4p20BpkLeGHoaQSGZoEnSsXO1meSxs8rg/s1600/holiday-safety-tips-firedog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_4smhRO7elacWMDVXD9gdDq13fi3BuaTAMZuANypNKxKpTf6NHZk5E6ESP1xk1fYsrNsVAp8k0KfzfUnnRI00TXt4UYr8ucR9iBtktTafDn4p20BpkLeGHoaQSGZoEnSsXO1meSxs8rg/s320/holiday-safety-tips-firedog.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I sit home, courtesy of a “snow day” called hours before the first flake fell, and watch as the pitiful amount of accumulation finally approaches the one-inch mark, and it’s already well past noon, I have to wonder: How did we get to this point? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Granted, I get it. Snow makes for dangerous driving conditions. And the safety of our kids really is our first, and second, priority. And I even understand the overabundance of caution mentality and safety first approach that has overtaken this country in light of some terrible tragedies.And I totally agree that even one life saved is well worth the inconveniencing of thousands. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But what I <i>don’t</i> get is how that is any different than 30 years ago?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Did parents back then care less about their children’s lives? Did they not understand that snow+roads=slippery? Did society value education more than safety? Were weather reports more accurate and reliable? Were vehicles and clothing better equipped to handle snow and ice?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Or did we turn into a bunch of titty babies?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m thinking it’s the later, as back then, we did not have Doppler radar and AccuWeather forecasts. Or four-wheel drive and anti-lock brakes. Or the latest Nike dri-fit clothing. We had a daily newspaper and the 11:00 news for weather, rear-wheel drive with sandbags and bricks in the trunk (or kids sitting on the back over the drive wheel) for traction in the snow, and hand-knit hats and mittens that collected snow like lint-rollers, and kept out the cold about as well as a screen door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I clearly remember <i>leaving </i>for school in snowy conditions that today would have caused the governor to close the roads and declare a State of Emergency. Yet I somehow managed to walk through the unplowed streets to the bus stop, where my fellow grade-schoolers were eagerly discussing the chances that the snow would keep coming so that <i>maybe </i>they would send us home early. Our conversations would be halted every so often so that we could assist a struggling motorist by pushing their rear-wheel drive cars up the hill. Sometimes it worked, and we would cheer as they fishtailed their way up the road, honking their horns in gratitude. Sometimes it didn’t, and we’d jump out of the way as the out-of-control cars slid backwards into a snowbank.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">When the bus finally came - it could be counted on to be up to an hour late (and we waited!), we’d place our bets (with our bodies!) on the spot we deemed most likely for the bus to skid to a final stop. If the roads were really bad, this practice turned into a rather dangerous game of Chicken to those who dared to hold their ground as the bus slid sideways down the street. But it was worth it for those rare times when the doors opened right in front of you, and you got to step right on the bus as your classmates slipped and slid their way from their ill-chosen spots. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Now, the mere hint of snow is enough to cancel school. And while I sometimes appreciate the unexpected time off (say, on a day following the Super Bowl!), I can’t help but wonder what message we’re sending to our kids. Plus, I really miss the thrill of driving in the snow! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Back in the day, it was expected that you went to work. We were ALL like the mailmen, making our way through rain, sleet, snow, and hail to and from our jobs (which apparently, were<i> all </i>essential back then. Now, roads are closed to all except emergency vehicles and douchebags.) Which makes me think that our kids are going to be ill-prepared for doing battle with the weather - even though their cars and trucks are 4 x better equipped (see what I did there) than ours ever were. My fear is that what they have in four-wheel drive, they’ll be lacking in fortitude </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I’m not gonna lie, there is something thrilling and exciting about driving in the snow…but only when you <i>have</i> to. Taking the truck out and tooling around for fun just makes you a tool - but <i>needing</i> to get to work (or home again) makes you feel like a hero. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I still remember the time, after working a double through the heart of a major snowstorm (at my “essential” job at Stop & Shop) and driving home in my trusty Chevette. I had trouble even leaving the parking lot. I put the car in reverse, and tried to back out, but the car refused to move. Thinking it was a snow bank, I floored it, and suddenly found my rear wheels off the ground and my nose pointing down. I got out to see what the hell happened, and realized I had backed over a shopping carriage that was buried in the snow. I somehow managed to extricate myself and continued on my way. Literally, 10 seconds later, I was rear-ended at the stop light at the exit of the parking lot! It was just a tap, and not wanting to get back out, I just rolled down my window, gave an “It’s okay” wave of the arm, and drive off. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The flakes were falling so fast and heavy, it looked like warp speed in the Millennium Falcon through my windshield. I had, of course, turned the radio off (Guy Rule #1 in Stressful Driving Conditions) and my knuckles were whiter than the snow, but it was exhilarating. I’d slowly pass the muted glare of snow-covered hazard lights of cars “parked” at odd angles on the shoulder, looking sharp for the slumped shadows of drivers who had abandoned them, wondering which of the upcoming hills and turns would be <i>my</i> turn. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But somehow I made it home safely. I’m sure the fact that I was driving a shitbox made me less concerned, and perhaps a bit less cautious, but I couldn’t help but feel proud of my car, and myself, when I finally pulled into my driveway. Not only did I show up to work, when many did not, but I also made it home when others could not. Sure, it was scary, but it was also satisfying. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So, yes, I sort of miss that feeling. I know, I’ve still got lots to be proud of, but nothing that involves real risk, you know? Not that I’m advocating taking foolish chances, mind you, or even saying that we should have had school today. In fact, when it comes to other people’s kids, I would <i>always</i> err on the side of caution. But I don’t want my own kid growing up to be intimidated by few inches!</span></div>
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Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-81143330255398047332015-12-18T11:13:00.005-05:002015-12-18T11:13:44.298-05:00A Guest Blog from Julianna <div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><b>NOTE: Below is an essay (written at the very last minute!) by my step-daughter for an Art class - which, she wants me to tell you, explains why some of the paragraphs towards the end are "boring" - but her mother and I found them ALL pretty amazing! Enjoy</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Julianna Kriston<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Assignment<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> When
I think of the past, I think of tradition. Traditions are in a sense, the past
reincarnated. Commitment to traditions and other family ties can remain
constant even through change, pain or loss. There is a certain healing power in
being surrounded by those you love and participating in familiar activities as
a whole. Traditions not only facilitate the reunion of loved ones, but also the
commemoration of those who have passed away. By continuing traditions started
by family members in the past, we can be comforted by familiarity while
simultaneously paying tribute those who can no longer participate. Physical
works of art such as monuments or mausoleums also help fulfill our natural
human need to remain connected to those we love both near and far. Both
tradition and art are necessary and effective forms of expression that aid in
the process of commemoration and acceptance of loss. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> With
the holiday season soon approaching, the decorating of our family Christmas
tree is a specific tradition that comes to mind. This is a ritual many people
observe, that mixes both art and spirit to create a unique experience. For my
family, this tradition begins with finding a tree. It seems each year we take
home the most “Charlie Brown-esque” of the lot. We laugh as we turn it every
which way in an attempt to expose its fullest branches. Whatever eccentric
Christmas themed playlist my step-dad has created that year is always the
soundtrack. I am usually the first to disagree with our choice of tree, however
after it is finally in its stand I do take a step back and appreciate its
unique beauty. The bright colors glowing in the dimmed light of our family
room, is quite a sight to see if you make sure to squint your eyes just right
(“squinty eyes” being another tradition that always takes place upon that first
igniting flick of the switch). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Once we have
collectively admired the lights through squinty eyes, my step-dad retrieves
from the attic what somehow seems to be way more boxes of ornaments than we had
the year before. As they pile up we wonder where they all came from and, more
importantly, how we will fit them all on our scrawny Charlie Brown tree. Regardless,
we begin to pull ornaments out of their boxes, unwrap their protective
newspaper layers, and place them on the tree. It seems my step-dad naturally
gravitates toward the top branches, while my mom and I gravitate toward middle
branches. With the birth of my younger brother, who is now 6, even the very
bottom of our tree manages to become riddled with our eclectic Christmas ornaments
and the answers to our aforementioned wonders begin to unfold. Even as time changes
the size of our family and the number of ornaments we possess, we still make
the tradition work. Tradition trumps change, and the ability to realize and
appreciate that fact, as well as watch it unfold is a gift in itself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">As we
miraculously manage to find a place for each piece of our excessively large
ornament collection it is an unspoken yet unavoidable part of the tradition to
discuss the history and origin of every ornament we pick up. We have naturally
given each piece sentimental value, as each has been consistently present in
the tradition. After participating in this tradition with my family every year,
I have concluded from my experiences that Christmas ornaments of any kind are
tiny works of art that we purchase or create to be included in a sacred family
tradition. We place value on the artwork or even the artist if it happens to be
someone close to us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">One work of
art featured on our tree each year is especially close to my heart. The piece
is a large ceramic bulb with a simple gold ribbon tied around the top for
hanging. A soft, but bright emerald green envelops the entire sphere serving as
a backdrop for the focal point of the piece. Occupying most of the front
surface area is a 3-Dimensional image of a hearty, and highly detailed Santa
Clause face. His beard is snow white and carved in a way that gives it a
texture similar to braids or curls. Only a small portion of a cheery, bright
red mouth is visible through its density. Chubby cheeks, painted a subtle rosy
pink protrude above his full beard. A crimson red Santa hat sits atop more billowy,
stark white hair. Most notably, two small almond shaped eyes are accented with
dainty black lashes that help draw attention to their deep blue centers. The
bright colors offer a drastic contrast to the pure white of the beard, which
makes the image stand out. Santa’s facial expression is joyful and friendly,
just as he is most commonly depicted. He even seems to be making squinty eyes
(a tree decorating necessity, as previously mentioned). Volume is only evident
where the 3D shapes of Santa’s face and features are raised from the original
spherical shape, giving the illusion that Santa is peeking his head out from
inside the ornament. The lack of chiaroscuro gives the work a simple, clean
look. Overall, the style of the piece is very classic, because of its clean
lines and use of traditional Christmas colors. The piece is essentially the
epitome of a typical Christmas ornament. Contextually speaking, it is clear
from the generic materials and design that this piece is not the work of a
professional artist, although it is still neatly and accurately done. The artist
of this particular Christmas ornament was in fact my grandma, Kathleen
Cribbins. During a ceramics class with her friends in 1975, she crafted this
heavy ceramic bulb featuring this cherubic Santa Clause because of her love for
Christmas. I imagine that between chatter and laughter with girlfriends, she
carefully created what I consider to be the most beautiful ornament featured on
my Christmas tree to this day. Its bright colors and simple, yet bold image
have always stuck out to me. I often admired it as a child and fondly remember
seeing it prominently displayed on my grandparents Christmas tree every year
when I was young. Forty years have gone by since my grandma created this work
of art, and began the tradition of hanging it on her own tree with her
daughter. Today, 4 years have gone by since the passing of my grandma. With her
passing, the ornament made its way into the possession of my mom, who now carries
out so many family traditions in place of her mom, including of course decorating
our Christmas tree. For me, this simple Santa Clause ornament that was once
held and cared for by my grandma, now holds so much of her spirit. Each year when
we finally stumble upon her creation during our tree decorating tradition, it
is as if we have the privilege of opening one last Christmas gift from her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">In dealing
with loss, commemoration is a natural human need. The loss of a loved one is
not easy to accept or endure. Humans are comforted by the idea that those who
have passed can somehow still live on. To facilitate this, we project
significance onto worldly possessions, like pieces of artwork that we can
connect to our loved ones, as a means of physically experiencing and enjoying
our memories of them through these possessions. Throughout history many
cultures have decorated tombs, named grave stones, built and visited shrines,
and erected monuments, all for the sake of remembering and honoring their
pasts. These are all examples of both art and tradition being utilized as means
of commemoration. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri light" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Each year,
in accordance with tradition, my mom and I choose a spot that catches our eye
and display my grandma’s artwork proudly. In doing so, we transform our tree
into a sort of monument commemorating the spirit of my grandma. Her hand
crafted Christmas ornament will always be one of my favorite works of art, as
it serves as a constant reminder that she is with us not only in our family
traditions, but in our memories always. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-32255198542177304012015-12-10T10:46:00.003-05:002015-12-10T15:00:09.197-05:00Inside an Inside Joke<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I’ve always been intrigued by inside jokes. When everyone is laughing except for me, I
want to know why. And when “my” people are laughing and others are left looking
on, perplexed, I feel almost powerful. To me, inside jokes are a defining
characteristic of “family” – whether it’s the traditional family, a football
team, actors on a movie set, or colleagues at work, there’s something so
intimate and personal, yet typically silly, about sharing in such secrets. <o:p></o:p><br />
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And needless to say, I’m on the inside on many an inside
joke. So this morning, when I found myself singing to Eli, “Who’s got a big red
ding-a-ling?” and then wanting to share how funny that was with the rest of the
world, I realized, it would not be all that funny without a lot of explaining.
So, here it is…<o:p></o:p></div>
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First, the ding-a ling, which surprisingly, has two parts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Part One: The Ding</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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My wife, Sarah, and I are both teachers, so from the time
our son was 6-months old, getting him up and ready for the day while getting ourselves
up and ready for the day by 7:00 a.m. is quite the challenge. So, to meet the
many needs, we had to establish several routines, one of which revolved around breakfast.
Our son, Eli, is pretty easy going and easy to please, so pretty much every
day, he has frozen waffles for breakfast. Typically, I wake him up, carry him
downstairs, and deposit him in bed to snuggle with Sarah while I boil the water
for his hot chocolate and toss two waffles in the toaster. And for about two
years, the “ding” of the toaster indicating it was done was enough to have him
come running into the kitchen to eat.<o:p></o:p><br />
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As he got older, I had to enhance the ding with my own voice
to drag him out of bed, so when the waffles are done and cocoa is ready, I now holler
“DING!” (or "Ding a ling ding DING!” – see below) and he comes running.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Part Two: The A-Ling</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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For the past few years, we’ve been doing lots of camping
with our cousins. To keep the kids busy, and ourselves entertained by the
locals, we tend to participate in lots of the campground activities. At one
place, Heath, the BINGO caller, ended every game with his own personal
catchphrase of “Ding a ling ding DING!” He had a raspy, somewhat tired (maybe slurry)
voice, and after 10 rounds of Bingo, it had become a thing. So much so that we
continue to use it years later anytime one of us (including the kids) wants to
celebrate a success or indicate approval.
In fact, we liked it so much, we actually returned to the same place last
year (even though we prefer to try out new places) just to play Bingo with
Heath! <o:p></o:p><br />
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Now that we established that members of my family are prone
to shouting out "Ding a ling ding DING!”
at seemingly random moments, let’s move on to the next part<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Part Three: “Who’s got a big red…”</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Eli LOVES to sing. And I love to hear him, so even though I
am NOT a singer, while we’re in the car, or alone, we often play singing games.
Our latest is a seasonally appropriate one based on the Mitch Miller version of
“Must be Santa” – the song where Mitch sings, “Who’s got a big red cherry nose?”
and a chorus of kids shouts back,” Santa’s got a big red cherry nose! Mitch: “Who
laughs this way, ho ho ho?” Kids: “Santa laughs this way, ho ho ho!” and so on.
Only, we’ve modified so that I’ll sing out things like, “Who’s got to go to
school today?” And Eli responds with, “Eli’s got to go to school today!” Me: “Who
likes beer on a special day?” Eli: “Daddy likes beer on a special day!” And so
on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So, now that we have all three parts, you <i>might</i> find it amusing to hear how this
morning, when Eli came running into the kitchen JUST as the waffles were ready,
negating my need to shout out “Ding!” Or “Ding a ling ding DING!” I heard
myself sing out, “Who’s got a big red ding a ling?” And without missing a beat,
he sang back, “Santa’s got a big red ding a ling!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Or, you might not. In which case, yots of yuck on your yawn!
Sorry, that’s an inside joke<o:p></o:p></div>
Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-31292872925264388362015-06-19T14:48:00.002-04:002015-06-19T14:48:37.399-04:00Change, Not Chains<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><b>Today was my last day at the school I've been teaching at since 2001. A population decrease in the district necessitated lots of cuts and movement, and while no one lost their jobs (this time!) many people were displaced. Before I knew <i>I</i> was going to be one of them, I spent a lot of time talking to people about the benefits of change and I guess I must have convinced myself, as I wound up volunteering to leave (even though seniority would have allowed me to stay.) Below is the letter I sent out to the staff, explaining my decision, and even though it's personal to my situation, I've heard enough talk of change and transition out there (and not just about Caitlyn Jenner) to justify sharing it with you all as well. So, for what it's worth, here it is...</b></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Hello, when I walked into school last Tuesday, the only thought on my mind was how relieved it felt to be "safe" from getting moved down. Sure, I felt a little guilty knowing others were getting displaced, but mostly I was just glad it wasn't me.</span><br />
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6 hours later, I found myself VOLUNTEERING to be the one to go!</div>
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I was as surprised as anyone, and frankly, am still trying to wrap my head around it. But basically my thought process was: I LOVE teaching LA. I live in a world of words. I've read close to 40 books just since January. I've WRITTEN a couple books. I think and act and cope with life through the knowledge gleaned from books. I even have an English degree (which, apparently my professor was right, is not worth the paper it's printed on!) Plus, for the past 14 years, I've worked on the local, state, and national level to develop and improve the LA curriculum and assessments, as well as my own instruction and practice. So when I was informed that I'd be teaching Math next year, it just didn't work for me. I'm HORRIBLE at math. It's not a strength. It's not my passion. And while I'm sure I could have been good enough, I think the kids deserve better than that.</div>
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I only had a few short hours to process and decide all this, and in that time, I kept asking myself, "Why?" Why leave the comfort and security of a place I've known for the past 14 years? Why leave the friends and colleagues that have welcomed me into their classrooms, their homes, and their lives since 2001? Why have to pack up ALL my stuff and move? Why change my routines? </div>
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The answer was NOT because I don't like math!</div>
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No, the answer was, as much as I fear it, I LIKE change. I truly believe that change keeps us young and sharp, and fresh. Change slows down time and keeps us from going through life on auto-pilot. Change is good.</div>
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Yes, I hear some of you wondering, "Well, isn't teaching math <i>enough</i> of a change?" And to that, all I can say is, I found myself more excited about the scary prospect of establishing myself in a new building than the safer choice of learning how to teach a new subject.</div>
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Granted, this all happened over the course of an evening, so I may soon be regretting this decision, but I know I made it with the best intentions, for me and the students. If all works out, our math teacher will stay where HE belongs, teaching 6th grade math, and I'll still be doing what I'm highly qualified to do...just away from the people I love. </div>
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And that's the hardest part. We've been through so much together. Forget the school stuff. Over the past decade and a half, we've gone through everything from wakes to weddings, funerals to bat mitzvahs, concerts to happy hours, and from tailgating at retirement parties to illegally dumping a colleague's ashes! </div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
I do not expect to find another group of people who are more dedicated and generous in the act of teaching children as you all, but I promise to carry that spirit with me wherever I go. And for what it's worth, I don't plan to be gone long!</div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Thank you all for everything, especially your understanding. </div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
See you in town and around,</div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">
Mike<br />
<br />
PS - don't worry, this year's staff party will still be at my house!</div>
Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-86001971394855337482015-06-02T14:20:00.000-04:002015-06-02T16:23:12.018-04:00Don't Ever Leaf Me!<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3s4mDSr4DS3XWfYqKisJoRnNPkHPX5oJoiRJZ-EPrZCkONKadiSYWo-tdoPul-ptE4NoJ74By0NydI0yTq3dDDR2r-Z6fQ2MSPDrCZ4MLGcMx0d1jvQTGTnYueUzP4NCj4TGNanGFOtA/s1600/41tK6ZTEPJL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3s4mDSr4DS3XWfYqKisJoRnNPkHPX5oJoiRJZ-EPrZCkONKadiSYWo-tdoPul-ptE4NoJ74By0NydI0yTq3dDDR2r-Z6fQ2MSPDrCZ4MLGcMx0d1jvQTGTnYueUzP4NCj4TGNanGFOtA/s320/41tK6ZTEPJL.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I collect
stories the way others collect shells – shotgun or sea, it does not matter - I
pick them up, brush them off, shine them up a little, examine them, and then
either toss them back or place them in my pocket. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I’ve got
stories about friends that I share with strangers, and stories about family I
share with friends (and stories about myself I share with anyone who will
listen.) Recently I heard what very well may be the BEST story ever told. It has memorable
characters, an interesting set-up, a relatable premise, and an absolutely
HILARIOUS pay-off – but, unfortunately, I can’t share it here...yet!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Ask me in person, and
I’ll gladly tell it. Just be forewarned, it is awesomely awful! The
sort of story you can’t unhear. I’ve already told it a dozen times since I
picked it up last week, and it gets better each time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As for a
story I CAN share here, allow me to offer up an all-time fave. It’s one of many
that come courtesy of my in-laws. And
while knowing them definitely adds to the humor, it’s still a good story for anyone...<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Back about
25 years or so ago, my father-in-law was taking an Environmental Science course, part of which required a weekend of camping and canoeing down the Connecticut River with his classmates. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">He had his wife drive him up there, and </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">when they
arrived at the drop-off site, she was surprised to find a bunch of much younger students, mostly artsy, </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">bearded dudes and attractive, bra-less, free love hippie type women, all waiting to paddle off
with <i>her</i> husband (and father of her two children) for a weekend in the woods.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As she waved
goodbye from the shore - he <i>may</i> have waved back – it was hard to
tell among all the jiggling boobs and hoisted beer cans - she was certain she
would never see him again. So much so,
that when she returned home, her first action was to remove the leaf from the
kitchen table as her children looked on.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“Why did you
do that?” the kids wanted to know.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">“We don’t
need it anymore,” she said. “Your father is never coming back!”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Of course,
he did come back. And remained a
wonderful and faithful husband right up to (and through) her death in 2010 -
but what I really love about the story is my mother-in-law’s physical reaction
to cope with an emotional response. In her heart, she knew her husband would
return, but the way she dealt with that shadow of a doubt in such a dramatic,
yet sensible, manner, really pinpointed her personality for me. And even though I did
not know her at the time it happened, hearing it retold cemented my respect for
her. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I know that to an outsider, this is probably just a funny story about the ups and downs of marriage. To friends and family, it might be the essence of Kathy captured in a nutshell. To me, it's a time capsule peak into my wife's family <i>before</i> I came on the scene. And to you...well, you can share your reaction in the comments below! But that's the true mark of a good story, when both teller and listener come away with something to put in their pockets. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-52416080308947316952015-02-17T19:02:00.001-05:002015-10-19T13:59:41.640-04:00Stuff It!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicb-Duh9UdUWsbKDIac1wQvbnExB31a5b3jzsNUJTXSky_51CeS1fGAAk6ijwqb4UU0JMpC6p186eGU0DfnAHQ6qFxiXfsdp9e_ggiVliIJ8ieh37HKmnS8gvWNPs8z7Bd0SP_e6yhj34/s1600/tiger.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicb-Duh9UdUWsbKDIac1wQvbnExB31a5b3jzsNUJTXSky_51CeS1fGAAk6ijwqb4UU0JMpC6p186eGU0DfnAHQ6qFxiXfsdp9e_ggiVliIJ8ieh37HKmnS8gvWNPs8z7Bd0SP_e6yhj34/s1600/tiger.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eli, with his latest acquisition </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our house is overrun with my son’s stuffed animals. There
are HUNDREDS of creatures, from armadillos to zebras. Aliens. Robots.
Dinosaurs. Not to mention the entire cast of Yo Gabba Gabba, all the
Wonderpets, and a whole flock of Angry Birds. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel like Noah when I sit on the couch, or E.T. in the
closet, surrounded (and in some cases, upon) my son’s menagerie. Admittedly,
some DO make good pillows, but most have pointy pokey parts that violate my
more sensitive areas. And many tend to squeak, shriek, or sing when you apply pressure
on them, which never fails to freak me out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, after we recently managed to remove a carload of “hard” toys that
he had outgrown by donating them to a local preschool, I thought we could do
the same with the stuffed ones. Knowing how much he likes them (and recalling
how he reacted when he caught me putting his Weeble Treehouse in the donation pile), my wife and I offered him a reasonable deal: For every ten stuffed animals he
got rid of, we would buy him one new one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It seemed like a true win-win, and I saw NO problems with this plan</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Until he showed us the ten he designated for deportation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You can’t give away DJ Lance Rock!” my wife said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I LOVE those Ugly Dolls,” I whined.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Grandma gave that to you!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He was you FAVORITE when you were a baby…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You won that at the carnival!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“NOT BEAR-BEAR!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It seemed like everything had sentimental value, and the
ones HE wasn’t attached to, WE were.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Try again,” we told him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHl4IFBlGl7tvYyQodJFpXBNUZ_5gVl385yd4jEPBXFCnXsQvhHopuBsUE7XPcH0i1xU9w4MvDNaqeTT9Ymy8jANOmlVIW-wr9dqmwmlBxOrexCtXh_uQ9XpCsDR_C2AkENv9nuDPmDL4/s1600/stuffed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHl4IFBlGl7tvYyQodJFpXBNUZ_5gVl385yd4jEPBXFCnXsQvhHopuBsUE7XPcH0i1xU9w4MvDNaqeTT9Ymy8jANOmlVIW-wr9dqmwmlBxOrexCtXh_uQ9XpCsDR_C2AkENv9nuDPmDL4/s1600/stuffed.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ten Castaways</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next time, he came back with the ones pictured
above.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while we (my wife and
I) felt a little better about this selection, there were still some choices
that left us with misgivings (indicated by sad faces <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span>)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Top Row</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little Blue Bird: part of a cute shape sorting set that I
got him for his first Christmas <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Little Bunny: something my wife had since SHE was a baby <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bug Eyed Raccoon Looking Thing: Christmas gift from his
cousin Jamie. I think it’s cool, but not overly attached</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Green Alien in Underpants: Came with a book. I think he’s
funny, but won’t miss it</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blue Moose: Eli’s favorite toy as an infant. It was strapped
to his car seat and provided hours of entertainment. So much so, that when it
got left behind in a restaurant, I drove back the next day to retrieve it <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span> <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span> <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Bottom Row</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Red Bear(?): Good riddance. That thing yelped and
yodeled whenever you squeezed its belly, and could seriously bite your finger! NOTE:
My wife just informed me she felt a tinge of sadness, as the Blue Bear(?) is
still here, and apparently they hold hands and yelp and yodel in unison. I say trash them both!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oogie Boogie: Bought last year on a whim. Eli shares my love
for Tim Burton’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Nightmare Before
Christmas,</i> but apparently not for the bad guy in it <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mangled Sock Monkey: Even though it only has one barely
attached arm, no eyes, and stuffing coming out of it, his sister, Julianna,
made it with her own two hands <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span>
<span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dollar Store Baby Doll: bought as a prop for a movie making
camp I run. I have dozens of them, and we usually destroy several a summer. Eli
found it in the back of my truck. Zero sentimental value (or real value, for
that matter!) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Creepy Monkey: When its batteries are on, this armpit hair covered chimp emits oddly lifelike baby noises, and moves it eyes and mouth in a very
unsettling way. Given to ME as a gag gift by my niece many years ago, this
thing has made the rounds. I have regifted it several times, but it somehow
always manages to find its way back to me. Jury is still out as to how I feel
about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5 out of 10? In all honesty, this is shocking to me. I truly believed I’d
be happy if ALL the animals disappeared, yet here I am, fretting over 50% of
them? What the hell happened to me? Did I suddenly turn softer than the
creatures I was looking to evict? I’ve never been particularly sentimental. Sure, every once in a while, I’m surprised by what I find myself attached to, but this is ridiculous!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Personally,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
think it was the selection process. Had a genie showed up and took them all
away with a wave of his wand (or whatever the hell genies use) I think I would
have been okay. But seeing the poor little guys getting selected and rejected by the boy who
once loved them made be sad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not sad enough to save the furry freaks, mind you, but
sad just the same.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-28811424448150293472015-02-08T18:08:00.002-05:002015-02-08T18:08:35.598-05:00Hide and Sneak
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihP7w10u7x9OxgW2XNXaTHIUKYbOH1FR7OcTtfLUuT8Bqwgol97e58ubAsTRLPi2i_zDU1fLRxbXjqLbKSOdpFJ3kV-O9A4LotpIImEvOm63codVGXEFPQbXS2xlMp4dvJ5U8tscBL6ik/s1600/360.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihP7w10u7x9OxgW2XNXaTHIUKYbOH1FR7OcTtfLUuT8Bqwgol97e58ubAsTRLPi2i_zDU1fLRxbXjqLbKSOdpFJ3kV-O9A4LotpIImEvOm63codVGXEFPQbXS2xlMp4dvJ5U8tscBL6ik/s1600/360.jpg" height="263" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>I’m not sure what I just did…</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just got back from Home Depot with my 5-year old, where he
had made a heart-shaped box that he wanted to give to his mother on Valentines
Day, and he asked me where he could put it so she wouldn’t see it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I refrained from the obvious joke: “In the closet, next to
the vacuum cleaner,” and went with the obvious answer: “In your bedroom.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looked at me wide-eyed. “In my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bedroom</i>?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, up to this point, I had taken full responsibility for
the hiding of gifts. Christmas and birthday presents that “we” bought for her,
I left in my truck. Handmade things he created for her, I stowed in the
garage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, I mistook his
confusion as simply surprise that I was deviating from the script.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sure,” I said. “Run up there now while she’s in the other
room.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But she goes <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in </i>there!”
he said. “She’ll see it tonight, because it’s her turn to read me a story.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just put it somewhere where you don’t think she’ll look…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You mean, I can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hide </i>things
in my room?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with mischief.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh shit, what did I just do?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Did it really never occur to this boy that that’s precisely
what bedrooms are for?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know he’s only five, but isn’t it ingrained in our DNA
that bedrooms have doors, and doors equal privacy? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then again, based on how he disregards bathroom doors, I
shouldn’t have been surprised. It took me weeks to train him that, when in a
public bathroom, it was not polite to peek under the closed stall door to “see
who was in there.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At least he’s always been pretty good about bedroom doors,
knowing he should knock before entering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Granted, he does not wait for our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">permission</i>
to enter, but there’s usually enough time for us to, um, disengage, thus saving
any awkward explanations about why we were just acting out the cover of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hop on Pop. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But there I was, enlightening my son that his room was not
just a place to sleep and play, but also a place to keep secrets from his
parents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though it’s
common knowledge, and a basic human need, it still felt wrong. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like I was teaching him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i> to be devious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Growing up, I had three older brothers, so I knew all about
closed doors and hiding spots. But even if I was an only child, there’s no way
my dad would have taken me aside and said, “Son, see how this here mattress
lifts up? It’s the perfect spot for hiding thin items, like, maybe, that C<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">osmo </i>mag you “borrowed” from your mom.
As for things that you don’t want to crush, like, say, that pack of cigarettes
you stole from me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That old Boggle
game in your closet, the one with the missing timer and no E cube, is a great place.
Now, let me tell you what you can do with those socks in your top drawer…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2385CfwBtisjgpQvXx7xB0NkPcYmtJp_qfk1ouSg5DC9aQetk0RGlUCZ-nK400wARXLz4VlRZ55PH2uGNX3PuQKR5Tt139YcvF7ErsTStHl2zG93Pg7s1D_kiHeMrCllAS9bioUn8SJQ/s1600/fingers-in-ears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2385CfwBtisjgpQvXx7xB0NkPcYmtJp_qfk1ouSg5DC9aQetk0RGlUCZ-nK400wARXLz4VlRZ55PH2uGNX3PuQKR5Tt139YcvF7ErsTStHl2zG93Pg7s1D_kiHeMrCllAS9bioUn8SJQ/s1600/fingers-in-ears.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Disturbing, right? But I feel like that’s what I just did.
On a much smaller scale of course. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It just never occurred to me that being sneaky is a learned
behavior. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I assumed it was something
we are all born with. Yet, I clearly just taught my kid his first lesson on how
to hide things from his mother. Sure, it was for a cute reason, and he has the
best of intentions, but how long until he’s using the same strategy for “bad”
reasons?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not looking forward to those days, but at least I’ll
know where to start looking!</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-77248078914686123272014-11-15T13:55:00.000-05:002014-11-15T13:55:04.068-05:00A Belated Thanks<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiV-SIPdHcLj2xfs34r-lsiZ9AZbiTT0FwIQADwTHKsZFf-_iFRfwVyQMun-QhU3e4-1eKsb4PLOT_yMSGYuh37x0gv4QW6jgLFKk1_1kLDQ35tRNVmJV6vVNkSV-OVyXx16AP5V-ZY7A/s1600/boy-statue-regret.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiV-SIPdHcLj2xfs34r-lsiZ9AZbiTT0FwIQADwTHKsZFf-_iFRfwVyQMun-QhU3e4-1eKsb4PLOT_yMSGYuh37x0gv4QW6jgLFKk1_1kLDQ35tRNVmJV6vVNkSV-OVyXx16AP5V-ZY7A/s1600/boy-statue-regret.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
An icon from my childhood just passed away, and the sadness
I felt upon hearing the news showed me just how hard this poor woman had to
work to earn my respect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know
that sounds strange, and cruel, and basically, it is. You see, even though I
grew up with a good group of kids in a great neighborhood, for whatever reason,
we needed a common nemesis, and Mrs. Bednarik filled that role. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was older than the other parents. Her son was overweight.
She never tipped me as her paperboy. The list goes on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Okay, it really doesn’t. And even the three items <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on</i> the list do not merit the abuse we
heaped on her and her family. Yet hers was the only house we egged and TP’d on
Mischief Night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her son was the
only one we ridiculed and bullied at the bus stop. And her paper was the last
one I’d deliver. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were good kids, but we did some cruel things. I don’t
why. There seems to be this odd <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord of
the Flies</i> period between the ages of 9 and 12 where kids feel this need to
demonstrate their powers of destruction. Toys get destroyed. Property gets
defaced. Feelings get hurt. Yet try as we might, we could not break Mrs.
Bednarik.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we started aiming our terrible sights at her son, she
took to waiting at the bus stop with us. She was the only parent out there,
braving the elements and ridicule to protect her son. She tried a variety of
tactics, from bribing us with candy, threatening us with punishment, and
hurling some mean comments of her own toward us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure if her approach worked, or if it was a stage we
eventually grew out of, but we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did </i>end
up becoming much friendlier with her son. There were football games in their
yard, video games in their house, and I remember going with him and his dad to
my first automated car wash. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All
under her watchful eye.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She had no reason to trust us, yet we felt insulted by her
suspicions, which was really just an excuse to continue casting her as the
neighborhood villain. So even as we played with her son by day, we still soaped
up her driveway by night. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What can I say? We were jerks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If we had one of those <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wonder
Years/Stand By Me</i>-style narrators following us around and romanticizing our
actions and exploits, he might be able to excuse our behaviors by talking about
how we were just looking for a dragon to slay. That growing up in a
middle-class neighborhood with no real problems caused us to go out and create some
of our own. That Mrs. Bednarik, with her foghorn voice, quick to anger
disposition, and refusal to ever back down, was a perfect target for our
adolescent slings and arrows.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But even if he was right, we were still wrong.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately, it wasn’t until years later that I realized
that those very same qualities that made her a target were what made her worthy
of my respect. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was outspoken. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was a fighter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was loyal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She never gave up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure, she was gruff. I know many <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">adults</i> who were afraid of her. But as I grew up, literally and
figuratively, I began to see a softer side as well. Still a bit prickly, not
exactly warm, but certainly softer.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was 15, her husband died, and Mrs. Bednarik had to
get her driver’s license. Problem was, she was 53, and had never driven a
car!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She made it very clear that
she would not rely on anyone for help or rides, so she did what she had to do
to take and pass the driver’s test. Even as a kid, I remember thinking that was
pretty brave of her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somehow, after that, roughly twenty years passed without our
paths crossing, until I found myself married and attending the same church as
Mrs. Bednarik.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At first I was
afraid, worried she would still (rightfully) hold a grudge, but she seemed
genuinely happy to see me. So much so, that some other members later approached
me, wanting to know what my secret was!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But SHE was the one with the secrets. For instance, I had no
idea what a great baker she was until she started pointing out to me that all
the cakes I’d been sampling during Coffee Hour were made by her. I also had no
clue she could sing, but there she was, up in front with the choir every
Sunday. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She made no secret of her many ills and ailments, opening
many conversations with her latest health concern – but it was never “woe is
me,” it was just a matter of fact. Matters she bore with great strength and
dignity, as she continued to go about her daily business in spite of her cane,
or walker, or oxygen tank.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was also no secret how much she loved her son. They were
inseparable, and could often be seen out and about together; shopping and
dining, while people watching and drolly commenting on the state of the world.
My mom was overjoyed if we went to church with her on Easter, but they went
together every Sunday. And they went everywhere else together, too. I may have
come a long way from those days at the bus stop, but the two of them never
changed, remaining protective and true to each other right through to the end.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t take back all the dumb things I said and did as a
kid, but I’m glad I had the chance to at least connect with you as an adult. I
didn’t have the guts to say I was sorry when I had the chance, so I won’t
bother now - but I WILL do my best to try and impart what I learned to my son,
so that maybe he can avoid that disturbing, destructive phase of slaying
imaginary dragons, and put his energy towards simply treating others with
kindness and respect. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, thank you, Mrs. Bednarik. Thank you for tolerating me
and teaching me and forgiving me. I may not have always appreciated you, but I
do now. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-53133685319709082782014-09-22T21:17:00.000-04:002019-02-26T20:32:03.462-05:00The Parting Glass<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BK1HwHsnPoGUJY4lQqb1QGCIxsfWt2EK0hyk9SBajy2NPPSg-ARGWsVoUpxpNdLtPWSFHTKpG3OXxQQw6cVEMAOwGI9BLngxA1F8r2hpR1QnL2HsFMqGuJvKGzQSu0Mr3-aheuKmXAQ/s1600/rovers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="933" data-original-width="1400" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2BK1HwHsnPoGUJY4lQqb1QGCIxsfWt2EK0hyk9SBajy2NPPSg-ARGWsVoUpxpNdLtPWSFHTKpG3OXxQQw6cVEMAOwGI9BLngxA1F8r2hpR1QnL2HsFMqGuJvKGzQSu0Mr3-aheuKmXAQ/s400/rovers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
As someone with ZERO musical ability – seriously, I can’t
even play the radio (and I suck at musical chairs!) – I consider myself
extremely fortunate to have spent my entire adult life in the company of many
talented musicians.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For whatever
reason, almost every one of my friends either plays in a band or is in a
relationship with someone who is. And while many come and go, two bands,
Hubinger Street and the Highland Rovers, have been providing the soundtrack to
my social life for the past twenty years. Unfortunately, one of them is calling
it quits.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I first saw the Highland Rovers before they even had a name.
I’m not sure if it was their very first show, but they were definitely
soliciting the audience at the brand new Gaelic club for suggestions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I admit, at the time I was more
impressed with the discounted drink prices and incredible interior of the club,
and frankly did not pay the band that much attention. But I was there! As were
many others, who I would soon become quite familiar with in the coming years as they followed the band on their tipsy travels throughout the state…and
beyond. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first time the band got MY attention was with a funny
sing-a-long to the tune of Do-Re-Mi… only it was “Do, is what we pay for beer.
Re, the guy who pours the beer. Mi, the guy who drinks the beer. Fa, the
distance to the bar. So, I think I’ll have a beer. La, la la la la la laaa! Ti,
tanks I’ll have a beer. And that brings us back to Do, oh, oh oh…” What can I
say? I was young and fresh out of college and used to playing drinking games, and
here were a trio of guys who were basically a living, breathing drinking game.
What wasn’t to like?</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I soon learned to appreciate them for their true
talents. Whether it was spot-on renditions of Irish classics, truly original
originals, or inspired covers of modern hits, the boys had talent. And their
hilarious interplay between songs was worth the price of admission alone. They
could sing. They could play. They could make you laugh. And they could drink!
Again, I ask you, what wasn’t to like?</div>
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<br /></div>
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And I was not alone. The size of the crowds continued to
grow with each passing show. And as word of the boys’ charms spread, the look
of the crowd changed as well. No longer was it just wool wrapped, kilt wearing,
tam sporting Irishmen and women, there were other people there too. Hippies and
yuppies and rockers and jocks. It was like the Breakfast Club. Make that the
Irish Breakfast Club, minus the black pudding!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And speaking of breakfast, the Rovers also introduced a new
generation to the glorious, but overlooked, “classic” by the Fabulous
Farquahr,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“My Eggs Don’t Taste the
Same Without You.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I also did my part to introduce new people to the band.
While it was not always easy convincing my friends to give up a chance to see
established (and, let’s be honest, cooler!) acts like Simple Jim, Deep Banana
Blackout, or Gargantua Soul, in order to check out those “Irish guys in vests”
- but once they did, they were hooked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately, as VH-1 has made all too clear with their
documentaries, no band is devoid of drama, and The Rovers had their “Behind the
Music” moment when the trio became a duo (before remerging as a quintet, and
ultimately a sextet!) But the changes added new life to the band and for
whatever reason, seemed to push them to reach for new heights, both creatively
and professionally. I wasn’t privy to the conversations, but imagine that the
break-up was sort of a wake up call, where they realized how quickly things can
change and that they needed to make the most of the situation. And did they
ever! </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As the years passed, the boys expanded their ever-growing
fan base and journeyed further away from their home base.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while we’re talking about bases,
who can forget their gig at Shea Stadium?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or their nationally televised appearance on FOX? Not to mention their
Marshall Tucker period, where founding member, Doug Gray, served as mentor and
head cheerleader, inviting the Rovers to open for, and join, his band on
stage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what impressed ME the
most were their St. Patrick’s Day gigs, where they would play a full 3-hour set
somewhere in Connecticut, complete with shots…and more shots, then jump on a
bus and play another full set up in Boston!</div>
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<br /></div>
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On a more personal note, the band was somewhat responsible
for the completion of my first novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Alchemy</i>.
I had an idea for a story, and wrote the first chapter, back in the early 90’s,
but it did nothing but collect dust until I tore my Achilles tendon dancing at
a Highland Rovers show in 2004. Laid up for several months, and with nothing
better to do with my time, I dug out the old manuscript and started typing
away. A few years later, I was thrilled to be able to present them each with a
copy of the finished book.</div>
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Equally thrilling was kissing my wife, Sarah, for the first
time…which, wait for it, was at a Highland Rover’s St. Paddy’s show at O’Neill’s!
Technically she wasn’t my wife at the time, but she soon would be
(coincidentally right around the time the band released a song called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sara,</i> which, even though it was about
the birth of a band member’s daughter, and missing an H, applied to my
new-found love as well: “Sara, you’re the answer to the questions my heart has
been asking…” </div>
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<br /></div>
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And then there was the wedding of my childhood friend, the
VERY Irish Mary Callahan, who married the even MORE Irish Jimmy Kelleher, and
naturally they hired the Rovers to play their reception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The highlight of the evening, and one
of my favorite memories ever, was when they played “Goodbye, Mary” – an
original song about a guy who finds out a lost love is getting married, which
while having no connection to the bride, was both funny and apropos as it sent
them on their merry way with the refrain, “I wish you all the happiness in the
world.”</div>
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<br /></div>
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And I want to wish The Highland Rovers all the happiness in
the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You guys (and gal) have
provided me, and thousands of others, with wonderful music and memories for the
past twenty years, and we owe you (and your patient families!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a debt of gratitude for sharing your
gifts with us. As much as I would like to have you play on forever, I know all
good things must come to an end. And while my heart and soul and feet will miss
you and your music, my liver is heaving a huge sigh of relief!</div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m also a
little sad that you won’t be able to teach my 5-year old how to swear, as many
a young one has learned to shout “BULLSHIT” whenever they hear, “And his fate
is still unlearned.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And god help
those who ask who Alice is! </div>
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<br /></div>
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But in all seriousness, thank you. Thank you all. Thank you,
Tommy and Jimmy and Billy. Thank you, Al and Jeff and Michael. Thank you,
Colleen and Turk and the Madden Group. Thank you, friends and fans and
families.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Thank you for the music,
the mayhem, and the memories. And thanks again for snapping my fucking tendon,
you bastards!!!!</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #252525; font-family: "times new roman";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 19px;"><i>Good night, and joy be with you all</i></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-70393759793843821812014-08-14T11:18:00.002-04:002014-08-14T11:18:33.309-04:00Moving On (With Mixed Emotions)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">I never thought
I’d feel anything but pure, unadulterated joy when I no longer had to pay for
childcare<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- but as I dropped my
son off for his last day at <a href="http://achildsgarden.net/">A Child’s Garden</a>, those were not tears of joy
seeping from my eyes. Turns out, I’m really going to miss that place. As will
my son!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 17.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Eli has been
going to <a href="http://achildsgarden.net/">A Child’s Garden </a>since he was five months old. Like most parents, when
we made the decision to put our kid in daycare, we felt guilty, thinking, “No
one can give our kid the same love and care that we can,” – but they did. So
much so that we still felt guilty, only it changed to, “We can never provide as
much fun, education, interaction as<i> they</i> can!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">On rare days off, it was a constant struggle to keep up with what he had come to expect from the day. By lunch time, <i>I </i>was the one needing the nap. And we only had the one kid! I still have no idea how they did it, but I was continually amazed at what he came home with, be it artwork, a new skill, vocabulary, even mannerisms. He wasn't just being watched, He was being raised. By people who loved and appreciated him almost as much as we did.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Each new year brought a twinge of trepidation, as every time Eli was transitioned up, we worried that the next
room’s teachers could never be as good as the previous ones. But from Miss Jane
in the baby room to Miss Kim with the toddlers and Miss ‘Sette in the 3-4-year
olds up to Mr. Ben in with the five-year olds, we were always happy and
comfortable with who was taking care of our boy. And there were MANY more, but
I don't want to start naming them, as I’m afraid to leave someone out. Suffice to
say, we loved EVERYONE!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">On the days when I picked our son up, I
always tried to sneak into the room so I could catch him in action (otherwise,
he’d drop what he was doing and rush over to give me a big hug), and I was
always impressed with what they were doing. I’d often walk in to find over a dozen
3- and 4-year olds seated around a table, conducting an elaborate science experiment
– and NO ONE was ever arguing, or messing with things they weren’t supposed to,
or clamoring over who was next. They were always fully engaged and active
learners. My wife and I are both veteran elementary school teachers, and it was
eye-opening (and a bit embarrassing) to see the staff getting pre-schoolers to
cooperate and participate with such interest, while we struggled to get our 6th
graders to simply stay in their seats! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">And
not only did they have fun, they learned! I’ll never forget bringing Eli to
visit my mom one summer afternoon when he was around three. A thunderstorm came
rolling through, and when Eli jumped at a particularly loud rumble of thunder,
my mom tried to calm him by saying, “Don’t worry, that’s just the angels
bowling.” Eli looked her dead in the eye and said, “No, it’s not. It’s the
sound of a warm and cold front coming together.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">My mom looked at me, as if to say, “Where does he get this
stuff?” But I knew right away. It was Miss ‘Sette!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">There
are so many examples of things my son learned without our assistance. Sure, we
helped, but it was at A Child’s Garden where he first started to dress himself,
use the potty, clean up after himself (still has not mastered THAT one at
home!) read and write, count money, tell time, play fair, share, show
compassion, use his manners, draw, color, feed himself, walk a balance beam,
celebrate the holidays (even ones I never knew existed), dress up, dress down,
cut, glue, pedal, meet fireman and policemen and magicians and Santa, nap,
build, climb, jump, dance, sing, and smile, smile, smile. We have an entire wall in our kitchen
cover with photographs taken at school (and the other three walls covered in
artwork created there) And in every picture, and on every drawing, is a smile.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Here’s proof, in case you don’t
believe me:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0fnRbDpVwzMHXCBJRuFU9nz7xo8O6yx2E1xU0cz5gO1GCEoxH3eSuXOj_f0ow2CGNVHenSRi6GsxOgyoavLtKVIFTTo4pxuFhlLm87iDM5VPPAml8MQbxLQfdm2GWbvuh2Xs6iUPvQA/s1600/acg.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis0fnRbDpVwzMHXCBJRuFU9nz7xo8O6yx2E1xU0cz5gO1GCEoxH3eSuXOj_f0ow2CGNVHenSRi6GsxOgyoavLtKVIFTTo4pxuFhlLm87iDM5VPPAml8MQbxLQfdm2GWbvuh2Xs6iUPvQA/s1600/acg.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Five
years of smiles and support and sincere concern for my child’s well-being. Five
years of Open Houses and family picnics and holiday celebrations. Five years of
summer camps and Back to School nights and birthday parties (OMG the birthday
parties! I’ll shed no tears if I never step foot in Bounce U again!) Five years of making multi-course lunches and making sure the backpack was packed (and ALWAYS making drop-off and pick-up on time, but only because they open early and close late!) And most importantly, five years of never having to worry about what was going on with my kid between the hours of 8-4, M-F, as I knew he was safe, happy, and engaged. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Five years
that felt like five months. And now my son is off to kindergarten. I KNOW he’s
prepared. I KNOW he’s ready. I KNOW he’s excited. And I know just who to thank
for it. A Child’s Garden.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">I
just never knew I’D be the one so sad to say goodbye </span><span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Lucida Grande"; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-65081848423427641922014-08-05T20:31:00.001-04:002014-08-05T20:42:51.032-04:00The Man Behind the Counter<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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These aren't exact numbers, but for the past twelve summers
or so, on my twice weekly bike rides to the beach, I’ve been stopping at a
little mom and pop deli to grab a sandwich on the way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s called Armon’s (pictured above), and back when I
was writing for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Connecticut Post</i>,
I submitted a column on it, but my editor said he never heard of it, and therefore,
neither had the readers. I tried explaining to him that I thought that was the
point of a newspaper: to inform readers about things they didn’t know about,
but he refused to run it (and may be one of the reasons I started this
statement with “when I used to write for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Post</i>!”)</div>
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<br /></div>
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But, as much as I hate to admit it, he was sort of right,
for on my route, I pedal past people lined up outside the popular Pickle Barrel,
go right by the wonderful Gaetano’s (and completely ignore the Subway directly
across the street) in favor of Armon’s, where there’s usually not much of a
wait. A few minutes later, I’m out the screen door, sandwich in hand, heading
for the shore.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Unfortunately, this is not my overdue review of the deli.
Nor is it a plea to check them out (but you so should!) Sadly, it’s a tribute
to the owner, who I just found out, passed away at the age of 53. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbqcOhKgqPwoepZm13SXsVCwwWgNF-OcJuqH5phjKrPS7h4A39veGU63TwZ4KSmSCn50KGVY6eXU5f-axch8aY8OLRjOnPeFxd6CY6gepheefBDBMSnCTjos8ysOGOvbx_O_I7T6mtN4/s1600/armon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbbqcOhKgqPwoepZm13SXsVCwwWgNF-OcJuqH5phjKrPS7h4A39veGU63TwZ4KSmSCn50KGVY6eXU5f-axch8aY8OLRjOnPeFxd6CY6gepheefBDBMSnCTjos8ysOGOvbx_O_I7T6mtN4/s1600/armon.jpg" /></a></div>
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Every time I set foot inside, I was greeted with a hearty,
“How are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>?” by a man I always
assumed was named Armon, who was assisted by his ever-present (and equally
pleasant) wife. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even though we
were both New York Giants fans (as evidenced by the numerous plaques and
posters on the wall) we never talked about sports. Or current events. We talked
about our kids. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I learned all about their son’s hockey skills and school
exploits. They got an earful on my dealings with a pre-teen stepdaughter (and
later newborn son) and later still that same stepdaughter all grown up and off
to college, and that same son coming in with Daddy for lunch. </div>
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Twelve years of “How are <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>’s,”
and his insistence that I put down the Diet Snapple in favor of his
hand-crafted ice tea, and Maria sneaking homemade cookies in with my sandwich
(thus necessitating the Diet Snapple!) Twelve years of school photos of their
son, Mathew, on the wall. Twelve years of simple yet sincere, interactions with
two people whose names I didn’t even know, yet I felt like I knew them well.</div>
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I didn’t make it down there this summer until around July 4<sup>th</sup>,
when I walked in, and for the first time, neither of them was there. The
counter was manned by two young “kids” (guessing in their 20’s) who, while
nice, seemed confused and out of their element. My first thought was that
“Armon” and his wife sold the place, but a closer look at the hot food case
showed her unmistakable macaroni and cheese (with shredded ham and full slices
of cheese on top) so I assumed they were just on a well deserved vacation.</div>
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Summer continued to fly by, and for a variety of reasons, my
beach trips were fewer and farther between, so I did not get a chance to stop
back in until just last week. I was meeting my family at the beach, and stopped
off to get sandwiches for me and Julianna. The same young girl was at the
counter, but I was relieved see “Armon’s” wife manning her usual spot behind
the deli case. And even though we had not seen each other in close to a year,
she immediately set out making my sandwich (ham and cheese on a Portuguese with
lettuce and mayo) while asking about my kids. I got her caught up on Eli
heading off to kindergarten and Julianna returning home from Uganda, then
mentioned how surprised I was when I walked in back in the beginning of the
month to find strangers in their spots. I was in the middle of saying how glad
I was the she and her husband didn’t sell the place, when her face went all
white and she informed me that he had passed away on July 10<sup>th</sup>.</div>
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I was shocked and saddened. I felt horrible, and told her
so. Adding that I wanted to come around and give her a hug, but I was all
sweaty from my bike ride. She went on to say that he was diagnosed with cancer
back in January, and six months later…</div>
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I left heavy-hearted. Even though it was a bright sunny day,
I pedaled the rest of the way to the beach in a fog. Such a nice man. So
energetic and full of life. Someone I had little in common with, and knew very
little about, but someone who added a little something to my day. And not just
me. He made everyone who walked through his door happy, with his homemade iced
tea and Giants memorabilia and “Sure, sure…” in response to every request.
People appreciated his work ethic, and refusal to take an extra single, as he
always insisted on rounding down the change. And on a more subtle level, I’m
sure customers recognized the lovely relationship he had with his wife. I know
it can’t be easy working with your spouse (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">every</i>
day, that is! Love you, Honey!) but you could see the love and respect they had
for each other. And suddenly he was gone. And I felt terrible.</div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">When I got home,
I looked up his obituary, and learned that “Armon” was actually named </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: Times; mso-bidi-font-size: 16.0pt;">Asadollah Khorasani,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
moved here from Iran (I sort of thought he was Greek) and was the former owner
of Mr. T’s. I have no idea where the name Armon came from, as he was “Ozzie” to
his friends. And while I was not fortunate enough to call him friend (or Ozzie,
for that matter!) I am honored to have made his acquaintance, and greatly
saddened by his passing. </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-27371968087031421452014-03-09T21:07:00.004-04:002014-03-09T21:17:07.734-04:00A Guest Blog from Uncle John<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<i>The following story is from the fabulous Uncle John, who has many more where this came from, so please encourage him with your likes, shares, and comments! To the best of my knowledge, what you are about to read is 100% true...</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSZ53PV7UhTcwI6m9zjbuYIWUnMTNdAWCLhGSqZZwjkblu3mXM4AIHGS0olzTXoIQ4UYLvLidhcOLDb4_DWHkaJM-9DjaWJ5VHbbs0E7n2dwPIUaJG7UySdDEI1DWumHLMEFLJHXOXA9I/s1600/SuperStock_4070-4001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSZ53PV7UhTcwI6m9zjbuYIWUnMTNdAWCLhGSqZZwjkblu3mXM4AIHGS0olzTXoIQ4UYLvLidhcOLDb4_DWHkaJM-9DjaWJ5VHbbs0E7n2dwPIUaJG7UySdDEI1DWumHLMEFLJHXOXA9I/s1600/SuperStock_4070-4001.jpg" height="320" width="211" /></a></div>
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<b><br /></b></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Kiwi the Siberian Husky in Heat </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>- John Cribbins</b></div>
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I don’t know if you ever experienced living with a dog when
she is “in heat.” I will spare you the physical details, but is not pleasant.
Kiwi, our Siberian husky, was in heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I walked out of the house one morning, on my way to drive to college,
and to my astonishment, there had to be at least 15, or even 20, dogs stalking
our house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These dogs must have
come from a 5-mile radius.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was
absolutely amazing that even though Kiwi was an “in-door” dog, that her smell
could attract animals from such a distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Needless to say, this was a nuisance and we were so afraid
that Kiwi would get out, or those dogs would get in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some big male dogs are even known to jump through plate
glass windows to get at a female dog in heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The worst part is that the family that lives with the
dog can pick up the scent on their clothes and the male dogs start to follow
you around like you are the female dog, especially if the dog has poor vision.</div>
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It was around the 3<sup>rd</sup> day of our putting up with these
male dogs, and I was walking to my car and I thought wow,that is the BIGGEST
St. Bernard that I have ever seen!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wow, what an enormous dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It only took an instant, and all of the sudden this huge animal stood up
facing me with one huge paw on one shoulder and his other huge paw on my other
shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His paws were the size
of grapefruits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at me
“eye to eye.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the dog was not
taller than me on his hind legs, he was at least close to my height and I can
say he definitely weighed a lot more than me as he almost knocked me over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><u>And then I realized</u></b>…there was no
doubt in my mind; that dog had lust in his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t describe the look the dog had in his eyes other than
to say that, “once you see it, you know it” regardless of the species.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I never saw anything like it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I looked down and was aghast at this
enormous pink item pointing and throbbing right towards me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My whole life flashed through my mind
like a near death experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was at that point that I started screaming at the top of my lungs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mother came to the door and
screamed to me, “Push him away, push him away!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt for sure that I was moments away from being “deflowered” right in front of my Mother, on Maltby Street,
in broad daylight.</div>
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With an adrenalin rush of super strength, or perhaps the
distraction of Mother screaming, I grabbed both of his paws with my hands and
pushed him away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran ran
ran…with Mother yelling, “Run, John! Run, John! Run!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I slammed the house door and locked it tight. I peeked out
the window from beneath the curtain, and there I was again, eye to eye and
panicked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This pooch meant
business.</div>
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For the next week (or so), the routine was for me to stand
at the front door window, and Mother would stand at the living room window as a
“look-out”, Mother would yell “coast is clear, run John run…run John run”…and I
would run out to the car.</div>
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Both Kiwi and I were both able to keep our virginity for the
next 14 days.</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-32072413280428330522014-02-22T11:16:00.000-05:002014-02-22T14:31:30.579-05:00An Impromptu Lecture<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
It started as a simple question from a student. More of a
complaint, really. I had just given the class a quick preview of the new state
assessment that would be taking the place of the CMT, and a boy raised his hand
and asked, “Why does it have to be so much harder?”</div>
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And rather than go on with the day’s planned lesson, I decided to tell him...</div>
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“The new test is so much harder because, frankly, life is
getting harder. And I don’t mean the stuff adults are always telling you
about growing up and increased responsibility. I’m talking about how you will
actually live your life and earn a living. In a crazy way, all the things that seem to make life
easier will actually make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your</i> lives
harder, because it is going to be that much more difficult to stand out from
the crowd. </div>
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You guys spent your first few years of school under <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No Child Left Behind</i>, a giant umbrella, or safety net, where the goal was
to ensure that all children received the same education and equal opportunity
to succeed. Now it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reach for the Top</i>,
and common sense will tell you, there’s not enough room for everyone at the
top, so some of you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">will</i> be left
behind. </div>
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My son is starting kindergarten in the fall. He’ll be five. We
had to bring him to his school the other day to be evaluated. They wanted to
make sure he would be ready for kindergarten. When I was his age, we were
“ready” for kindergarten because our mothers were ready to be done with us! We spent the first
26 days learning the alphabet. Literally an entire day dedicated to each letter.
Well, not really an entire day, as we had morning snack, and nap, and recess. Plus
there was lunch, and “Exploration Time,” and music. We sat on little rugs to
look at books (because we would not be able to read them until First Grade) and
practiced our manners. We glued and glittered and cut and colored. We fought
over who would get picked to wheel the little wagon down to the cafeteria to
bring back the morning milk. </div>
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By the end of the year, we were expected to know the letters
of the alphabet, the colors of the rainbow, some basic shapes, and how to count to
ten. Some of the smarter kids (like me!) might also leave able to write their
first names, with these huge red pencils, and maybe read a few sight words.</div>
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At my son’s evaluation, he was expected to know<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>all those things before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">starting </i>kindergarten. Meaning his class
will not be spending the first 26 days learning the alphabet, or using their
fingers to count to ten. When they sit on their little carpet squares, it will
be to READ, and not just look at the pictures. When he colors an apple, it
won’t be to learn that apples are red and start with the letter A (and make the
a sound) – it will be to solve a math problem. And in order to accomplish all
that, he probably won’t be spending much time napping, or playing, or dressing up, or
exploring. He might have to do a research paper on explorers, but that’s about
it.</div>
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So, to keep answering your question, the test is so much
harder because kindergarten has gotten harder. Making First Grade that much
harder, and so on. The bar has been lifted. The expectations have been raised.
The workload has increased. </div>
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<br /></div>
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And speaking of work, my teachers used to threaten us that
if we didn’t do well in school, we’d wind up flipping burgers or hanging off
the back of a garbage truck. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
now, people feel lucky to have such jobs – if they even exist anymore!</div>
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Think about it In your lifetime - what, maybe two years ago? A
garbage truck would pull up at the curb, and two guys would jump off the back
and empty the cans. The guy in the passenger seat would let the guy driving
know when they were done, and the truck would pull away and head for the next
house. </div>
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Now, a single driver in an automated truck drives up so a
robot arm can lift the single oversized can and dump it in the back. That’s
three guys out of a job. For just that one truck, mind you. Three less jobs for
every single new truck. And the new trucks themselves are faster and more
efficient, so there are less off them, meaning fewer mechanics needed to fix
them. And when they dump the load at the transfer station, the garbage has
already been presorted, thanks to you people with your blue recycling bins, so
there’s no one getting paid to sort the trash either. </div>
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As far as flipping burgers, have you noticed that no one
fills soda anymore? Well, if you go inside, you’re handed a cup and have to do
it yourself. But at the drive-thru, there’s a nifty machine that does it
automatically. Pretty cool right? Except at one time, that was a person’s job.
And those cool touch screens at Sonic? (Murmured agreement) Well, thanks to
them, now there’s no need to pay someone to take your order, it goes directly
to the guy who prepares your order. And if you think the guys who invented that
nifty soda-filling machine and the cool order-taking machine aren’t busy
working on an awesome burger-flipping machine, you’re simply not thinking.</div>
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Ant that's the problem. The jobs waiting for you when you graduate high
school, and hopefully college, are going to be jobs that require the sort of thinking and skills that machines have not yet mastered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And since they’ve pretty much taken over all the basic tasks
that schools used to consider essential parts of the curriculum, we’ve got to
start teaching you how to think, rather than telling you stuff to know. And to
continue answering your question, that’s why the test is so much harder. </div>
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Right now, when I ask a question you don’t know the answer
to, I get blank looks and empty lines. Maybe the occasional “IDK” -<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> if</i> I’m lucky. But you need to realize
that just because you don’t know the answer does not mean you are incapable of
figuring it out. And I don’t mean by Googling it! The teachers that complain
about smart phones in the classroom because kids can use them to cheat have it
all wrong. If they’re asking you questions that you can Google, they’re not
teaching you how to think. They’re telling you stuff to know. Unless it’s some
pop quiz to make sure you did the night’s reading or studying, the real purpose
of asking questions is to see how you go about figuring them out. And a lot of
the time, it will be trial and error. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s right there in the name of the strategy: Trial and
Error. You must try <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> fail. Not try
TO fail, all you smiling right now. Nor is it saying you will try, only to
fail. It means try. And maybe fail. And then try again. And then repeat until you get
it right. But too many of you are stopping before you even start, and the rest of
you quitting after the first attempt. You have got to learn to stick with it.
You need persistence. This isn’t bomb defusing school. If you make a mistake,
you will survive. And even better, you get a chance to do it again! It’s like a
video game. Reset and try again – which, by the way, you all are also much too quick
to give up on. You try for all of three minute to beat Level Seven before you
give up and start tapping in cheat codes or watching walk-throughs on YouTube.
I don’t get it. You spend 60 bucks on a game that’s meant to give you hours of
entertainment, but instead, you’d rather spend another 15 bucks on a glossy
guide so you can “beat” it in 45 minutes. Where’s the fun in that? And where’s the
sense of satisfaction? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, to finally finish answering the question, maybe the real
reason the test seems so much harder is because you guys are that much weaker. (Disgruntled murmurs) Relax, it’s not entirely your fault. Your coaches and teachers started it by
encouraging you to feel good about good hustle or strong effort (code words
for, “You failed!”) Your parents continued it by framing your Participation
Certificates and displaying your Participant trophies (basically showing the
world that they’re proud of their loser.) And you guys allowed it. You bought into
it. You let yourself believe that coming in 2<sup>nd</sup>, or 473<sup>rd</sup>
, were equally commendable. Even worse, some of you expect to be rewarded for
simply showing up, and can’t understand how something you did could possibly be
wrong. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure, you can’t (and shouldn’t) win ‘em all, but when you
don’t, you shouldn’t be celebrated for it. I’m not saying you should be
punished or put down, either, just that losing shouldn’t feel good. You guys
have been watching the Olympics; have to seen the looks on some of the Silver
and Bronze medalists' faces? Some are crying because they are “only” the second
or third best…in THE ENTIRE WORLD! To most people, just being there is an
amazing achievement. But to them, second best, again, IN THE ENTIRE WORLD, is a
failure. Yet you guys have been trained to expect cheers and praise simply for
trying. And not even trying your best. Just trying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And most of the time, only once – which to me is the most
trying! (Confused murmurs) Trying has more than one meaning, look it up!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I’ve talked for the entire period, making you even
less prepared for that much harder test, I should wrap things up. I
know some might see this as a wasted period, while others might be feeling like
they just got away with doing nothing for the past 50 minutes! And maybe
there’s a few of you who found some value in what I had to say. But either way,
I’m sure we can all agree that a question was asked, and I tried to answer it…repeatedly!
So my question to you is, what will you do with the answer?"</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-7121924343085338082014-02-15T10:04:00.001-05:002014-02-15T10:05:00.819-05:00The Politics of Mo<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uNfbR2C34LlrT4wyfj5rOS06wzZJAR_lIklXfzDI74Cxfjicx8VErIyI3Or4pauNNfWvYdFZ9BFz1Yr52MopxRlkMKggoYZ_Ipde-lHsVumN006f2ndG5GYjZeQEgDxhDAQzkXTYek0/s1600/6a00e54ffe2ad38833013481f8a84c970c-400wi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4uNfbR2C34LlrT4wyfj5rOS06wzZJAR_lIklXfzDI74Cxfjicx8VErIyI3Or4pauNNfWvYdFZ9BFz1Yr52MopxRlkMKggoYZ_Ipde-lHsVumN006f2ndG5GYjZeQEgDxhDAQzkXTYek0/s1600/6a00e54ffe2ad38833013481f8a84c970c-400wi.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
My 4-year old was just telling me the exciting story about
how he ended up with a particular Hershey Kiss. He had received a bagful of
them for Valentine’s Day, all wrapped in festive colored foil, and after eating
a half-dozen or so, was about to get cut off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“Mommy said I could only have one
more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> for the whole entire <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">day</i>,” he told me, “and guess which one I
chose?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
purple one?” I guessed, seeing as it was still in his hand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,”
he said, like I was an idiot. “I picked Mo! I did Eeny Meeny Miny Mo – and
Mommy says you can choose Mo<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> or</i> the
next one, so I chose Mo because I wanted the purple one!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then
why didn’t you just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pick </i>the purple
one?” I asked. “Why leave it to chance?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who’s
Chance?” he wanted to know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was too early in the morning to explain (Yes, I said
morning. Don’t judge me.) Besides, he had gotten <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me </i>thinking about the power of Mo. When it comes down to the
Final Two, is Mo the winner or the runner up? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m pretty sure as kids, we had to declare our position <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i> putting our “potatoes” in. And it
wasn’t just Eeny Meeny Miney Mo. We had a wealth of rhymes to help us make
life’s biggest decision, namely, “Who would be It?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But before we determined that (after we decided on what game
to play, of course) we first had to figure out who was in charge. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Typically, the first to shout, “King sayer, naysayer, no
higher!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>got to take control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their first official act was to inform
the group whether we’d be using “potatoes” (our hands) or “puppies” (feet).
Then we’d circle up, stick out our fists or feet, and wait for the King to
decide which rhyme to start with.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like I said, we had a bunch of them. From the babyish, “<i>One
potato, two potato, three potato, four! Five potato, six, potato, seven potato,
more! Out goes Y…O…U!</i>” to the slightly more mature, “<i>Ink-a-dink, a bottle of
ink. The cork fell out and YOU stink!</i>” to the PG-13, “<i>My mother and your mother
were hanging out clothes. My mother punched your mother right in the nose! What
color was the blood?</i>” – at this point, the person whose potato or puppy was
last touched had to name a color – and here’s where it paid to be smart, as one
could quickly count up the number of people still left in, and then choose a
color, that when spelled out, would result in them getting out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Problem was, a sharp King could thwart
your plans by changing the wording. Instead of “<i>B…L…U…E….spells blue, and out
goes Y…O…U!</i>” They might go with, “<i>B…L…U….E….spells blue, and you…are…OUT!” </i><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things really got ugly when it got down to the final two,
especially if the King was one of them, as there was nothing more embarrassing
than being the one in charge and winding up It. But even if the King was safely
out, complications still arose based on presumed favoritism between the King
and one of the remaining two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Either way, Eeny Meeny Miny Mo was the go-to rhyme to deliver the
knockout blow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You would think that such a simple and silly song would make
for a clean and clear decision, but you would be wrong!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, whether it was between the King and another kid, or just
two kids, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">where </i>the King started (his
own potato/puppy, or one of the kid’s) was a hotly contested debate. We all
knew that when it came down to two, whoever’s fist or foot was touched first
would also be the one to be touched last, and therefore out and not It, so a
wise King would always try to start with himself. But if the group balked at
this, which we often did, because like I said, there’s nothing more
embarrassing than a King being It, he or she had to resort to the ambiguity of
Mo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it came down to that finally syllable, the kid whose
fist was last touched would thrust it in the air and exclaim, “Not It!” But a
cagey King could try to convince the crowd that Mo meant the kid <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>It.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And depending on the popularity of the kid, and King, we’d
side one way or the other. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, after all the arguments, negotiations, and
disagreements had been resolved, we’d play the game. Or, more likely, get
called in for dinner or bed, as we usually wasted all of our time picking who
was It. Clearly, it would have been more expedient to just nominate the kid we
didn’t like as It, but that wouldn’t be “fair” so we let Chance decide….with a
little help from Mo! </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-55081395805268002792014-02-04T18:46:00.001-05:002014-02-04T18:53:21.751-05:00Take a Tip from Me<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfgNLbRD0gxfnRAMDiuhxzdz3VPyFKqhS6F2HxkTFpD8eK1ELFRuOpocFk-tC9BxX5ZgSmUZflebU8R3hXpeN6aUG-ZzTbKOSQm7LO9jsnNVpbVMOEwAtRmvXF3beHI4XGvJwepE8lYQ/s1600/Tips.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPfgNLbRD0gxfnRAMDiuhxzdz3VPyFKqhS6F2HxkTFpD8eK1ELFRuOpocFk-tC9BxX5ZgSmUZflebU8R3hXpeN6aUG-ZzTbKOSQm7LO9jsnNVpbVMOEwAtRmvXF3beHI4XGvJwepE8lYQ/s1600/Tips.jpg" height="320" width="214" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
As a former waiter, and someone who eats (and drinks) out a
LOT, I consider myself to be a fairly good tipper. Typically, I leave at least 20% for
good service, but even the worst, most incompetent, cigarette stinking, drink
spilling, order fucking upping servers still get 15%. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And not only do I tip well, I behave well. I clean up after
my kid, treat the servers with respect, rarely complain about the food, and
never ask for water unless I plan to drink it! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My medium-rare steak comes out well done? I eat it. My fish
comes out as chicken? I eat it. My Sierra Nevada comes out as Miller Lite
because the keg kicked and the bartender’s too busy to change it? I’ll drink
it. And then lie to the server and say everything is fine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I only have one rule: If the waiter adds the automatic 18%,
they GET the 18% and not a penny more.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>To me, it’s an insult. Back when I was a server, I only used the
automatic gratuity when I was 100% certain I was going to get shafted on the
tip. Not due to poor service, mind you, but because the person paying was a tool.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
An experienced server can quickly size up a party. There are
groups who are very demanding and give you a run for your money, but, you can
tell that at the end, they will give you <i>your</i> money. Unfortunately, there are
others who are equally demanding, and just give off a vibe that says, you’re
here to serve us, and there will be no quid pro quo. Problem is, with large
groups, it’s not always easy to tell who’s picking up the tab So, to me, adding
the 18% was always a gamble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And even
though we’re only talking about a few percentage points, at the end of the
shift, they add up, so it was a risk I did not often take. Plus, I like to give people the benefit of the doubt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is why, when I get auto-gratuitied, I take it personally. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feel judged. I stare at the line item
and think, do I look cheap? Were my Groupons sticking out? Was I a tool? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was it something The Warners did? But rather than ask,
I simply sign the check and snap it shut, leaving them nothing more than what they bargained for. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I want to leave a note and let them
know that had they taken a chance on me, they would have made an extra five
bucks. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or, more accurately, an extra $5.23, as I have an odd habit
of making every check an even number. If the bill comes to $89.15, I leave a tip
for $20.85 to make it an even $110.00, This drives my wife crazy for some
reason (and not just because of her poor math skills)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- I think she thinks they end up going home with a pocket
full of change, but I know that at the end of the night, the tips get rounded
to the nearest dollar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of dollars, the dollar and change I leave for EVERY
Dunkin’ Donuts transaction usually results in a 70% tip. I get a medium hot
chocolate for $2.33, hand the drive-thru person a $5, and ask for a dollar
back. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, the poor kid at
McDonald’s gets shit. Why is that? Why do we tip coffee pourers, but not burger
flippers?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why do we tip the people
who cut our hair, but not the ones who fix our brakes?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taxi drivers get tipped, but bus
drivers get exact change. We tell the guy at the pretzel cart to<i> keep</i> the
change, but when we buy one at the Kwik-E-Mart, we wait for our 37 cents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try to tip a cop, and you can get
arrested for offering a bribe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
you’re a bad person if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don’t</i> put
money in the fireman’s boot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Crazy, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe we should take a lesson from Mr. Pink and not tip
anyone. Or, we could start tipping everyone. Or, what if we only tip those who don’t get
paid, yet still provide a service? Like, say, a blogger, for instance! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->
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Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-80553638349326732532014-01-15T19:14:00.002-05:002014-01-15T19:18:14.340-05:00Kicking the Can<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhdBtEl1P4b6TnZrl66e6lzGDpNzfj-yzpVuVPABZ4exRRfmajlPJadvzZo2WKr2zYcw9BKEBSxxYUm3ZBQ8MG3tMHJgoaf_gBPvOL5fywGVehTG1tc-uZ_woZqKKyNzikDAmDpXfPLc/s1600/we-can-do-it-j-howard-miller1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilhdBtEl1P4b6TnZrl66e6lzGDpNzfj-yzpVuVPABZ4exRRfmajlPJadvzZo2WKr2zYcw9BKEBSxxYUm3ZBQ8MG3tMHJgoaf_gBPvOL5fywGVehTG1tc-uZ_woZqKKyNzikDAmDpXfPLc/s1600/we-can-do-it-j-howard-miller1.jpg" height="320" width="247" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
One would not expect the
replacement of a kitchen garbage can to be a difficult task – but – we’re four <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">years</i> into the process and we’re still
not happy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It all started when we moved, and my
wife declared that a new house required a new can, so we ditched our old
reliable one* and bought a similar, but, we soon learned, slightly inferior,
replacement. First of all, it was rectangular, instead of oval, so the bags
were a tighter fit. And it had a “sticky” latch that didn’t always catch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, other than that, the new can served
us fairly well for several years. Until my wife decided that it was too dirty
on the inside and we needed another one.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried
explaining that it was a garbage can, and getting dirty was sort of the
point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not to mention I’m the ONLY
one to see the inside of it, as the last time she took the garbage out will be the
first time. But, apparently it’s not my kitchen. Plus, knowing my wife, she was
probably worried that at our next party, some helpful guest might offer to take
the garbage out and be aghast at the unsightly stained interior. Personally, I
can’t think of any of our friends and relatives who would be upset or offended
by the sight of garbage in our garbage can – but, if you’re out there, I should
probably inform you that we also have water in our pool and salt on our
pretzels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oh, and chances are good
that there’s dust in our Dustbuster.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But the chances were equally bad that
I would win this argument, so I bought a new one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
This one lasted two months. And it
SUCKED. Literally! It was 13.2 gallons, but all kitchen bags are 13 gallons, so
the bags dangled in the can and would collapse into it once the weight of the
trash exceeded one pound. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plus, the
fit was too tight and bags tore when we tried to stretch them around the rim. But
the worst part was, once I finally managed to install a bag, it always left an
air pocket that had to be released after throwing something out, otherwise the
bag would balloon in at the top and appear full. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
It’s hard admitting the hatred I
felt toward such an innocuous and inanimate object, but next to the cat, that
garbage can was the most despised thing in the house. Thankfully, the press to
open latch soon snapped off and left the can permanently open, displaying all of
our garbage to any passing guest - which, truth be told, seemed to me like
poetic justice for ditching the too dirty one. My wife felt otherwise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
In fact, she blamed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> for bringing it home, and insisted
that this time, she’d pick one out. <a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=6790554669215354139" name="_GoBack"></a>I watched as she
wandered through the aisles like Goldilocks. This one was too big. That one,
too small.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One was just right,
except for the color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another
would have been fine, if not for step-on feature, which for some unspecified
reason, she does not like. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
She settled on one with a
swing-top, and after two weeks of using it, I have to say…I hate it even more
than the last one! It has ALL of the bad points described above, with the added
bonus of not staying open, so when I go to peel a cucumber (a daily occurrence
for my son’s lunch) or scrape a dish, I have to stick my arm<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(and most of the cucumber) IN to the
garbage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Call me crazy, but I
think that’s a lot grosser than a few stains hiding under the bag. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
But what do I know? It’s not my
kitchen!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<o:p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QQv1zhs-DBWsKAMoqUYQlbqCC0KulxxXKNJVAk_62luilKnb-iTVc9UgsZ9Paaxbgq4zG_Diaz-iHLO3iuOEoiLeHPyIxcemuTixAF0itCCcHFVxmzsQvk6-UKvTXibDQqWdWf15inI/s1600/PC200898.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_QQv1zhs-DBWsKAMoqUYQlbqCC0KulxxXKNJVAk_62luilKnb-iTVc9UgsZ9Paaxbgq4zG_Diaz-iHLO3iuOEoiLeHPyIxcemuTixAF0itCCcHFVxmzsQvk6-UKvTXibDQqWdWf15inI/s1600/PC200898.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There he is, middle left corner. Had I known how much<br />
I'd miss him, I would have taken a better picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
* They say you never forget your first, and in this case,
it’s true. It was white, plastic, and about waist high. Kitchen-size garbage
cans fit snug and perfect. It had a press to open lid that popped up reliably
at the touch of a finger, and snapped shut with a gentle push. I cost all of
$18 and served us well for many years. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-86653931547804018202013-12-30T21:24:00.000-05:002013-12-30T21:24:04.855-05:00Easy as Falling Off a Blog<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<br />
How long has it been since my last blog post? So long, the
Giants had yet to play<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(and lose)
their first game. So long, two full seasons have come and gone. So long, my
stepdaughter graduated high school and finished her first semester at Seton
Hall. And so long, I needed the site host to send me a password reminder to
access my own blog! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what’s 6 months in the grand scheme of things?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Women who conceived the last time I
posted (not that there’s a connection) are still pregnant. The high-yield bank
CD’s you purchased are still maturing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And people are STILL listening to Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” – so really,
what’s the big deal?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can pick
up right where we left off…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which was with me crying like a little titty baby at
Julianna’s awards ceremony. Since then, I have only cried once (at the end of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Toy Story 3</i>) and she has not won any
other awards, unless you count Starbucks Rewards. As for the other kid, he
graduated to a “big boy” bed and continued to make us laugh at his antics and wisdom,
and still refused to try mashed potatoes. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCxsKaghENs3bghJlDfDYyRpQcagR5zoERdtVxfmGFisei1YtUe11u7ElVYmn1NTA8qIwHUCnH1_cc9WfLWtp11HveG4oNIQb4-dyi-A6LtN9EJtAqzz8iLdqqo6ABuL8F1OVWNCJTI4/s1600/bed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCxsKaghENs3bghJlDfDYyRpQcagR5zoERdtVxfmGFisei1YtUe11u7ElVYmn1NTA8qIwHUCnH1_cc9WfLWtp11HveG4oNIQb4-dyi-A6LtN9EJtAqzz8iLdqqo6ABuL8F1OVWNCJTI4/s320/bed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Speaking of which, Thanksgiving was yummy. Halloween was
fun. Christmas was wonderful. Our Labor Day picnic was a great success - in
fact, only yesterday, I found a stray cooler in the yard with about a dozen
beers frozen in the ice like little mastadons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And Renee continued to strike, this time filling my
yard with red Solo cup holiday sculptures. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfie6OB040jsfT8EnMyg5NL38usZ72OQdrvTgs7PpogGnyDUCDpTOO3pbibr86M8KpE1w6EXgnVzNg3PWn613d7CUU_n2T_gQpTPXdxqSpyNdeJAfTsX_WizngmI7-JQFszmYXetyTrMs/s1600/cups.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfie6OB040jsfT8EnMyg5NL38usZ72OQdrvTgs7PpogGnyDUCDpTOO3pbibr86M8KpE1w6EXgnVzNg3PWn613d7CUU_n2T_gQpTPXdxqSpyNdeJAfTsX_WizngmI7-JQFszmYXetyTrMs/s320/cups.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Other than that, it’s been business as (un)usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I still enjoy my job, hate my cat, and
love my wife. I rode lots of miles on my bike, and damaged many body parts in
the process. I made the final payment on our ridiculously expensive couch, but
then bought a ludicrously overpriced mattress set. I had to say goodbye to some
really great people, but also got to meet some pretty good ones as well. Especially at the Mikula wedding in Aruba! But basically, life went on, whether I blogged about it or not.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHu26seVoQXxatK5JFeaEpN-VpFw5mp5CksT9Fyj-ruEMNd8VIcwEYii5CsfNLi_jZY9regw3zeKhKEqhJ99EhfSYgcLau5frknL4MOw9-sf95sJZGnU9MTZq0w7s4RxrZ9t9imM0eLrg/s1600/aruba.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHu26seVoQXxatK5JFeaEpN-VpFw5mp5CksT9Fyj-ruEMNd8VIcwEYii5CsfNLi_jZY9regw3zeKhKEqhJ99EhfSYgcLau5frknL4MOw9-sf95sJZGnU9MTZq0w7s4RxrZ9t9imM0eLrg/s320/aruba.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I’m back. But I’m not making any promises. At least not
about blogging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Though I AM going
to use this forum to declare my resolutions for 2014. Which are…drumroll please….</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Finish two books (whether that mean writing them
or reading them, only time will tell!)</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->See more live music! Prince was just in the area
for three straight nights, and while we talked about seeing him, that was it.
I’ve got friends, who as I type, are driving 1200 miles to see a mid-level jam
band, yet I couldn’t even make the effort to head upstate to see a legend?
Lame.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Share more of my heart (and spleen!) with others</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Cambria; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">4.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><!--[endif]-->Lose ten pounds by Spring (and if I don’t, I will
PAY $10 to every person who comments below!) </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, there you have it. 6 months summed up in six paragraphs.
I’m sure I missed a lot, but I'm pretty sure I enjoyed it all!</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-75998786844953566822013-06-05T21:58:00.002-04:002013-06-06T08:21:51.368-04:00Past Presents<!--StartFragment-->
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4KGLwNYFg951gniEGYWzzlbC4qrV92Y876PZCw61E48PeFAqq8s7DgGNtUHtSK9GHjoJfwdwkXO3RMWQqInGOvV1foHS_NC3GUvuzMgi2e6MHeZ-PGd0vLaZYSst03Y22W7Aia13ULo/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4KGLwNYFg951gniEGYWzzlbC4qrV92Y876PZCw61E48PeFAqq8s7DgGNtUHtSK9GHjoJfwdwkXO3RMWQqInGOvV1foHS_NC3GUvuzMgi2e6MHeZ-PGd0vLaZYSst03Y22W7Aia13ULo/s1600/images.jpeg" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Last night was Shelton High’s
Scholarship and Awards Ceremony, where my stepdaughter, Julianna, received a
nice award from the teacher’s union.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I went, but as proud as I was of her, it wasn’t something I was looking
forward to doing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As I told my
4-year old son earlier in the day when he asked why <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> couldn’t go, there’s nothing fun about sitting still for two
hours and clapping until you get calluses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But, as it turned out, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> sort of fun. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I enjoyed hearing the kids whooping and
hollering for their friends and watching them playfully interact with their
administrators.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got a kick out
of seeing kids I had last seen as members of Julianna’s Girl Scout troop or
soccer team all grown up and ready to graduate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And speaking of grown-ups, I appreciated the chance to catch
up with now literally old friends who were there to support <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their </i>children. Strange as it sounds,
even though I know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m </i>getting older,
the people I haven’t seen in the 20 years since graduating high school exist in
a sort of time capsule in my mind, so when I see that they too have thinner
hairlines and thicker waist lines, it always takes me by surprise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Even more surprising was I how
emotional I was. From the moment I sat down, there was a lump in my
throat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I went there expecting to
be bored to tears, but by the time we got through the student-led versions of
the Pledge of Allegiance and Star-Spangled Banner, my eyes were welling up for
a different reason. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I
couldn’t let anyone know I was apparently getting my period <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- especially with my wife’s ex-husband
sitting right next to me <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- so I
choked back the tears the best I could, while trying to figure out where the
hell they were coming from! Not that I’m embarrassed by emotions, mind you. I
have no problem crying in public when there’s a REASON for crying, like at a
funeral. Or a Mets game. But this was not an emotional event. Maybe if I was
projecting down the road to Julianna’s future, or regretting my own high school
experience, that would explain it. But I wasn’t. I was just sitting there,
listening to the speaker read the requirements for each award and then clapping
as he named each recipient.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
exactly the type of stuff that tugs at one’s heartstrings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But tug it did. It wasn’t until
about midway through the ceremony that I figured out what it was pulling from me. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Each award had a sponsor, such
as the Drama Club, P.T.A., and The Historical Society. There were some from
local businesses and dignitaries, former teachers and administrators, and
veteran’s groups and senior centers. And then there were those from
individuals, mostly in honor of people who had passed away. Many of whom I had
known. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I won’t go into them all, but there
was the Joseph D’Agostino Jr. Memorial Award, given in honor of a former
classmate who had died in a terrible car accident when he was only 23. There
was the Mary Ellen Hames Dellacato Memorial Scholarship Award, given in memory
of a girl who died much too young from Lupus. And there were two Neil Craig
Heilweil Memorial Awards that honored a friend of mine who died just weeks
before graduation from some crazy form of meningitis. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">These three people represented
the broad spectrum of high school life. Joe was the tough guy/cool kid, Mary Ellen
the pretty and popular cheerleader, and Neil was…well, Neil was Neil! He
occupied a clique all of his own, but people gravitated toward him. The illegal
scavenger hunt he organized is the stuff of legend and is still talked about
over 20 years later. And thanks to these awards and scholarships, strangers are
now talking about them and benefitting from their all too short lives. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So I guess while my brain was
busy paying attention to the “action” on stage, my heart was quietly aching
back to the past. The sight of all those bright and beautiful young people
smiling in the shadows of those who came (and left) before them was blurring my
vision with tears. The thought that Joe and Neil have been dead longer than
they were alive was putting that lump in my throat. But the hope and excitement
and friendship and zest for life exhibited by all the teens in the room
balanced it all out – but made it even harder to see and swallow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the kids were exiting the auditorium, I made a point to
track down the young man who won one of the Neil Heilweil awards. I grasped his
shoulder and managed say, “Congratulations. I went to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this </i>school with Neil. He was a great guy…” before I got choked up.
He thanked me, said a few polite words, and then rejoined his friends. But had
I been able to keep it together, I would have commended him for his very
Neil-like move on stage. You see, for the first 30 or so awards that were
handed out, the recipients accepted their envelopes and shook the hand of the
Dean of Students and then strode right past the half-dozen dignitaries sitting
on stage. But when this young man went up to get his Neil Heilweil award, he
took the time to shake EVERY hand on stage. And the BEAUTIFUL part of it was,
for the rest of the night, all the other winners followed suit and did the same
thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Without even trying, this young
man found the perfect way to honor the memory of another young man he had never
met.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Other than organizing that
infamous scavenger hunt, Neil was not someone I would consider a Leader, but he
had many followers and admirers. And still does to this day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So even though I entered that auditorium prepared to be
bored, and spent most of the evening battling my emotions, I managed to leave feeling
good, as I could tell that this group of kids had a LOT in common with the
namesakes of their awards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is </i>short, but life goes on….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6790554669215354139.post-54155442250976668552013-05-07T22:50:00.002-04:002013-05-07T22:50:45.434-04:00Deflowered BEFORE the Prom<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNC5IpUASkr9NTcBgFGJtKHOnfPhqTLZ88HahhjQwBJIVAjXah2ZpuYr0Wp3zmUssqzCyd2JEoxQfVcsegro69MqK_BPDsJ-WWZYJwCm8pmCdlY3sWM2Gr-B7jsc5_y-5nOVml5wbWO5I/s1600/article-new-intro-modal-ehow-images-a06-ci-b9-dead-flower-centerpiece-ideas-1.1-800x800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNC5IpUASkr9NTcBgFGJtKHOnfPhqTLZ88HahhjQwBJIVAjXah2ZpuYr0Wp3zmUssqzCyd2JEoxQfVcsegro69MqK_BPDsJ-WWZYJwCm8pmCdlY3sWM2Gr-B7jsc5_y-5nOVml5wbWO5I/s320/article-new-intro-modal-ehow-images-a06-ci-b9-dead-flower-centerpiece-ideas-1.1-800x800.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></i>
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
following is a true story. But to protect the identities of the not-so innocent
(and to reflect the late 80’s setting) I’m telling it Bon Jovi style, meaning: “It’s
all the same. Only the names have changed…”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
was the night of the Senior Prom, and my friend, Ro…err, I mean Ralph, and his
girlfriend, umm, Muffy, and myself were on our way to pick up my date, uh,
Julia Roberts. It was around 5:30 in the afternoon, and apparently posing for
pictures at parents’ houses and renting limos were not yet part of the scene –
or maybe they just weren’t part of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our </i>scene
– because our pre-Prom preparations involved stashing a cooler in the back of
my Chevette and smoking a joint on the way to my girlfriend’s house.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Save
some for Julia,” Muffy warned, as I was about to take my third hit. “Unless
Brad comes through for us, that’s all we’ve got left.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Really?”
I coughed, tamping out the joint, before tucking it into an empty Tic Tac
container that I stashed in my tuxedo’s inside pocket. “How much did you tell
him?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Just
a dime,” Ralph said. “And you’re gonna have to cover it. I spent the last of my
money on the beer. That hotel really wiped me out. I told you we should have
just booked the Milford Motor Lodge.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“It’s
the Prom,” Muffy cooed. “We can’t go to no Roach Motel! Besides, their
“doubles” are just two beds in a single room…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">She
trailed off the let Ralph consider the implication of that. The brief image<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> I</i> got of it was enough to make me glad
that the four of us, along with another other couple, had all pitched in and
rented an expensive family suite at the Residence Inn, typically a long-term
stay establishment that catered to business people who wanted to feel at home
while on the road. Ralph and I had already stopped by earlier in the day to get
the key and load up the fridge with booze and beer. The plan was to show up at
the prom, eat our meals, pose for some pictures, and then leave to party at the
hotel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And
party a little before, too, of course!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">As
I pulled into Julia’s driveway, I felt grateful that Muffy didn’t let me take
that third hit, as I was already feeling pretty stoned. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“If
Brad’s stuff is anything like this,” I said, patting my pocket, “we won’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need </i>more than a<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>dime. This is some powerful weed!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got out of the car and opened the rear
hatch to get the corsage I had thoughtfully put in the cooler earlier that
afternoon to keep it from wilting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Only to find that Ralph had been equally thoughtful when he loaded the
cooler, as it was facing the other way (for easy access from<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> inside</i> the car.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hey,
Muffy,” I said. “Can you reach into the cooler and get me that corsage?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“We’re
not coming in?” she asked, handing me the box from the florist.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh,
yeah. I guess you should. I mean that would be weird if you didn’t, right?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Turns out it was even weirder that they
did…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">On
the way in, I noticed an old azalea bloom blowing around in the driveway and
thought it would be funny to swap it with the corsage. I handed the fresh
flower over to Ralph for safekeeping and stuffed the dead one in the box. Muffy
was already giggling at the plan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh
my god! You are too funny!” she said. “Julia’s going to flip out!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
rang the doorbell and we were immediately greeted by Julia’s step-dad, Howard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Hey
guys, come on in,” he said, holding the door open. “She’s still getting ready.
Her mother’s in with her now. I think they’re on their fourth can of hair
spray! My, don’t you all look nice…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
introduced Ralph and Muffy and we all sat stiffly and silently on the couch,
while Howard took the chair directly across from us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“So,”
he said, leaning forward until our knees were almost touching, “what are your
plans for the evening?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh,
you know,” I muttered. “Prom stuff.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Actually,
I wouldn’t know,” he said. “You see, I missed my prom, having dropped out of
high school to go fight in Nam…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Okay,
he didn’t really say that – but he said enough to make his point that he didn’t
want his little girl doing anything “bad” and that he was trusting me with his
most precious treasure, and so on. I did more dancing in that 10-minute
conversation than I did the rest of the night as I tried to stick to our cover
plan without revealing our real plan.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">And
to make it worse, throughout the entire interrogation, Muffy kept nudging me
with her elbow, like we were pulling one over on him. Subtle, she was not. I
did my best to ignore her, but unlike the b in that word, she did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not </i>remain silent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
second Howard stopped grilling me, she leaned in and whispered, “Where’d you
put the weed?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Now,
a whisper in a crowded room is one thing. But when one whispers the word weed in
a silent living room, with a suspicious parent sitting three feet away, it’s
quite another.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">My
forehead instantly broke out in sweat, as my hand automatically reached for the
Tic Tac container. What the hell was the matter with her? Talking about pot
right in front of my girlfriend’s step-dad? Was she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trying</i> to get me killed? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">I
looked over at Howard, who thankfully had turned his attention to the TV, and
appeared not to have heard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Relieved,
I shot Muffy the dirtiest look I could muster, while silently praying for Julia
to hurry the hell up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“There’s
my girl,” Howard said, a few moments later. I looked up, expecting to see
Julia, but he was just talking at the television, where horses were being lined
up at a starting gate. “I think Sunday Silence has a real shot at the Triple
Crown. How about you guys? Anyone have a Derby favorite?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Derby
sucks,” Muffy stated proudly, ever the cheerleader (Derby being our town’s hated
football rival.) <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“He
means the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kentucky </i>Derby,” Ralph
clarified, pointing to the TV. “They’re about to race.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oh,”
Muffy said. “Is this the one where they chase after the rabbit?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">We
all ignored her and went back to staring at the TV. But two minutes later, she’s
bugging me about the weed again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What
did you do with the weed?” she whispered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Shut
UP!” I muttered out the side of my mouth. Seriously, what was wrong with this
girl? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“What’s
that?” Howard asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Uh,
nothing,” I said, glaring at Muffy with open hostility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I was just saying hurry up…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Five
LONG minutes later, Julia finally appeared, looking lovely and<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> almost</i> worth the wait. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Ready?”
I asked, jumping off the couch. “Let’s go!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Not
so fast,” her mom said. “We need pictures. Howard, get the camera. We’ll take
them in front of the garden.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Howard
pointed to the TV, where the race was just about to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“This will be over in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i> minutes…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Daddy,
we’re going to be late,” Julia pleaded, as if she had nothing to do with our
lateness. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Fine,”
he said, stomping off to fetch the camera as Julia’s mom made some final
adjustments to her hair.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Give
her the weed! Give her the weed!” Muffy chanted in my ear<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“STOP!”
I snapped. “What the hell is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wrong</i>
with you? Are you demented?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">For
a moment, Muffy looked like she was about to cry, but ever the cheerleader, quickly snapped out of it and told Julia how pretty she looked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Moments
later, we were finally outside, smiling for the camera.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Okay,
first the four of them,” Julia’s mom directed. “Then a few with Michael and
Julia. And then maybe a couple of just Julia…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Mom!”
Julia complained. “We’re gonna be late! Just take the picture.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Alright
everyone, look over here,” Howard called, aiming the camera.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Wait!”
Julia’s mom shouted. “Where’s her corsage?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Shit!
I had forgotten all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about</i> the
corsage. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“Oops.
I left it on the table,” I said, running back into the house to retrieve it.
“Don’t move…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
wasn’t until I was back outside that I realized what Muffy had been whispering
about. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The camera flashed as I
ceremoniously opened the box, revealing the “weed” she had been clamoring for. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">It
was just the dead azalea.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><i>I'm not sure if I learned anything from this experience, but I sure as shit remember it! So to any prom goers out there, have fun, be safe, and smile for the camera. Enjoy each and every moment, because as Old Man Jovi says, "Everyday, it seems we're wasting away..."</i></span></div>
</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Mike Woodhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11592825320824426200noreply@blogger.com0