Put Your Hands on the Dash!

I'm not sure if I've been thinking about people in my past who have meant a lot to me, or if it was because Katie reposted the video of Jon (who just turned 40) dancing like he did back when he was 16, but I thought I'd just share one of many episodes with the posse I ran around with my junior and senior years in Illinois. (One friend dubbed us the DORKS in order to insult us, but we took it in stride.)

It was late 1992; snow had come and gone a few times, leaving the ground with muddy slush and over-saturated grass. The actual occasion eludes me. I'm fairly certain possible we had been on a large group date, at a dance, or we could have just finished a rip-roarin' party at the coop. Maybe someone out there can help refresh my memories. Whatever it was, we had driven all over the base (Scott AFB, Illinois) dropping people off. We had to take two cars: Jon drove his family's full-sized gray van, and Steve drove his little beater. Both cars were full, but this story happened after we had unloaded Josh, Laef, and the girls we were with that night (I think Heather, Marshelle, Jana, Anneliese, Heidi, and a few others). Regardless, a pile of people had piled out of the two-car caravan, and there were four of us left: Jon and I were in the van. Steve and Julie were in the little car. It was between eleven and midnight--not too late, not past curfew.

We had just finished dropping off the folks in the officer's brick housing area and were turning to leave the base and head back to Belleville when red and blue lights flashed from behind. I glanced over at the speedometer (first instinct, Jon), but we were barely crawling over 20 mph. (Speed limit on base was 25.)

Whatever it was, the security policeman (SP) pulled both cars over to the curb. We sat, watching him in the side mirrors, the engine idling. It felt like forever as he checked our plates in his computer. He finally exited his patrol car one hand on his holster, the other craning a mag light toward the back of the van. He took his sweet time peering through the dark back windows, the side windows, and finally approached Jon's window.

"Turn your engine off, sir," he barked. I remember feeling a little confused about the SP's gruffness.

Jon complied.

"Roll down your window, sir."

"I can't. It's automatic."

The MP looked confused, appeared to have a quick conversation with himself, and then spat staccato commands: "Sir! Turn on your engine. Roll down your window. Then turn off your engine."

Jon calmly obeyed, and we shared a perplexed moment. This military cop was intense.

"What's wrong, Officer?" Jon queried.

"Where have you been?" he threw back at my friend.

Jon explained what we had been doing and repeated his question. "What did we do wrong?"

Before our detainer could answer, I cleared my throat. The MP must not have seen me in the passenger seat as his mag light swung straight into my eyes, as he shouted, "Put your hands on the dash!"

Like a puppy smacked by his owner, I did as he said. Jon followed suit.

The policeman's voice quivered, as did his light. "I need to see some I.D. Both of you!"

Simultaneously we reached for our back pockets, but before we could move half a foot, another eruption filled our ears.

"I said, put your hands on the dash!" It was easy to tell that he was fumbling the strap on his sidearm as his body dipped and he almost dropped the flashlight.

A little amused, Jon responded fairly calmly. "It's in my back pocket."

"Mine, too," I added.

The beam of ultra-blinding light swung from Jon's eyes to mine. Back and forth.

"Okay," came the next command, "Take your right hand and get your I.D. Then put your HANDS. BACK. ON. THE. DASH!"

To move this along, we did, and he took our cards, and went back to his patrol car. Just so didn't excite him any further, we left our hands on the dashboard, which was a feat since it was covered in mix tapes and Rally's remains. I vividly remember contemplating reaching for a couple of fries that I could see peeking out from the bottom of a greasy bag. I decided against it. And for a couple of teenage boys being harassed by a young policeman, I thought we behaved impeccably.

We saw the officer harass Steve and Julie for a while, but he seemed to have calmed down some. He wasn't shining the light in their eyes or yelling.

When he finally came back, he handed us our identification, and told us to go. He seemed a little embarrassed. Apparently, Steve and Julie had corroborated our story.

Emboldened a little, I asked, "Officer, may I ask what we were pulled over for?"

Silence.

Jon piped up. "We have a right to know."

His reply solidified our unspoken suspicions. "Well...uh...er...there was a report. Yeah, a report about...uh...two suspicious vehicles...um...a van...." He looks at the side of the van. "Yeah...a gray van and another...and a vehicle...." He reads the model off the back of Steve's car.

While he rambled on, making more lame excuses, I read his name on the front of his camouflage BDUs. Glanced at his rank: Airman First Class. I harrumphed. I knew ROTC kids with more clout. This guy didn't have anything. I don't even think he was supposed to be patrolling alone. I toyed with telling a few other people I knew on the security police detail--the dad of a schoolmate, who was their commanding officer came to mind. But I let it go.

After Jon nodded at him patiently for a while, the airman faked a radio message and left, calling over his shoulder that we could go. He hauled out of there, speeding and swerving around us before we could get the ignition started again. We never really figured that mystery cop stop out. After getting back on the road, we switched the mix tape back on, and coincidentally, a poignant Cypress Hill lyric scratched through the speakers: "Cops come and try and snatch my crops. These pigs wanna blow my house down. Head underground, to the next town. The get mad when I'm out...." Yes, I know it's not the same, but it was somehow fitting.

In retrospect, we didn't have any serious run-ins with law enforcement, but maybe we were a touch obnoxious on occasion. Most of the time received warnings to turn down the music. This group of friends I hung with were pretty tight, but like almost all high school groups (especially in the military circles), we were drawn to different quarters of the earth, or so it seemed. These guys (and girls), I don't see very often, but every once in a while we get together or chat online or on the phone, and it's like nothing has changed. We pick up right where we left off. And if that happens to be with our hands still on the dash, so be it. Good friends are worth it. DORKS rule!

Note: I have nothing against police officers and the wonderful job that most of them do. They, as a whole, are to be praised for their sacrifice and public service. This particular one was just a jerk.

Here is a photo I dug up this morning. I think I might share a few more episodes of DORK adventures over the next little while. Maybe I can find more pictures. I think this one was taken at the party right before the Lunds moved to Germany. It's not the best picture of us, and it doesn't include everyone. If you have better, please share.

Elly, Target Practice, Me, Leah, Anneliese, Josh, Jon, Rob, Laef, Steve: 1993

What LuAnn Shared with Me

(in memory of LuAnn Staheli 1954-2015) 

The first time I met LuAnn, I was a fairly new teacher, only one year of wear and tear--not too many dings or dents caused by 8th and 9th graders. I was freshly aware of this thing called professional development that needed to be done in order to maintain a license, and being the learning nerd that I am, I jumped at the chance to take a short class during the summer.

(from luannslibrary.blogspot.comcom)

So I found a one-day seminar about young adult literature, taught at Payson Junior High by Mrs. LuAnn Staheli. It was a cool presentation (well, for me anyway). In essence, it was a slide show book talk that included 100 new and popular books for middle readers and young adults. LuAnn speedtalked the whole way through. The dozen of us just talked books all day long and got credit for it. The only thing that would have made it better is if the seminar had included bacon.

What stuck out to me the most, though, was the passion with which LuAnn shared her knowledge and expertise about reading and how to put good books into the hands of students, especially reluctant readers. It struck me because that was what I wanted to do. I wanted to share my passion. And for the next several years, I proclaimed that my biggest goal for my 8th graders was to turn them into willing, self-selecting, self-proclaimed readers. And for the most part, it worked because I reengaged myself in reading what the kids were reading; I became that expert that they needed. Because of LuAnn's example of sharing books with passion, it became a part of me. I set goals and monitored the genres I dabbled in, and helped student to do the same. I've worked for 15 years now helping put the right books in the hands of kids who initially said they hated reading. And even though some of them still refuse to acknowledge they have ever read a book on their own, or that they even like stories, you can see the inward smiles hiding in their eyes when I pull out a book to read aloud or give them a recommendation. It still strikes me as funny when a student turns up her nose at a title I pull off the shelf specifically for her, but then I see the sequel to said book tucked under her arm a few days later. It's all about sharing. I still try to share what I read via Goodreads. (I think my book reviews from there automatically post to my Facebook feed, too.)

Sharing good books and turning kids into readers who crave their next fiction fix or dose of poetry is one of many teaching accomplishments I can say that LuAnn played a role in. In a way, she became another mentor for me. Since that first meeting, I have had the opportunity to work with her in many capacities: district assignments, professional conferences, reading, writing, teaching, mentoring. The list goes on. But the one thing that remained constant was that every time we got together, she would share something with me: a new title, a piece of writing she was working on, an experience with an unruly hooligan.

Shortly before she passed, LuAnn messaged me to come over because she wanted to share something--books about teaching and books about writing. She told me that she didn't have any use for them any more and knew that if I couldn't use them, I knew those who did. (Each one has found a home.) As I sat with her for about an hour, she shared even more than pages: memories, family stories (I taught three of her five boys), successes, passages, and encouragement. (She still believes I will be the next Chris Crowe. Don't worry, Chris, I'm still pretty far behind.)

Now, over the fifteen years of my association with LuAnn, we held many frank conversations about curriculum, teaching practices, and even who should be cast in films made from books. We may not have always seen eye to eye philosophically on everything we held in common, which as writers and teachers of literacy is quite a lot, but that's okay. It strengthened everything she shared with me. I can honestly say that I am proud to have known LuAnn Staheli in many roles, arenas, and stages. Even though that ultimate visit in January made me late for other engagements, I am glad I spent the time with my colleague and friend. She will be missed, but her influence will keep radiating. I went to her funeral service this afternoon. Reaffirmation for my friend and her love, her service, and her influence permeated each soul in attendance.

(from www.coachayers.com)

Along this same vein, I want to make sure that I keep sharing. I don't know if my personal influence will be as widespread, but I'd like to think that I have things to share that might affect others. Call me masochistic, but that's why I keep up this pathetic blog. That's why I keep reading. That's why I keep going back for another degree. That's why I won't give up on 9th graders who have already resigned themselves to spending time in prison. That's why I strive to keep my voice, quiet as it may be (or not if you ask the other teachers in my hall), alive. That's what writing can do. That's what teaching can do--even if you don't do it by profession.

Keep talking. Keep listening. Keep writing. Keep a journal. Keep up relationships. Keep your faith.

Keep sharing.

Follow this link to learn more about LuAnn Staheli.

(Yes, I know she'd circle quite a few the sentences in this post and say "I don't buy it.")

...The Whole Truth and Nothing but the Truth

"Recollection, I have found, is usually about half invention, and right now I realize that there is much about (insert whatever or whomever you want here) that I either invented or got secondhand" (61). Wallace Stegner spoke these words to me as I meandered through his Crossing to Safety last night. There is beauty in its language (at least so far), but it is definitely not a plot-driven book, and so it gives me time to ponder while the characters interact and spout truths at each other.

And there is truth in this line.

)from http://eprahaar.in/exploding-gas-cylinders-spark-massive-fire-none-hurt/)

When I read Stegner's passage, my mind was immediately drawn to the story about the Fourth of July I alluded to in yesterday's blog scribble. That incident happened when I lived in Las Vegas--I don't remember which summer. Our family had gone somewhere on Nellis AFB to watch the annual firework show. I usually tell the story that a few smaller rockets went off--a traditional warm-up for a military-grade show. Then a larger rocket streaked low across the sky but fell back earthward, out of sight before exploding in the back of the truck where all the fireworks were stored. A massive flame erupted, destroying the truck, lighting up the sky, and ruining the rest of the night. It's a great story.

However, no one else in my family remembers that night like I do, or at least the way I think I remember it. They were there, but the details aren't quite the same. And when I'm honest with myself, and dig into the shafts of my mind before detonating the charges, I can visualize another not-quite-so-spectacular version of that night's events. The tale starts the same, but after the dud rocket comes back down, nothing happens. And then even more nothing. And then there are just a bunch of disappointed people packing up unused sparklers, ratty lawn chairs, and coolers full of Shasta. I recall hearing at school (later in the fall) that a truck blew up.

So which of the stories is accurate? Which one is the truth? I'm not sure. I know which one makes a better story, though. But does it even matter? I begin to doubt myself. I have touched on the subject of excavating memories to produce writing on more than one occasion, using terms like embellishment and ESPN highlight reels to describe our finished products. And any good storyteller knows that the more you tell a story, the better it gets (usually). Right? Even if some fictional elements weasel their way in. Right? I've been contemplating this for close to 18 hours now, and I am not any closer to a conclusion. Call me non-committal, or chalk it up to working too much with argument writing, but I haven't been convinced one way or another yet. I would love to get your thoughts and feedback.

So let me rephrase: Does it matter which version of the truth you guard in your memories? And then, if you care to elaborate more, how does that affect what we pass on, be it oral or written?

Just promise me you'll tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Also check out Nothing But the Truth by Avi.

Revitalized

Okay, so my December explosion of blog posts was a dud--worse than the Fourth of July fireworks show that didn't really happen one year because a semi-dud found its way into the back of the truck containing the rest of the explosives...but that's another story. Yes, I know where intentions pave the road, but I did have high aspirations of sharing some bodaciously useful words. I'll keep doing it every once in a while, but I don't think it will be a regular occurrence as I had previously envisioned. Stay tuned.

No, I just need to keep writing, though. I got derailed in December because I let the online class I teach take over my life. Well, actually, I don't think that phrasing is quite right. It was more like a plague of locusts invaded my cyberspace and I had to spend my wakeful hours (and some not so wakeful ones) driving out the pestilence that filled my inbox.

Still, it isn't really a valid excuse. Writing takes time, and I have to make time for it.

In the meantime, I have cleaned up that mess, decided to become healthier (along with my lovely wife), and wrung my hands about red tape and my dissertation (still roadblocked, waiting to hear back from two people). I am planning to teach two writing seminars this summer, and have been asked to submit to a couple of publications (don't know if it will happen right now).

So, my disgruntled followers, the few of you who even bother to check up on this blog, all is not lost. I am revitalizing and re-prioritizing so I can find and make more time to write. I have been reading Kelly Gallagher's book Write Like This, and remembering why I love teaching writing, why I love reading good writing, why I simply love to write.

Along that line, I am undertaking a new long-term project (yes, another one): I have decided, glutton for punishment that I am, to map the writing I have already done and create a personal history. This will allow me to see which parts of my life I have already written about and where serious potholes need to be filled. I want more authentic topics for my students to see me modeling, and this will give me an opportunity to branch away from the same old stuff.

So, in the words of L.L. Cool J, "Don't call it a comeback." I'm still here, but Joe, Version 38.1 is going to share more frequently, more deeply, and more openly (maybe). Prepare yourself. Brace for impact. Whatever. It's coming. Be afraid; be very afraid. (Not really. I just wanted to use one more cliche.)

P.S. Don't tell my other blog this, but I'm down 16.6 lbs. from the beginning of January!

Chicanery

chicanery: (noun) deception by artful subterfuge or sophistry; actions or statements that trick people into believing something that is not true.

          The number of students who resort to chicanery rather than do honest work is incredible.

I've been battling with plagiarists today. That's all I'm going to say. We're trying to keep this a family show.

Lugubrious

lugubrious:(adjective) exaggeratedly or affectedly mournful; dismal

                Traversing Nevada’s lugubrious landscape tends to lull me to sleep.

                As a senior at Mascoutah Community High School I took five semesters of English: AP Literature (2 semesters), Advanced Communications, Creative Writing, and Detective Fiction. When I registered for school that summer, the counselor had wanted to place me in honors physics and calculus (based on my past course work), but my math ACT score guaranteed that I didn’t need any more arithmetic training, and science and I didn’t get along very well, so I told her where to put those classes since I already knew what I wanted to do with my life. Granted, she wasn’t very helpful with finding scholarships after that.

                Needless to say, that year I read multifarious literature, and a disproportionate amount was dark and brooding—some by choice, others (like Ethan Frome) not. The first mystery we read in Detective Fiction was “The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841)” by Edgar Allan Poe, considered by some to be the first true detective story. I’m not sure if it was in that story, or one of the other stories involving brilliant investigators and their involvement in the lugubrious details of the dregs of criminality, but I came across the word lugubrious in context and instantly became enamored. It triggered something deep down in my writing self and began a lugubrious period of my writing. Heart of Darkness—now that’s lugubrious! I worked the new word into a several poems (that I no longer have) and into conversations until my communications teacher told me I was overusing it. She didn’t like me anyway. (I have witnesses to back me up.)

from http://imgkid.com/flying-raven-drawing.shtml

Yeah, I was kind of experimenting with writing darker, deadlier drama, when, introspectively, my life was neither difficult nor dreary. Ms. Wessel, the creative writing teacher said I started to sound like Joseph Conrad in my descriptions.

                And that isn’t cool enough, in Disney’s Hercules, the henchmen Pain and Panic refer to their lord Hades as “Your Most Lugubriousness.” Who wouldn't want a title like that? Don’t all raise your hands at once. And don’t worry; I’m not as lugubriously-minded as I thought I was as a senior.

Abridge (The Unabridged Edition)

abridge: (verb) to shorten (a book, a play, etc.) by leaving out some parts

            Mr. Anson does not allow his honors students to read abridged editions of classics over the summer. (What a jerk, right?)

http://www.victorianweb.org/technology/bridges/towerbridge.html

At the beginning of 9^th grade, I was placed in first period Honors English with Mrs. Uram. I settled in on the first day, received an unabridged copy of To Kill a Mockingbird, and given an enormous list of vocabulary words. I was surrounded by many friends from middle school, and was quite content; I was in my element.
The next day, I was pulled out of class before it even started, along with two other fellow freshmen. We were escorted to the counseling department where we were curtly given new schedules.

“Why?” Brent ventured to ask.

“You’re being put into a more advanced math class,” was the only reply we received from the secretary, who promptly lost herself in the clackety-clack of her typewriter, an obvious dismissal.

We trudged slowly across campus to our new geometry class where Mr. London put us to work with equations immediately. We didn’t have time to think about the rest of our schedules, but one thing we did notice was that were the ONLY freshmen in a group of sophomores and juniors. A couple of remedial seniors lurked in the back. It looked like the beasts hadn’t been fed in a while either.

The bell rang soon enough and I remembered to check my new schedule: English with Mr. McGowan. My jaw dropped. I wasn’t in Honors any more. I asked Brent and Jenny about their lots, but they just had Honors English later in the day. I marched straight back to the counseling office.

After waiting for half of infinity to even get someone to talk to me, my presence was deflected with a “It was the only English class that fit with your electives.” In the words of Mr. Keating, “Excrement.” But there was nothing I could really do about it. I wasn’t a confrontational person.

So I went—tardy—to Mr. McGowan’s English class. Apparently I interrupted the bearded giant’s great bellowing lecture about timeliness and respect and honor of the gods and mythology and stuff, and I was banished to the penultimate (vocab word to come) row, as it was the only open seat.

I put my head down on the desk behind the high dark curls in front of me. I jumped when Zeus (as we came to call him under our breaths) began to bluster again. I slunk back down when it became obvious he wasn’t really watching us but focusing on his own performance.

A tap on my left shoulder. “Aren’t you going to say hi?” I had been too distracted to pay attention to my classmates. Alicia was to my left, Danielle in front of me, Armando to the right. Maybe this class wouldn’t be too bad after all. I don’t remember who sat behind me, though, but I do remember that he didn’t do much of anything.

I know this because each Monday, five new vocabulary words stared at us from the chalkboard on the side of the room (many of which I still remember). We were supposed to define each and write a sentence correctly using it. Complete sentences were required; no abridgements allowed. Test was every Friday. Distinctly, I recall the very initial word of the year was “abridge.” Not too hard. We were given a little time (once) to use the archaic lexicons under our desks to search for definitions, so I raced through my work, and began to doodle out of boredom. Geeky me started sketching a rough bridge abstractly similar to Tower Bridge in London. Then I set the bridge on an a blue inky fire to “abridge the bridge.” I cracked myself up a little too loudly because Zeus overheard the snickering and made me confess my deeds.

With his fiery eyes burning behind his Coke bottle glasses, his immensity started to fill the room. I gulped because I knew I was going to die.

Fortunately, instead of offering me up as a sacrificial oblation to the dictionary gods, Mr. McGowan guffawed and made me explain it to some of the students around me, including the nameless dude behind me. If I remember correctly, he just blew his hair out of his eyes while he rolled them.

Yes, there you have it: I am a word geek. Then again, I have never forgotten my word because I made a visual connection. Dang. That’s another awesome vocab building strategy.

Sadly, my 9th graders try to abridge everything they do, especially when it comes to writing and thinking.                                       

You Can Never Have Too Much Pie

multifarious:(adjective) of many and various kinds

                  My multifarious reading interests and endeavors rarely allow me time to finish one book, as I am usually working on eight or nine simultaneously.

                  So, to be completely honest, I just looked this word up today. I was questing for a new word (another good vocabulary acquisition tool—insatiable curiosity) to describe all the types of pie I consumed over Thanksgiving Break. And I was flat-out tired of “various” and “multiple.” “Sundry” didn’t quite feel right either, so I looked in a thesaurus to unearth something new and shiny (almost as good as Christmas)

Hint: Make your thesaurus your friend. Don’t over-rely on him, but know where to find him when you need help.

Now back to the pie. We had pie at school before the break. We consumed pie on Thanksgiving. However, in our family, the biggest pie ingestion fest comes the day before Turkey Day. We get together with my mother-in-law’s side of the family for the Puckett Pie Palooza every year! It’s a literal pie smorgasbord with such a multifarious assortment of pies, the lesser experienced get lost before they even pick up a plate. Needless to say, much pie is consumed, sometimes a la mode, sometimes without the extra scoop of vanilla creaminess. Of course, I always opt for ice cream.

With the three pie-eating events established, along with the pies the youth of our ward made one evening, I shall now compile my list of pies (in alphabetical order) that have passed my lips lately:

1.     apple (2 varieties)

2.     banana cream

3.     blueberry cheesecake (Yes, I know, it’s technically not pie, but who cares?)

4.     cherry (2 varieties)

5.     chocolate (2 varieties)

6.     chocolate peanut butter

7.     coconut cream

8.     lemon

9.     Oreo

10.  pecan (2 varieties)

11.  pumpkin (4 varieties)

12.  strawberry

13.  turtle

and…German chocolate cake for my birthday. (Again, it’s not pie, but it’s tradition!)

            Before I go too much longer, I have to say that my favorite pie this year, because it just hit the spot, and because it was scrumptious, was an apple pie made by my wife’s cousin Skyler. Well done, sir. Your pastry satisfied my multifarious needs in an excellent pie.

            And on a side note, since I looked up this word, I have used it in multifarious situations, even though it may not have fit perfectly. I’m having multifarious meaningful interaction with my new word.

P.S. I’m not including any pictures today because I don’t want to be responsible for you shorting out your device from all your drool.

P.P.S. If you want to post some of your own pictures of pie in the comments, I'll allow it.

To Dream the Impossible Dream...

quixotic: (adjective) hopeful or romantic in a way that is not practical (To dream the impossible dream,  right?)

                Mr. Anson still holds to his quixotic dream that all students will learn to love writing.

Several days ago, a few students in my Honors English class asked me if I had ever read any adventures of Don Quixote. Apparently they had been discussing it in their advanced Spanish class, and had even read a few abbreviated selections from Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra’s magnum opus. They were confused about a few things and wanted some clarification.

Alas, I have never read the classic work in its entirety, only an abridged version, but I had seen the musical The Man of La Mancha both on screen and on stage. I knew all the songs at one point. (“Little Bird, Little Bird” is floating through my mind as I type.) I even saw some of La Mancha’s famous windmills as I drove across the landscape of the novel’s bleak setting. So I was able to help my young acolytes with their questions, and they being honors students inquired further about my experiences in Spain and with Don Quixote de La Mancha.

Serving as an LDS missionary in southern Spain, my last proselytizing area was the city of Granada, a center for mixed cultures. The Alhambra, resting atop the hills overlooking the city, was the last Moorish stronghold before Ferdinand and Isabella united Spain. Good ol’ Chris Columbus sought audience with them in a small pueblo called Santa Fe, which lay just outside the main city. I became intrigued by the history of the cultural mush pot, and asked permission to do some reading regarding the surrounding area. I started with Washington Irving’s Tales of the Alhambra, which he wrote while staying on the palace grounds a few hundred feet up the mountain above my little apartment. They contained wonderful fictional tales set in the palace, beautiful descriptions of the actual grounds I had walked; they also contained a few essays about the peoples of the area: native Spaniards, Moors, French, gypsies, merchants, and other sundry travelers.

http://www.spain.info/en_US/que-quieres/rutas/grandes-rutas/rutas/ruta_del_califato.html

One day, while perusing an open-air book market for more history, I came across a hardbound volume of El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de La Mancha on a clearance sale: the whole thing, unabridged, untranslated, for around fourteen bucks! It was written in Old Spanish, a semi-equivalent of reading Old English. I viewed the tome as an instant challenge intellectually, linguistically, and educationally. However, I only read about 70 pages or so before my brain coerced me to abandon the text posthaste. It literally made my head ache after reading for 10 minutes each day. I didn’t remember the condensed edition being so dense (bad pun). I never finished, although it still resides on a shelf in my basement.

And so the day after I shared my experiences with Don Quixote, the Merriam-Webster Word-of-the-Day email was delivered to my phone with the day’s entry: quixotic. “Cool,” I thought. Fate was throwing in a teaching moment. The word wasn’t necessarily new to me, though; I knew what it meant. However, I had always pronounced it “key-ho-tick,” like it would be in Spanish, and I felt awkward trying to fit it into conversation. Masters Merriam and Webster saw to it to correct my misguided ways with its cool little pronunciation key, and I now know it’s pronounced “quick-saw-tick. Since then I’ve been able to roll it into a plethora of formal and informal discussions.

I shared that coincidence with my honors class, bringing the book for show and tell. Many of them marveled at the manuscript while others thought the coincidence was creepy. But since then, I’ve had many of these students share cool words they have discovered in their outside reading with me and with each other. They’re creating meaningful uses of new words. That’s how you build vocabulary. They’ve started using “quixotic” as well, especially when I talk about helping them improve their writing. Go figure.

Helping students to improve their vocabularies should not be such a quixotic quest. It’s almost easier than reaching the unreachable star.

Kerfuffle

So here’s the deal. Thanks to those who commented when I asked what I should do for a gimmick this December, but I decided yesterday in the shower—a favorite thinking spot of mine—to go a different route. Oh, I’ll occasionally post a great inspirational quote or scripture or something on Facebook (Are you my friend?), and I’ll continue to do my brief book reviews on Goodreads.com (Again, I ask if you are you my friend?), but my focus this year’s binge writing will be vocabulary.

Yes, you heard me. Vocabulary. You remember that part of school that you didn't really think was much more than a waste of good socializing time, don’t you? Those Friday tests that required nothing more than a regurgitation of a definition? Unfortunately, we were mistaught through those definition-vomiting sessions to detest, abhor, despise, and loathe new vocabulary, especially is spelling and perfect repetition played any part. Well, I can attest that there is more to acquiring an expanded vocabulary than “test and release.” Just ask anyone who has taken the GRE or any post-grad test like unto it. Vocabulary is a measurement of one’s intellect. Just ask my students who insist I make up words just so they can’t understand. (Confession: I do invent words, but not ones they don’t understand; I usually invent them so they can understand in their own special little ways.) Proper usage of one’s lexicon commands respect, and might even get you hired faster in certain circles (as long as you’re not an arrogant cretin about it).

So, here’s the drill. Each day I will start the post with a word, its part of speech (or at least the one I’m using), a definition, and an examples sentence or two. This will be the bare minimum. Occasionally I’ll have a story to go along with it, similar to my piece about learning to correctly pronounce the word “epitome” the hard way. Some words will be educational; some will be just be fun words to say, while others will reflect the mood of the day. Sorry, if you’re disappointed, but here we go!

I’ll start with a short entry, as I have a story for tomorrow’s word. Don’t forget to check the link to Merriam-Webster’s site for more fun with this word (including pronunciation and etymology).

kerfuffle: (noun) a disturbance or fuss

                Shelby caused quite a kerfuffle when she came into class with blue and purple streaks in her blond hair.

Making Connections

The door to the jet way hissed open, and the rush of humidity overwhelmed me, almost as if someone forced me to breathe from a fire hose. Instantly, the desert-accustomed pores of my skin oversaturated themselves, and I began to sweat profusely, my T-shirt clinging to my body. I sighed with exhaustion.

It had been an eternal flight. Originating in Salt Lake City at 10:30 the night before, I hit Denver an hour after all the airport restaurants had closed. Hungry, eyes too bleary for reading, I paced the length of the terminals until just after midnight, when I boarded the flight to Atlanta. I was stuck for the next three and a half hours next to a couple who continually sucked face. They kept the duty free liquor running until they passed out midflight; that’s when I added this experience to the list of hellish episodes I had endured over the summer. Unfortunately for me, I can’t sleep when I fly. I was able to catch a short nap and a small bit of breakfast in the Hartsford-Jackson International Airport before boarding the small jet for the last seventy-five minute leg of the journey into Wilmington.

I mechanically retrieved my luggage from the overhead compartment and shuffled down the blue-carpeted aisle toward the door of the airplane. “Never again,” I swore to myself, “will I fly red-eye. It’s not worth the price difference.”

The passenger terminal hummed like a swarm of worker bees, bustling here and there, trying to catch connections, answering the perpetual buzz of their cell phones, moving without thought—just instinct—toward the next destination. The smell of overpriced under-flavored coffee and over-perfumed, under-deodorized travelers hung suspended in the North Carolina humidity.

The trek to the baggage claim seemed an obstacle course fraught with runaway luggage, unattended children, and more janitorial carts and cones than I saw actual custodial workers. In the grand activity of the airport, I was small—a feeling I had come to recognize more and more that summer.

It started in June as my wife and I drove across the country—from Utah to the east coast of North Carolina—almost 2300 miles with four kids in a van. Sariah was six, Zac was four, Ally was two, and Brooklyn was about eight weeks old. Let that sink in. Truth be told, the drive out was fairly uneventful other than an unplanned screaming fit just outside Vail, Colorado.

Two days after arriving at Amy’s parents’ house, I flew back to Utah to begin a semester on campus at Utah State University. It was one of the requirements for my Master’s Degree to spend a certain amount of time face to face with professors. So I lived in my friend’s mother-in-law apartment, a clean but shabby one-room deal with a small kitchen and bathroom detached from the main house. My friend and her husband were away on a cross-country Harley trip for most of the five weeks I was up there. I really didn't know anyone in my program, as I had taken all of my other classes online at a distance site. I did have a few friends who lived in Logan, but most of them went away for the summer. There was no one to keep me company except for the spiders and box elder bugs.

That was probably a good thing, though, since I lived at the library every day until it closed at 5:30. My days were filled with six hours of class: Reading Assessment and Intervention, Content Area Reading and Writing, and Advanced Reading Comprehension, so there was at least six more hours of homework and research and writing every night. I had no time for anything else. On a rare occasion, I actually sat down for a meal. I couldn't have been lonelier if I sequestered myself in some remote shack like a tree-hugging hermit in the Uintahs.

Sure, I had a phone and could talk to my family every so often, but the isolation drove me crazy. Sometimes I would sit in the park to read a textbook and watch random kids playing just so I could have the noise and laughter I was accustomed to. Then, after all the moms began giving me death stares and stink eyes, I felt like some sort of weird creeper and slinked home to study by myself again.

Even doing normal things like watching baseball on TV or strolling through Logan’s small zoo and parks didn't really do anything for me. I even tried going to the movies by myself, an act I had never before committed. Talk about a weird experience. I swear I will never do it again. Creeper.

In short, I got lost in the shuffle of a life that didn't really know me, and I didn't really fit in. Emptiness is probably the best way to describe it. I was nothing more than a drone: wake up. Go to class. Study. Go to bed. Repeat. I began to really feel for society’s outsiders. This time, though, I was the ignored pariah. I hate to even admit it, but I really wondered if I even mattered. My family, the ones I loved, were being taken care of two time zones away; they were just fine without me. In fact, they were having a blast at the beach and everywhere else Grandma and Grandpa took them. All this, while I struggled as an academic automaton, trying to put a few different letters after my name: M.Ed.

As I traversed the country back toward my family after the summer term ended, I wondered if the sacrifice was worth it. The loneliness I experienced as I drifted through the seas of strangers in airports didn't help my self-pity party either. I was a walking statistic with a paid ticket, nothing more. Tired, disheveled, I made my way slowly to collect my bags.

As I passed through one sliding glass door, I heard a battle cry that saved my life. “Daddy!” I looked up to spy Amy pushing a stroller through the airport doors, the other three kids racing toward me. A dad-seeking missile named Zac slammed into my legs, buried his face in my belly, and squeezed for all he was worth. Ally, leaving Sariah in the dust, raced in next and locked her arms around my leg. As if I were wading through quicksand, I forced myself forward, kids still attached, toward a halting Sariah. Even though she isn't the most affectionate, she still hugged me and whispered, “I missed you, Dad,” like only she could.

Preventing the trickle of tears was futile. It was a few minutes before any of the three would let go so I could get to Amy. I guess there were a few people in the world who needed me. And to top it off, little Brooklyn, who had almost doubled her age since I had seen her, still recognized her daddy.

                  (This is the personal narrative I wrote with my 9th graders this year.)

Shuffling through the National Day on Writing

The National Day on Writing has come and gone, and here at the end, I feel like a failure. Well, at least when it comes to trying something new, which is what I usually do this time of year. I though about doing something with this year's theme: writing you community, but it just didn't work for me today. Instead, I just introduced zombie poetry to this year's group. It was a different experience, though, as all my classes are ninth graders, and they've been around the annual SFJH Zombie Haiku Contest for three years. Usually I have an easy sell with 7th graders, but this time 'round it was more like reselling an idea to them that they had discarded two years ago. Most of them bought back in though.

Just a warning, I wasn't really feeling the undead flow today. However, I did eke out a few between all the empty brainwaves.

Here they are for your (dis)pleasure:

counting syllables

has left the zombie poet

without any brains

zombies volunteer

as tribute to get a spot

in the hunger games

cancer, like zombies,

eats your insides without

mercy or remorse

(for the girl who wanted to write kitty haiku instead of zombie haiku:)

munching on kittens

causes zombie snacker to
hack up excess hair

Hopefully I'll come up with something a tad more profound the next time I attempt to write.