Post-Valentine Poetry Contest

Recently, I entered a local poetry contest: Valentine Zombie Haiku. Some of you might also have entered Dr. Crowe's event. I haven't heard about the results, so I assume that I didn't win. However, I still want to share my entry.

one dozen long-stemmed
brains only cost zombie guy
an arm and a leg

Today I share this to start SFJH's second annual Valentine Poetry contest. This year the three categories include "serious" love poetry, vomitous valentines (so overly-sappy that it makes me want to puke), and (last year's most popular category) anti-valentine poetry.

So I issue my own challenge/contest to all who want to participate.

Submit your post-valentine poem  via the comment section on this blog or email (joeaveragewriter@gmail.com) and we'll have some sort of a prize. For those who might be concerned about dual submissions with the school contest, my students judge the school contest, and I'll judge this one. You can use the same poem if you wish. And before you ask, it does not have to include zombies either!

Let's set the deadline for Friday, February 28th (2014). Good luck. Go ahead. Try to make me barf!

I gotta go. My inbox is currently being inundated with bad valentine poetry. Better grab a bucket before I dive in.

Teach Me How to Write a Poem

(This is to make up for December 27, 2013. See? I haven't forgotten.)

            At the beginning of the school year, I decided to host a poetry group during our school’s release time where students can come in and get extra help or participate in an enrichment activity. And to be honest, the results haven’t been too positive. The most students I get on a Thursday morning is two. Some days only one or the other will appear. Sometimes, I sit by myself and ponder what it would be like to stare out a window (since I have none) and petition the muses to club me over the head or drop me into the pit of inspiration. See also Billy Collins’s poem “Monday.”

            For the longest time, only one young man, a former student of mine, came in and we would discuss how to read poetry—where to breathe and emphasize words. He would ask for my suggestions on pieces he had written for his creative writing class. It was comfortable.

            Then one day, he didn’t come. Instead a small, bespectacled, or rather be-Coke-bottled, seventh grade girl squeaked in just as the bell rang. Feeling like a giant, I asked, “What can I do for you today? Are you looking for the study hall?”

            She crinkled her nose, pushed up her glasses, and stared me in the face. “Mr. Anson?” Pause. “Could you teach me how to write a poem?”

            I had no idea who she was or how she knew who I was.

            She blinked again—big eyes magnified by the big, black rims.

            “Sure,” I stammered, unsure of where to begin. “What kind of poem do you want to write? A haiku? I thought this was a logical place to start as my 9^th grade honors class was hosting the annual zombie haiku contest in conjunction with Halloween.

            “No. I want to write a good poem. How do I begin?”

            And begin we did, starting with a discussion on imagery, appealing to the five senses, and the use of figurative language. We discussed the fact that poems filled with empty emotion are only good for emo bands. We talked about avoiding tired phrases and images and looking at ordinary objects and situations from different perspectives. We talked more about form poetry versus free verse—the freedoms, limitations, and challenges of each. She sat, nodding in parts of my deluge of poetic spouting.

When she didn’t respond conversationally, I assumed she had drowned in the informational downpour. I supposed I should scale it back, so I asked what she wanted to write a poem about.

            Blink. Head tilt. “Morning,” she finally replied.

            I suggested framing a specific setting for the images, and she chose winter. We brainstormed a list of visual images: things you normally see in the morning, things you hear, smell, taste, or feel. I presumed she would want to write about Christmas morning or a school morning or some other cliché morning.

            “What is the first thing you associate with the morning?” I asked.

            Without hesitation, she replied, “Exhaust.”

            And that’s when I knew that she had been listening, absorbing everything that I had lectured not minutes before. It was impossible to conceal my grin. I felt it spreading like an accident down a toilet training toddler’s leg.

I know that I am not the wordsmith I would like to be, and that my poetry will probably never influence the masses, but in that moment, it was reconfirmed to me how powerful poetry can be. One simple image, one connected heartstring, one sliver of light cutting through the darkness can change your perspective or the direction from which the shadows are cast.

I wish someone would have taught me how to write a poem.

Trouble

No, this is not a make-up from December; those will come later. I just have something to say tonight. Pardon my ramble.

Thursday afternoon, one of my ninth grade students heartbreakingly lost her father, a police officer, when he was ambushed while investigating an abandoned vehicle. Last week, neighbors of one of my seventh graders were involved in a murder-suicide. In the past I've had students whose parents have overdosed on various drugs. Some of the kids found the bodies. I've had students who have been taken away from their parents. I have students whose parents are in and out of prison, who runaway, or who never showed up to begin with. Students who are abused; students who abuse substances, themselves, and others; students who are addicted to all sorts of nastiness. And the sad part is that I don’t even know half the Trouble that exists in their lives. School is the least of their worries.

Needless to say, more than a few tears have been shed at school today, mostly small ones here and there, with the occasional downspout in the counselor’s office. This is a small community, rural by definition. Multiple kids milk cows before they come and shovel manure when they get home. It’s not Los Angeles, Detroit, or New York City. Still, Trouble exists.

Yesterday I finished reading Gary D. Schmidt’s novel Trouble, in which a boy who lives on the coast on Massachusetts in the “perfect” little community where everything is noble and good discovers that trouble exists no matter where you live. <SPOILER ALERT> He discovers that his perfect brother possesses a multitude of flaws, among which he discovers that he is a racist bully. His family’s past isn’t spotless. His sister isn’t as high and mighty as she thinks. His parents aren’t invincible. Trouble is everywhere.

The blurb on the back cover reads, “Henry Smith’s father always told him that if you build your house far enough away from Trouble, then Trouble will never find you.” Outwardly, this seems to be sage advice, especially when we discuss the pitfalls that await us in society today. However, as young Henry poses out during a crucial moment, “How can you ever hope to build your house far away from Trouble if Trouble is there already?” (p.244). Unfortunately, you can’t. Accidents happen. Random acts of violence happen. Trouble happens. To everyone. Some are just better at hiding it than others. (Other tidbits I picked up from Gary can be found here.)

I've pondered a bit about these senseless acts that have occurred in this community (and other atrocities around the globe), and with others, I've wondered why something so horrible could happen to such good people, in a community “far away from Trouble,” as it were.

Some might rage and even curse God and give up on humanity and live out the rest of their lives in bitterness, but not me. I’m neither delusionally optimistic nor calloused, nor do I believe that I have all the answers to life the universe and everything. (By the way, 42 is only part of the equation)

However, I do know where I can find strength. The morning after the latest tragedy, I read Alma 31:31 as part of my morning scripture study: “O Lord, my heart is exceedingly sorrowful; wilt thou comfort my soul in Christ. O Lord, wilt thou grant unto me that I may have strength, that I may suffer with patience these afflictions which shall come upon me, because of the iniquity of this people.” And as I read, I knew that despite how horrible this adversity seems, especially for those involved more directly than I, God has a plan for us—each of us—and He knows better than we do. His purposes are greater than ours (Mosiah 4:9; Isaiah 55:9). We may never know why things happen to us or to those we love, but I do know that He has a plan for us. It hurts sometimes, but opposition is an essential part of God’s plan. Without it, we would not know good from evil. “For it must needs be, that there is an opposition in all things. If not so…righteousness could not be brought to pass, neither wickedness, neither holiness nor misery, neither good nor bad” (2 Nephi 2:11; See the entire chapter.) If you want to know more about what I believe about God’s plan for our salvation, check this link right here.

There have been a few commentaries floating around lately that seem to refute the claim that God won’t give a person more than he/she can bear. However, I have to add my two cents in an appeal to the source of this dispute. 1 Corinthians 10:13 states “There hath no temptation taken you but such as is common to man: but God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.” The key here is that He will provide a way for you to escape the temptations or the hardships or the weight of whatever burdens or suffering you might be called upon to endure. Alone, it is true, we can’t do it; but with Him, we can do anything (Luke 1:37).

Bringing the connection back to young adult literature, as is my nature, in May of 2008, I spent four days at the International Reading Association’s convention in Atlanta. Aside from skipping a session or two to go watch the Braves (that story later), one of the most impressing sessions I attended was a discussion hosted by authors Joan Bauer and Carolyn Coman. The emphasis of their forty-five minute chat was primarily a response to fan mail asking why they dealt with such serious, hard subjects. The answer was simple: to show young readers that they, too, can overcome their own dark times. They went on to comment that the problem with adult fiction and new, edgier teen fiction was that they fixated on the negativity and never showed any hope. They felt that their purpose as writers in an ever-increasingly darker world was to bring hope to those that might be lost or overwhelmed—those who found Trouble.

Another former student of mine came up to me a few days after the semester had ended. I assumed she was coming to try to bargain for her grade. She had just returned from her latest bout of court-ordered therapy (self-destructive behaviors). And when she dropped a thick stack of disheveled papers on my paper-saturated desk, I figured it was her creative writing portfolio that was overdue. Upon closer review, they were copied pages from several journal articles, highlighted and annotated.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Journaling,” she said from under her black-dyed bangs. “It’s good stuff. It’s the only thing that really helps me stay sane.”

Wow. She found hope, despite her Trouble.

I never saw her again.

Like this girl struggling to keep her head above water, I realize that I, too, have a few things that provide hope and help me keep life in perspective. No, I’m not self-destructive, psychopathic, schizophrenic, or simply clinically depressed. I don’t have violent tendencies or debilitating addictions either. I haven’t really even had too much experience with death (yet). Life is messy enough. And whether we admit it or not, some days it takes quite a bit to want to keep moving forward in the face of all the Trouble that surrounds us, waiting to pounce when we least expect.

I know that I can, first, lean on my God; second, my family. They provide so much good in my life they help to drown out the fact that I’m just mediocre at everything. I know that I am loved; that I matter to them. Everybody deserves that, no matter the Trouble they pack along.

After that, I have an infinite knowledge collected from my wide reading; others’ experiences, especially those I consider my friends. Chances are that if you are reading this, you are my friend. If you don’t consider yourself my friend, let’s start over. Hi. I’m Joe. Be my friend; I can learn a lot from you. I believe this is one of the reasons I went in to education—to partake of stories of our shared humanity--and then reciprocate what I have taken, giving back to others through my words and my life. Through writing and sharing, I have a way to semi-organize my thoughts, attempt to create meaning, and reach out. I only hope that I can help others deal with the Trouble that finds them, wherever their houses may be built. If not, I still get a kick out of it.

All that said, this is still a rough draft, and I don’t know if I made any sense. I don’t think I’ll go back through it. It’s rough. The anecdotes aren't the most cohesive, but they were what sneaked into my brain as I pondered the latest shooting. Who knows? It might be what someone else needs. At least, it was what my slow processor required in order to think through this latest batch of Trouble.

  

A Late Christmas Musing

I know this is late--not even time for Dia de Los Reyes, but it's another make-up, one that has actually taken me quite a while to complete.  And for the record, I'm still not happy, but I guess it's good enough for now.  I also warn you that it is highly cheesy and religious, but it's still a part of me.

(Make-up for December 24, 2013)

            When my family went to visit my parents’ house on Christmas afternoon this year, I found myself enjoying a (rare) quiet moment in the front of the tree with my dad.  All the kids (our five and Marc and Liz’s four) were zooming under Grandma’s apron strings or blasting each other to smithereens on the Wii.  Dad reflected for a while then asked about past Christmas seasons that stood out in my mind.  I’ve shared some of these on my blog already, but I wanted to save this one for Christmas Eve.

Call me sentimental (and you might get smacked), but probably the most meaningful Christmas Eve was the second one I celebrated in Spain as a missionary.

            I was in Granada, proselyting in the Albaycín, right at the base of the Alhambra.  (From one of the towers, you could spit on our apartment.)  The last day of my mission loomed just over two weeks away: January 3, 1998.  My feelings about going home were mixed. I was ready to move on with my life, but I didn’t want to give up my time serving the Lord.  It had been two years since I had been a part of the world.  I was scheduled to start school at BYU in the spring.  Would I even remember how to function in college let alone life?

            On Wednesday the 24^th, our whole district (six of us) had been invited for a Christmas Eve luncheon at a church member’s home on the other side of the city.  This kind grandmother wasn’t in any position to host us, but we went anyway so as not to offend her.  Lunch was simple, but satisfying—not a Christmas feast, but good nonetheless: a thick caldo (broth) and some fresh bread.  We left with our pockets full of cheap, stale turrones, mantecados, and polvorones—which we promptly gave away to some neighborhood kids.  I even wore a Santa hat that I had picked up somewhere (I think someone mailed it to me.) as we visited and caroled and soaked up the spirit of the season.

            On the walk home, there was an underpass that went under the freeway around the city, which was meant for pedestrians only.  Part of the long, narrow path was fenced on both sides with chain link, but most people could walk side by side with barely enough room to not knock shoulders.  However, we had a problem as we filed along in the chilly afternoon.  Two teenage hoodlums on a motoscooter were zooming down the sidewalk toward us, weaving, laughing, shouting, and generally being obnoxious.

They buzzed a young mother pushing a stroller.  I don’t know what they said to her, but the vulgarities that she directed at them could only have been provoked by something worse.

And then they saw us and accelerated.  We shuffled over to the side and stopped, pressing against the fence to give them the widest berth possible.  I, in my Santa Claus hat, brought up the rear of our little troop.

The helmetless, jacketless, tactless, brainless freaks edged closer.  The idiot on the back stood up and made some fairly acrobatic hand gestures.  The balancing might have been considered impressive had the peril not been so great.  If they didn’t pull back, they would run into us.  At the last second the driver swerved away.

I exhaled in relief a moment too soon.  The moron on the back snatched my Santa hat as they sped off down the sidewalk, spilling some stacked boxes on the side before speeding into incoming traffic and around a corner.

I was shocked—utterly speechless.  Here we were, trying to spread some Christmas cheer, and some imbecile kifed my Santa hat.  Who does that?  On Christmas Eve?  To a missionary preaching about Christ on Christmas Eve?  I was genuinely incensed.  My anger rose, but I decided to keep it inside rather than cause a scene.

The others started walking again, not noticing my missing hat or knowing what had happened.  It wasn’t until we started below the actual concrete underpass that my companion said, “Hey, Elder Anson, where’s your hat?”

The anger bubble burst, and deciding not to take it out on anybody, I yelled at the roar of the traffic and punched the wall (a habit from earlier high school experiences, but that’s a different story).  Now, for those who haven’t already figured it out on their own, punching a cold, concrete support wall in December when my hands are dry and cracking is not a good idea.

Everyone stopped and looked at me.  Looked at my hat.  Looked at my hand.  And decided not to say anything.  I just shook my head—upset at the two jerks, upset at myself for my reaction.  We shuffled on in silence.

What made it worse was that the other two companionships in out district had dinner appointments to head to. However, My companion and I had nowhere to go.  They split off from us as we had another thirty-minute walk back to our area.  None of the members living in our area had invited us over.  And it didn’t seem right to knock on people’s doors uninvited on Christmas Eve, so we decided to try to see if we could find anyone to talk to out in the largest plaza in our boundaries—the one with all the fountains.  Right now the name escapes me, but I know it is not Plaza Nueva.  We lived close to that one.  Maybe someone can help me out.  I can’t find it on any online maps.

Regardless, no one was out.  And I mean no one.  We stood in that plaza for forty-five minutes without seeing another soul.  The sun had set by then, so we sat down and watched the fountains light up with holiday red and amber and green and white.  We resigned ourselves to the fact that nothing we did that night would be effective, and we talked for a while about a wide array of topics starting with our current pool of work and ending with my imminent departure back to the Sates.

My comp decided he needed to stretch his legs and wandered over to the fountain and walked along its ledge.  I sat still and looked up into the clear sky—rare in the city—and I noticed the calm that had fallen over the mountains to the northeast, touched with the first snows of the season.  The city noises themselves were going to bed.

The night grew cold, and as I sat, feeling a little sorry for myself and for my missing hat, I flipped through the blue hard-covered Book of Mormon in my hands.  I turned to 3 Nephi, Chapter 1, where the sign of Christ’s birth shone in the America’s, far away from the Bethlehemic action.  I reviewed my convictions and why I even came to Spain in the first place.  I knew that He was born, lived, died, and lived again for me, just like He did for everyone else.  The message I was sharing was true. And I knew it.  And He knew that I knew.

I turned my cracked and bleeding hands over, and I realized that the Lord knew me, just as He did the Nephites, just as He knows each of us; and that although I was far away (literally and figuratively), I was not forgotten.  It didn’t matter if I wasn’t invited to a party or a dinner or if I had my two-bit hat.  My selfish thoughts turned to another lowly setting—one two millennia earlier, and my self-pity dissipated.  I calm, warm, reassurance replaced it

It’s difficult impossible for me to relay my exact feelings that Christmas Eve sixteen years ago, but as I attempt typing them tonight, I can still feel that burning that grew in me that night.  It still smolders within, and it will never burn out.

Sacrifice Squeeze

(Makeup for December 26.  Yes, I know it’s out of order, but I have certain stories to tell for certain dates, and I’m still filling in some holes.  Don’t judge.)

There’s nothing I love more than baseball: the smell of the hot dogs and freshly cut grass, the crack of the bat squarely driving a ball into the gap, the roar of the crowd, the bone-jarring collision at a close play at home.  Ever since I knew the joy of squeezing my mitt around a red-stitched, leather covered sphere, I have loved baseball, and like most small boys, dreamed of playing in the major leagues.

I played several years in several leagues, starting in the outfield (because I could catch a fly ball) and then moved to the left side of the infield because I had an accurate arm.  I even pitched a bit, mostly in relief, but eventually I settled at first base where I could manage my infield and hit for power.

For this entry, I could tell highlight reel stories like when I turned two unassisted double plays in one game as a shortstop, or when I played the middle role in a back-to-back-to-back home run rally; or I could talk about showing up trash-talking friends or being named to the all-Europe all-star team for my age group, but I won’t (this time).

No, ironically, one of the most important lessons I learned from playing baseball is that I wasn't good enough.  No matter how hard I tried and practiced and ran fielding scenarios in my head, I neither possessed the raw athletic ability nor the mentality to make it my profession.  Granted, I was good, but not good enough.  And it took one particular incident to force me to abandon my MLB ambitions and move on.

February of my junior year of high school, I found myself as a transfer student at Belleville East.  Open tryouts for the baseball team were held in the main gym due to the snow.  I had recently broken in a new first baseman’s glove in anticipation and had carefully stowed in my bat bag along with my other fielder’s mitt, batting gloves, wristbands, bats, rosin, and other gear. Hauling my equipment, I made my way into the gymnasium and began stretching with the rest of the fifty or sixty who had the same idea.

The mustiness of the air was almost palpable as participants began to add to the perspiration forever trapped in the bleachers and banners hanging from the rafters.  I was myself working up a good healthy, sweat playing long toss the width of the double basketball courts.

And then Coach blew his whistle.

Everyone hustled over because, just as in gym class, lateness meant laps.

But then I noticed Coach wasn't holding his clipboard. He didn't have his hat on either.  I had never seen coach without a Lancer baseball cap; even in his yearbook picture he donned the dirty, faded navy hat pulled low.

We, the mass of hopefuls looked at Coach, but I noticed that he didn't look at us.  In fact, he was avoiding eye contact.  Uncharacteristically, in a rather tremulous voice, he spoke to the scoreboard over our shoulders.

“Uh, you guys can go home.  There are no roster spots available.  We, um, only held tryouts to say that we did it.  I've already got my guys.  They've been together since they were seven.  There’s no chance any one of you, no matter how good, will replace them.” And then he turned back into his office, shutting and locking the door.

At first I was outraged, and in my mind I was already drafting a scathing letter to the school board and the media about fairness, etc.  It was a good thing I had to walk home that afternoon because it gave me some time to think.  Sure, I was good, but did I want to spend the next few years just playing the sport I loved more than…well…almost anything?

I decided to let it fester for a while, and eventually I relented, and my anger subsided.  I never sent my letter (or even wrote it), but I became involved more on the school newspaper (writing sports articles) and the Lancer Lot (a student creative writing group).  I had a job (at KFC) and good friends who helped me see other interests.

But I still loved baseball, a passion that not very many of my friends possessed, and I learned to deal with it.  I still dragged them to several Cardinals games (some even during school hours my senior year).  And somewhere along the way my priorities shifted.  I became more conscientious of girls, music, and preparing for college, but probably more importantly, two other talents I began to develop in earnest: teaching and writing.  I even thought about trying to walk on to the Ricks College team when I was up there, but before I headed to the tryouts, I realized that I had nothing to prove.  I wasn't going.  That decision made, an assuring calm came over me, directing my future toward other endeavors: serving a proselytizing mission, becoming an English teacher, getting married, starting a family, and attempting to write every once in a while.  I still love going to the ballpark, be it as a coach for my own kids, a church softball match, the minor league Owlz, or a big league road trip.  Baseball will always be a part of me; just not the only part.

Some like me to tell the vindicating part of the story.  The summer after Coach told us where to go, I signed up to play city ball—still couldn't give it up—I noticed that three of the four starting pitchers for the Belleville East Lancers also pitched in my league just to get in some extra work, I suppose.  That year, I went 11 for 18 (.611) against the three of them, including seven extra base hits.  Sure, I might have been good enough, but if it weren't for Coach and his pre-selected team, I wouldn't have realized that I had other talents and interests that were worth developing.  Thanks to baseball’s rejection, I became a better-rounded Joe.  Take that to whatever level you want.

More Than an Award

(Makeup for 23 December)

                A few days ago a friend of mine asked me a few questions because she was worried about her teenage son, who can be quite a moron at times, especially for his parents.  She said, “I know he’s a good kid, but sometimes that isn't going to cut it. When will he ‘get it’ that he has to put forth effort if he wants to get anywhere in life?”  I hope I was able to assuage her fears that he will become a listless leech on society.  (He really is a good kid.)

                That conversation reminded me of a certain someone else (betcha can’t guess) who as a teenager didn't like to be nagged by his parents.  But in retrospect, it took that nagging to reach a point where I finally “got it.”

                Living in England, I was fairly active in my Boy Scout troop, but I had lost the drive to move on.  I was a Life Scout, I had 21 merit badges, including all the required ones for Eagle; all I had left to do was my Eagle Scout project, and I would belong to that prestigious group who had attained this high honor.  However, like my one of my friends says, I was overcome by the fumes: car fumes and perfumes.  My interests changed.  I was more into music, my friends (especially the female variety), writing, and video games.  Scouts began to take a back seat.

                And that’s where I was when this story happened: the back seat of my dad’s car.  I believe it was a Thursday afternoon.  We were driving around RAF Mildenhall on a few errands.  I had just retrieved the mail and was immersing myself in my new Baseball Cards magazine when he started in again. “When are you going to start planning a project?”

In my mind, this was about the seventy-second or seventy-third time Dad had asked a similar question within the past week.  I ignored the query, trying to stay calm.

“You know, you’ll have to you’ll need to get permissions and equipment and manpower and….”

I tuned out, staring out the window.

When I came back around to hearing him, we had pulled up to a four-way stop.  He was back to “When are you going to get started?”

And I, in all my teenage self-centered “wisdom,” had had enough.  I opened the door and slammed it.  “Right now.  Pick me up in an hour at the Exchange.”  I stormed across the street without waiting for a reply.

I didn't really know where I was going or what to do, but in that flash of anger I had headed toward the Base Maintenance building.  And as I looked at the directory inside the front doors, I realized that it was up to me.  Everything I wanted to accomplish in life had to be done by me.  I couldn't rely on Dad or Mom or anyone else to make my life for me.

I ducked into a restroom and straightened up my appearance before I asked the receptionist to see the commanding officer.  I sat on a green fake leather couch and listened to the click-clack of typewriters and computers.  The smell of tobacco hung in the air.  Within ten minutes I was ushered into a small, cramped office where a heavy-set man with a military crew cut and black standard issue glasses sat poring over tomes.

He looked up, beyond his spectacles, snubbed out his cigarette, and grumbled, “What can I do for you, son?”

“My name is Joseph Anson, and I’m an Eagle Scout candidate looking for a large service project to benefit the community, sir.”

He smiled, shook my hand, and turned his huge green binder toward me.  “Take your pick, son.”  And that began the conversation that ended the next Friday after (180+) hours of planning, scheduling, coordinating, pestering (on my part), laboring, and sweating.  I don’t remember Dad being around—I think he was on a deployment somewhere. Mom only helped with the shuttling of workers (the friends I had drafted) and supplies.  Everything else was me.  I even went in to Dad’s work while he was away to use the satellite phone to have a teleconference with the Scouting officials stationed in Germany to accelerate the paperwork process.

Sure, it sounds cheesy, but this experience was a figurative smack upside the head, one that no one else’s lecture or prodding or anything could provide.  It was one moment in life where I “got it.”  The future didn't seem too intimidating or scary.  I just needed to take one step at a time.  Most importantly, though, I had to be the one to take the step.  That happened in April or May.  Then we moved in June, so I wasn't awarded the Eagle until October when all the paperwork caught up to us in Illinois.  But it didn't matter anymore.  I had accomplished something worthwhile on my own.

Looking back, the pressures and influences and everything else my parents, relatives, teachers, religious leaders, and other influential adults in my life may have bothered me at the time, but they were a necessary ingredient in my seasoning as a human being who looks to contribute to this world.  I hope I will be the same type of pain in the butt for my own kids.

My First All-Nighter (of Many)

(Makeup for December 22^nd)

            Yes, I enjoyed my free sandwich. I chose the smoked sausage, by the way. And no, I’m not going to apologize for taking some time off from writing on my blog so I could (a) enjoy the holidays, (b) recover from being sick, (c) take some time to actually read something that I wanted to, (d) spend time playing with my wife and kids, or (e) all of the above. My neglect was purposeful. Good, now that that rant is done, I can move on.

           A few days ago, I stayed up late reading—1 a.m. or so. I’ve done it a few times on this break, and it reminded me of the first time I stayed up all night to finish a book.

As far back as I can remember, as a kid, I had always been allowed to stay up and read for half an hour after bedtime, as long as I stayed in my bed. It wasn’t too long before I started to push those limits. Every once in a while, when we lived in Arkansas, after Mom had turned out the lights, I would quietly sneak into the family room where she and Dad would be watching M.A.S.H., and I would quietly listen or bring another book to read (in the light). Even back then, when I was five, I knew the cues for an episode to be wrapping up, so I would make it back to my room without anyone the wiser. Yes, this is a confession.

My strategies changed after we moved to Las Vegas. You see, there was no way to sneak to where the TV was without being seen or heard (stupid doorway beads). And so I took to reading by flashlight. When that was discovered and confiscated, I would simply block the crack at the bottom of the doorway with a blanket and turn the light back on so I could plow through another chapter of Swiss Family Robinson or the Hollywood movie monster books I would check out from the school library. There was a reason why I was the runner up for the base library reading challenge that summer.

             However, it wasn’t until sixth grade, living in Japan, where I truly became so wrapped up in a book at night that I had literally could not sleep, could not put it down until I had finished it: The High King by Lloyd Alexander, a book I still hold in reverence today.

You see, my reading (and social studies) teacher at Yokota East Elementary School had my reading group reading nothing but award winners; if it didn’t have a Newbery or Caldecott sticker on the cover, it didn’t count for class. (See my post about this hard reading lesson if you want more details.) On that account, Mom had recently picked up a handful of sticker-bearing titles at the book fair, and I hadn’t had the chance to read all of them yet, as I was more into my sports trivia and other nonfiction at the time.

Then one night I was looking for something new, and I had my whole half hour ahead of me. Of course I didn’t want to go to sleep, so I perused the backs of the new paperbacks stacked on top of my desk. Thinking back, this pile also included Dear Mr. Henshaw by Beverly Cleary, From the Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg, Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes, and a few other wonderful works I eventually came to enjoy. But on this particular night, I selected the book with the dude holding a sword on it. Who doesn’t love fighting monsters? And so around 8:15 pm I began.

I don’t remember which of my various parent-avoiding lights-out strategies I employed that night, but I remember stretching out on my Major League Baseball bedspread and shivering at the thought of the Huntsmen of Annuvin and the unkillable Cauldron-born chasing someone—chasing me—as I raced with Taran, Prince Gwydion, Eilonwy, and their companions across the land to find some way to defeat Arawn, Death Lord. I had not read the first four books in the series, and I was only vaguely familiar with the characters as Disney had portrayed them in that horrible animated version of The Black Cauldron. All I knew was that I was trapped in this book and couldn’t escape until the last page had been read.

I got the extra blanket from under my bed. Brown and fraying, it served as my hiding place from the Huntsmen and Cauldron-born—in my imagination, some of the scariest dudes in all of literary bad guy-dom.

I think it was around four in the morning when I finally closed the book, sighed in relief because I was satisfied with how most of the novel ended (I’m not revealing any spoilers), but also because I could now climb off my bed and relieve my bladder of the pee I had been holding in because I didn’t want to miss any action. It wasn’t until my dad tried waking me up the next morning for school that I realized that I had literally stayed up (almost) all night to start and finish a book.

Since then I have done it many times, both for books that were well worth it, and for those that disappointed me enough to throw them across the room and crack their bindings. What a geek!

And as I type this last bit to my post, I look over and see a stack of books I got for Christmas added to the pile I brought home to read from my classroom, and I debate. Which one should I stay up for now? Hmmm….

Many of you might conclude that I should have learned my lesson. I guarantee that I have: every once in a while reading is worth sacrificing sleep (and consciousness the next day). Read on! If you haven’t read The High King or any of the Chronicles of Prydain, repent. Stop what you are doing immediately and go find it. If you can’t dig up a copy of The Book of Three (the first in the series), let me know and I can hook you up. It’s one of my all-time favorite fantasy series. 

Knowing is Half the Battle

The pressure is on. Not only am I the first guest blogger on this blog, I am also several days late on delivering my promised tale.  So here goes.  My brother, Kevin, is two years younger than I am.  When we were little, we lived for afternoon cartoons.  If we wanted to watch TV after school, we got one shot.  We did not have Nickelodeon, or Cartoon Network, or Netflix or even a VCR (we did have electricity, barely).  On one of the handful of stations we did receive, there were a few precious hours after school dedicated to cartoons.  For some reason I remember it being channel 20, but that detail is a bit hazy.  At this time in our young lives (I could not have been any older than 3^rd grade, which would have put Kevin in first) one of our favorite shows was G.I. Joe.  As much as I liked it, Kevin liked it more.  He was an avid collector of action figures and anything else he could get his hands on.  I think he is still a little upset at Mom for giving his collection away to a younger cousin.  He had some definite collector’s items.  But I digress.  Part of what we loved about watching G.I. Joe was the TV personality that would introduce each episode, Machine Gun Joe.  Avid watchers, which included us, could enter their name into a drawing.  At the end of the day’s adventure, Machine Gun Joe would select a lucky winner.  He would then call them on the phone, on live TV, and ask who the hero of the day was.  If you knew, you won a gazillion dollars worth of G.I. Joe treasures.  I honestly don’t remember what the grand prize was exactly, but it was really cool.  It kept us watching religiously so that we would always know the hero of the day’s episode so we would be ready when the telephone rang.

As fate would have it, one December afternoon, I decided that decorating the kitchen windows with Christmas decals was a much better idea than watching G.I. Joe.  I was sitting on the kitchen table which was pressed up against the wall under the window.  A little girl my mom babysat was helping me decorate, when the phone rang.  I answered and a voice said, “This is Machine Gun Joe from channel 20.  Can I speak to Amy Walker?”  What?  My mind could not even process what was happening.  Before I knew it he had asked who the hero of the day was, I had told him I did not know, and the conversation was over.  Only after I hung up the phone was I aware of the screams echoing up the stairwell, “It’s Duke!  It’s Duke!”  Duh?  How dumb could I be?!  It’s always Duke.  I could have at least guessed.  Kinda like you always go for answer “C” on the multiple choice tests when you have no clue what the answer is.  When in doubt, choose Duke. Truly, I bet I could count on one hand the number of episodes we watched where the hero was someone else.  I don’t even remember anyone else’s name, besides Scarlet and Destro.  Like they were ever gonna save the day.  Scarlet was the only girl and Destro was the bad guy.

Poor, Kevin.  By the time he realized what was happening, meaning the fact that I wasn’t going to come up with the right answer, it was too late.  Had he started for the stairs when they first called my name, we might have won.  I wish there had been a camera to record his heroic scramble up the stairs trying to save his sister from utter humiliation.  No doubt he was also banking on a hefty share of the winnings.  But he could not save me.  At the school the next day everyone wanted to know why I had not been watching, why I had not at least guessed, why I had not come up with the answer that everyone in the world knew, “DUKE!  THE HERO OF THE DAY IS ALWAYS DUKE!”  (Maybe this is why I have an aversion to a certain ACC team.  Hmmm…)

A few days later, a large manila envelope arrived addressed to me.  Inside was a letter from Machine Gun Joe and two action figures.  Some obscure guy and Destro.  I gave one to Kevin.  It was the least I could do for failing him.  So in the end we each gained something.  He got a new action figure for his collection and I learned a new vocabulary word:  consolation, as in consolation prize, as in here is something to try to help you forget that you are a big loser.  Obviously, I am completely over the humiliation.

Winner! Winner! Chicken Dinner!

            Yesterday I “liked” a Facebook page for Poor Boys BBQ & Dawgs, a most excellent joint here in Payson.  Unfortunately, it’s going out of business next week.  I almost cried when I found out.  To be honest, I haven’t eaten there as much as I should have.  However, over this past week, we feasted on their pulled pork and beef brisket as a Young Men’s group on Wednesday.  Then yesterday, as I was getting ready to come home from school (for Christmas Break!), Amy suggested that we order Poor Boys and take it to my parents for dinner.  I did not object.  I just got stuffed again.  (Burp.)

            Now, getting back on track, because I “liked” the FB page on Free Food Friday, I won a free sandwich next week.  I almost cried again.  Not really, but I drooled a little.

            And that caused me, along with a little prodding from my lovely wife, who is grading beside me right now, to think about other things I have won.  And really, it hasn’t been much.  I don’t win raffles, drawings, or really anything—that is, unless there is a prize for everyone playing.

            So here is the list I came up with:

-       - -Last year I won a FB contest from BYU TV: two basketball tickets, a signed team ball, and a tour of the BYU TV studios.

-       - -A few years ago I won a pair of shoes in a drawing at school.

-       - -Several years ago, I was caller number ten on the radio: CD

-       -- As a freshman at Ricks I was a call-in winner to a radio station: CD & BBQ wings

That’s all I can really remember.  It’s not too much, and that’s okay.  It was still something.

            Amy has a better story about contests, so I’ll let her guest blog either later today or tomorrow.

            For now, I'll just dream of which sauce to put on my sandwich.