Call for Storytime

So it's almost December, and I have come up with my December blogging idea.  This year I'd like to explore a different memory every day and share a short narrative.  Since I've been delving into the past recently, it sounds to me (at least right now) that I shouldn't find it too difficult.  However, I would like to ask for your assistance.  I've got a few that I want to stat with, but I need you to help me think of ideas--times in my life that might be worth writing about--small little slices of life.  So please chime in with what you would like to hear/read.  Whether it's a general suggestion like an age, a grade in school, or a place I lived, or even if you have a particular situation or story you'd like me to tackle, I'd love your input.

Check out my other posts throughout joeaveragewriter.blogspot.com if you need to see what subjects I've tackled recently.

I'm excited to see which stories reveal themselves over the next thirty-one days.

Sunday Afternoon Wrestling

This was written (with my students) after reading Eoin Colfer’s “Artemis Begins” from Guys Read: Funny Business.

Unlike most brothers, we didn’t beat the crap out of each other out of anger.  No, the abuse was voluntary and most of the time encouraged by the recipients.  I don’t think I did too much damage without their consent—just an occasional dead-arm punch.

Back when there were just the three of us boys, we established a weekly tradition when we lived in Japan.  For some reason Sunday afternoons were sacredly observed as Mom’s nap time.  We’d come home from church, have a large dinner—usually chicken and rice, lasagna, or something else loaded with carbs, and then Mom would disappear for a few hours.  Sometimes, when Dad was home, we’d wrestle with him, and then settle down for a movie.

Every once in a while, Dad would have an extra meeting, or would be gone on a TDY for the Air Force, and we’d have to entertain ourselves while Mom slumbered.  Of course, it was only natural to carry on our tradition of Sunday afternoon wrestling.  However, without Dad to supervise, it would get out of control and heads would get busted, eyes poked, feelings hurt; but we kept fighting for the fun of it.  And without fail, we’d wake up Mom, and that would be the end—the rest of Sunday spent in our rooms, apart from each other.

One Saturday we watched WrestleMania III where Hulk Hogan defeated Andre the Giant.  By the next day Marc had perfected his impersonation of Randy “Macho Man” Savage, and was in rare (annoying) form.  I decided to try a new move on my brothers.  I was getting tired of using the same techniques that kept them at bay; I needed to inflict a new type of pain.  You see, as I was the oldest, they usually tag-teamed against me when Dad wasn't there to keep things even.  Sometimes, they would attack at once and try to pin me.  They never could.  Ever.  Still can’t.

A few months before, my parents purchased new blue-gray couches for the living room.  They were tired of the ugly basic brown base furniture the military supplied.  The back stood about three or four feet off the ground: the perfect height, or so I thought, to be the “top rope” of our wrestling ring.

After I had knocked both Marc and David to the floor, I climbed to the top rope, and jumped at them with my arms stretched out for a double clothesline as they staggered to their feet.  It worked a little too well.

Unfortunately, I fell faster than I had anticipated, and when I caught both of them, sending them thudding back to the floor, their resistance didn’t slow me down at all.  My head smacked into the thinly carpeted floor.  All three of us lay there for what seemed like forever.  No one cried.  No one tattled.  But our wrestling careers seriously calmed down after that.  When we half-heartedly started back up, David tried the same aerial tactic multiple times, but I would just catch him mid-air and set him on the couch.  Somehow, wrestling my brothers lost its luster for me.  It was never the same again.  I would never lose.

Just a few summers ago, Marc, David, Nicole, and Dad all ganged up on me to try and throw me in the inflatable kiddie pool set up for the grandkids.  Guess who the only one who didn't get wet was?

Am I Really Innocent Until Proven Guilty?

That title sounds like I'm going to bash our judicial system or something.  It was purposely misleading.  And that's part of my quandary this morning: I had a thought as I have been working on a short personal narrative piece with my darling little seventh graders (and the stinky ones, too).  And I know I haven't really concerned myself too much with this in the past, but I started thinking about the ethics behind writing personally.  How personal is too personal?  When I attempt to write about my past, do I take pains to change the names of the guilty, or innocent, as the case may be?  Or do I let it all hang out and not care who sees the blood, sweat, and barbecue stains on the laundry?

What are the repercussions of telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as far as my mind dictates?  I know that over time my version of an episode changes; it gets better.  And usually it continues to improve with each retelling.  So where do I draw the line?  Is there some invisible boundary that when I cross it all my writing credentials spontaneously combust?  The cliche reports that truth is stranger than fiction, but when does others' strangeness and quirkiness need to be protected?  When is it authentic detail, and when is it "TMI," as my students love to misuse?  Of course, I never want to disparage anybody (most of the time), and I'm not too cool with defamation of character, slander, or the like.  What is going to convict me?

In the past, I haven't really cared, or maybe the better way to put it is that I haven't cared to write anything that might be considered too personal by other involved parties.  I don't worry about sharing when I farted during algebra in 7th grade or when I peed on a rattlesnake, but it's when I involve other people--friends, enemies, civilian casualties, not-so-innocent bystanders--that I start to get a titch nervous.

Regardless, I'm a little stuck due to my newly-overly cautious ethics sensors (maybe its my dissertation jitters coming out--running the use of human subjects past the IRB); they're a little crossed.

Any thoughts on that?

Veterans Day Reflection

                I suppose I should write something patriotic seeing as yesterday was Veterans Day.  In the morning we had a nice assembly with Sgt. Long and Gen. Burton from the Utah National Guard.  I always get a little misty when I ponder the freedoms I enjoy and those who have made that freedom possible.  A rousing rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner” always gets the tears flowing.

    Dad always springs to mind first, since he was active duty USAF while I was living at home.  He retired around the time I graduated from high school, and was gone quite often for military training.

                The summer before I started high school he had been stateside (We were living in England) for several weeks.  When he returned to RAF Mildenhall where he was stationed, he learned that his squadron had been mobilized and were headed down to Saudi Arabia and Kuwait for Operation: Desert Storm.  He spent two days with us and then was gone.

                Those nine months were tough.  I gave up watching the news.  Avoiding reading about it was harder, as I delivered the Stars and Stripes in my neighborhood.  Eventually he returned, but then spent the next several months alternating between temporary duties in Russia, Germany, Turkey, and home.  I have to say that it was crazy not knowing if he would come home or not.

                I am grateful for him, his sacrifice, and for the opportunities I have had as a result of his assignments around the globe.  I have been places, witnessed events, and met people that have influenced my life.  I count myself fortunate to have been an Air Force brat.  It is part of who I am.

                And when thinking of other veterans who have made a personal impact on my life, I can’t forget my mom, grandfathers, uncles, in-laws, friends, and even random strangers.  The men and women who helped me to grow, especially when Dad was gone, who served their country in many ways—security, mechanics, intelligence, etc.—will never be forgotten as they are a part of who I am.

                Earlier this year I had the chance to visit Arlington National Cemetery with my wife, her father, and her brothers while we enjoyed an extended family vacation and reunion in Washington D.C.  It was the first time I had ever visited the hallowed ground, and it was every bit as inspiring as had been advertised.

                Shortly after the experience I tried to express through writing the awe and majesty I felt while strolling through the waves of marble markers—only broken by a few larger memorials—but I feel that I failed miserably.

The following six paragraphs are another attempt to capture that moment, which will most likely also fail because I don’t believe that words exist to describe the pride, the richness of history, tradition, and honor, or the reverence for the past that I felt as I ambled across those hills above the western shore of the Potomac overlooking the capital of our nation.

The air hung heavy with humidity, but as we hiked up the grounds double-time toward the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, a light sprinkle began, further dampening those few spots on our bodies that were not already wet with perspiration. 

               Before we could catch our breath from the forced march, the changing of the guard began, and I was privy to one of the most awe-inspiring rites I have ever witnessed.  Pondering the symbolism, the simplicity, and the crisp elegance to which the soldiers performed their duties, I stood as the gravity with which these duties were performed washed over me.

                Shortly, the ceremony was over, and the newly charged Marine resumed his solemn vigil.  As we moved away to find the Confederate Memorial, I juxtaposed this experience with that of the occasion where I witnessed the pomp and pageantry that surrounded the changing of the queen’s guard at Buckingham Palace: bright reds and blacks and whites, thronging tourists’ camera flashes.  Although that in itself was quite the spectacle, it lacked the reverence displayed on a rainy, summer afternoon in Arlington.

               We continued our visit by visiting several memorials and gravestones—some famous, like Abner Doubleday, supposed inventor of baseball, complete with homages of weather-worn baseball shrines left by diehards—others not so famous and perhaps forgotten.  I submit that these, almost overlooked in the endless tide of white marble, were perhaps some of the most touching.  Each one represented an individual, but together they formed a powerful force to be reckoned with--equally on the battlefield in life and also in death, serving as a reminder to those who linger on this earth of the sacrifices required for freedom.

                The flame at President John F. Kennedy’s memorial reminded me of the fire that burns in Philadelphia and in other historic sites, representing past sacrifice and symbolizing the ever-present need for good men and women to step up when required and do their duty to God and man.

At the top of the hill, at Arlington House, we ran into one of my former students.  I seriously can't go anywhere (even 2200 miles away) without running into one of them, can I?  It was still cool to see Maddy and realize how big an impact one seemingly insignificant individual like me, an English teacher in Utah, can make on the future of our nation.  Despite all the screwy things that happen in our country and in the world, regardless of the corruption that runs rampant through all aspects of life, there are some things that are good and proper and right.  And Arlington Cemetery helped me put them back into perspective that gray afternoon in July.

Later on that same trip, to kill time on a Sunday afternoon, my brother and I took our families to visit a small Confederate graveyard in Jonesboro, Georgia, just outside Atlanta.  Here someone had forgotten the dead.  Without the kids noticing, my sister-in-law and I picked up a dozen or so empty forties.  It upset me to think that so much disrespect existed, especially in a land known for its tradition and proud heritage.  Still, it was nice to see the rest of the cemetery well preserved.

              After a summer of patriotic events and traversing this magnificent country we live in (23 states and the District of Columbia in 25 days), I appreciate the sacrifice of our veterans even more than I have before.