I just got off the phone with Mike and Joy. They are two of my former and most favorite students from my days of teaching high school English. I had them for all of their four years, I was directly responsible for them starting to date, AND, as an ordained minister, I performed their wedding at their request. When I try hard to remember the good times and not be so hurt and sad about being ousted from education, I always think about Mike and Joy.

Anyway, their only child, little Lisa, started kindergarten today. Mike made Joy take her to school while he stayed in his shop and cried like a baby . . . just like he did on his wedding day ten years ago. He’s such a big softie and I love him and Joy and Mama T and little Lisa like they were my own family. So it was Lisa’s very first day of school ever and Mike told me he and Joy had already gotten a call from Lisa’s teacher at 3:00 this afternoon. While Mike is telling me the story of what Lisa had done, I can hear Joy in the background almost choking she’s laughing so hard trying to tell the same story to HER mama (Mama K) while Mike was talking to me.

Now, Mike runs his own unairconditioned (that fact is quite vital later) “hot rod” and auto body shop. Joy is usually a stay at home mama, but her daddy runs a scrap yard and Joy and her older sister work with him regularly. When they do, they take cars and everything else that comes in and break them down into parts and strip the paint off anything painted. Stuff like that. Well, Lisa goes with Joy and sits with Mama K while Joy works.

First day of school for little Lisa . . . remember? Okay, what is the one question every kindergarten teacher asks every child on the first day of school? That’s right: What do your mama and daddy do for a living? Well, when it comes little Lisa’s turn she answers, quite loudly because she’s not a bit shy, “My daddy sweats over hot bodies all day and my mama is a stripper at my grandpa’s place!”

They’ve got a meeting with the teacher tomorrow to “explain” everything 🙂

Nothing like children to put a proper spin on things!

Love y’all, and remember to be careful with your job titles around the wee ones!

Don’t forget to wash your feet, y’all 🙂

Wikipedia is the bane of the existence of many a stalwart librarian and many and more a stalwart educator. It is maligned and banned and blocked and forbidden in as many ways as possible.

Unfortunately, this whole mindset against the might of Wikipedia is utterly and completely doomed to failure and all you out there in the blogosphere who don’t like it may as well get used to it. The reason is utterly simple and has been inscribed for everyone to read since 1979 when the eminent scholar Douglas Adams penned these words in the novelization of his wildly successful radio play “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”

Here, for your edification, the reason why Wikipedia kicks every other source’s butt. Please feel free to insert “Wikipedia” and “your favorite wildly expensive database no one uses” in the appropriate places:

In many of the more relaxed civilizations on the Outer Eastern Rim of the Galaxy, the Hitch Hiker’s Guide has already supplanted the great Encyclopedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, for though it has many omissions and contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in two important respects.

First, it is slightly cheaper; and secondly it has the words Don’t Panic inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover.

And who, besides all us sci-fi nerds, would have ever thought ol’ Dougie boy was such a profound philosopher?

Wash your feet while you think this one over, y’all 🙂

He always knew this day was coming, but he tried so very hard to fool himself into denying the inevitable. Once he’d been cut at the end of last season, he told himself it was just a temporary setback and he’d have a new gig with a new team in no time at all. It’d be like the last time he got traded . . . what a row that was! Been with a team for nearly ten years and along comes a new manager and next thing a guy knows, well, he’s looking for a new job. Of course, he’d had an agent back then. He could afford one. Unfortunately, a couple of years bouncing around the minors pretty well did that in. The last two teams, he’d handled his own contracts. It wasn’t like he need a whole lot of legal advice anyway. Guys like him never did. In all his career, he’d never merited more than a little bit above league minimum salary anyway.

After all, it wasn’t like he was a star. He’d never been to the All-Star Game; no World Series or playoff rings adorned his fingers. His baseball card would never be encased in a plastic shell to guard against bent corners or dinged edges. His hitting stats weren’t gaudy . . . he was just barely north of the infamous Mario Mendoza Line . . . but he’d punched seventeen homers over various walls in his career. He was a good, solid defensive player, though, and that’s what kept him in the game. He’d shown up for work every day, taken batting practice every day, shagged his share of fly balls . . . every day. He kept track of the “kids” on away games and he’d helped more than one superstar to a hotel room to “sleep it off.” In all, he’d had fourteen years in the Show. It was nothing to sneeze at, but it was cold comfort where he was now.

After four years on this team, he was cut. The coach said the team didn’t need him anymore. It was nothing personal. Just business, you know? Budgets were being slashed all over, you know? People want the flashy hitters these days and the young pretty boys, you know?. He’d nodded throughout the conversation, shook hands with Coach, and then he’d cleaned out his locker — thankful he was alone with no one to see the pain on his fact.

He’d waited all through the off season for the phone to ring, sure that someone out there needed his steady presence and boundless enthusiasm. Maybe he’d have to start off in the minors again, but that was okay, he’d done that before. It was kind of fun actually. He’d gotten a couple or three calls and went for interviews and workouts, but the story was always the same — thanks for coming, we’ll call if we need you.

The phone never rang a second time, though, and now he was parked in front of the TV in his modest living room  staring at the first game of the season playing out in front of him. His old team was winning 3-1 in the bottom of the seventh. Some new kid straight out of college (or maybe high school) was in his old spot on the bench. Waiting to get in the game. He knew about that wait and now —  too old to start over and too young to retire — waiting was all that he had left.

Enjoy the school year, y’all.

Love y’all and don’t forget to wash those feet.

I’ve put this post off simply because it’s so affected me in a gut wrenching, visceral way. I know that a lot of people are against capital punishment. To be truthful, I lean away from state sanctioned killings myself in cases where a convicted criminal’s life hinges on forensic evidence. It’s too great a risk to hang on society and our, admittedly fallible justice system. However, this is not one of those cases.

On July 8th in Chesnee, SC, 48 year old Ricky Lee Blackwell, a man with a long criminal record, pulled 8 year old Heather Brooke Center from the car of his estranged girlfriend, put the child in a headlock, and SHOT HER FOUR TIMES including once in the head. Then the coward ran into the woods and gave himself a grazing wound in the stomach before being arrested. You can read the local news stories here, here, and here.

8 year old murder victim.

Child murderer

This crime was committed in broad daylight and in front of MANY witnesses, unfortunately including three of Heather’s little friends and a teen girl who was visiting. Little or no evidence exists to show that Blackwell knew the child before he pulled her out and killed her.

Late last week, Blackwell was taken from the Spartanburg Regional Medical Center where he was recovering from his self-inflicted wound. He was dressed in full riot bulletproof armor . . . except for his head.

I wonder what would have happened if someone had been on the roof of the complex with an M-40A3 Marine Corp sniper rifle loaded with five .308 caliber jacketed hollow point bullets and a 10x power scope. What would have happening if that person had put the crosshairs one inch above the bridge of Blackwell’s nose and applied 1.5 pounds of pressure to the perfectly tuned trigger of the rifle, sending a 220 grain jacketed hollow point through Blackwell’s sinus cavity and the brain behind. He, unlike his victim, would be dead before hitting the ground.

What would then happen if this shooter came down and surrendered to the police peacefully and without incident, went to arraignment, plead not guilty due to a perfect application of the “Texas Defense”, and went before a jury of twelve of his or her peers? Would this jury send this person to prison?

Before anyone brings it up, I understand the slippery slope of vigilante justice. I understand “innocent until proven guilty.” I realize that “An eye for an eye just leaves everyone blind.” I get all that. I also get that this man killed a child for no other reason that to inflict emotional pain on his ex-girlfriend. I also get that once this man is convicted, he will sit on Death Row in Columbia, SC for ten to twenty years as appeal after appeal works its way through “The System”. All that time will be at huge taxpayer expense. This man will end up not only inflicting tremendous emotional damage on the victim’s family, he will leave the state with a massive bill — much more than the cost of that bullet and rifle.

Something to think about, y’all. I know it’s eaten at me for a couple of weeks, but I know what I’d do in both cases. How would you vote if you were on the jury? What if you had the chance to pull the trigger?

Love y’all. Don’t forget to wash your feet.

Okay, one of my hobbies is worrying about stupid stuff. I have a knot in my gut every time I see one of those shows about “How the World Will End” on the History Channel. I just know the government is hiding the aliens from us (well, not really . . . although SOME of the politicians seem like they might BE aliens — I’m thinking Big Al). Really though, I genuinely worry and lose sleep about the stuff that a lot of people look at and say “hmm . . . interesting, gee I hope that doesn’t happen because it would really suck,” and then go on about their business in calm fashion.
Anyway, a second blog will give me something to write about that doesn’t really fit the scope and mission of this blog (wait a minute . . . you mean there’s a mission to this place). The reason WHY I worry about this stuff as well as some other offbeat ideas will be the subject of a proposed THIRD blog I’m contemplating.
So, if you have a minute, get your feet clean, and surf on over to insomniainducers.wordpress.com and check out the first post. I’ve got more coming.
Thanks everybody. Love y’all.

Okay, Mr. Johnson up Minnesota way has tagged me for a meme about former favorite posts. We have to choose one post from each of four categories, so, with no more ado or adieu . . . my favorites from my short blogging career.

1) Rants: This one is pretty easy. It’s my post titled Houston, We Have A Problem! It was one of the first posts I ever wrote that got good, and widespread, reviews. I talked about how librarians tend to take themselves entirely too seriously and as a result, we often get sidestepped by teachers not looking for additional stress. It was my first post to garner a lot of attention and I still get comments on it.

2) Revelations: I had to look back over all my stuff to see what would qualify as a revelation and I finally decided upon An Uncomfortable Truth in which I revealed to myself and some others that our profession isn’t as necessary to the  livelihood of a school as we like to think. I also mentioned our image problem with teachers and it seemed to resonate with a few of you.

3) Resources: This was the hardest one of the categories for me to decide on because I was much more a people person than a thing person so I didn’t have a lot of ideas about resources. I did, however write up a critique of Interactive Whiteboards in my post called Paint It White.

4) Reflection: Easy. Of Starfish. I have to admit that it’s hard for me to read this post lately. No job and no prospects. Still, I can look back and remember when I did some things right. This is the only post I’ve ever written to go over 1,000 views.

Now, Cathy-jo tagged Doug and Doug tagged me, so who the blazes can I tag?

Okay, let’s start with Ms. Alice over at Alice in Infoland, then my favorite Georgia Peach — the Unquiet Librarian, and finally, since I don’t know half the internet like CJ and Skunk do, how about another Ms. Alice — this time at Reflections on Teaching.

Now don’t be shy everyone 🙂

Oh yeah . . . make sure you wash your feet!

Today would have been my Papa Wham’s 90th birthday. Unfortunately, the Wham men have two tendencies: one, we marry beautiful women and two, we die of heart attacks between 71 and 77 years of age.  Papa made it to 76 and might have broken the mold, but Granny Wham had a stroke two days before he died and I truly don’t think Papa believed she’d ever come back home and after 50 years of marriage, he just couldn’t bear the thought of living without her and his dear sweet heart gave out on him. He died in Daddy’s arms just as they reached the emergency room. The first call I ever got on a cell phone was from Mama telling me to go to the hospital. I figured Granny had passed and was already upset about that, but when Daddy put his hands on either of my shoulders and told me Papa was gone . . . well, the world slowed down to about half speed. It would stop completely eleven years later when Papa John went on to glory, but that is more than enough story for another time.

Papa Wham was the embodiment of the “Greatest Generation” to me. He quit school in the ninth grade to take Uncle William’s job at the local cotton mill after the latter lost his right arm in an ice truck accident, which is, again, a story for another time. Between the mill and Granny Mattie’s farm, Papa and his nine live-born siblings made it through the Great Depression. Papa was a Southern “Yellow Dog” Democrat until the day he died. He and Granny, like many people of their era placed F.D.R.  just a tiny bit below the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Then, in the spring of 1942, Pearl Harbor caught up with Papa and three of his four brothers. Papa finished basic training at Fort Jackson down in Columbia, SC and shipped out for England in September of that year aboard the R.M.S. Queen Mary, converted for wartime troop transport. Papa’s view of New York harbor was the last he would see of America for three years. Reading Papa’s DD-214 got me interested in World War II and the more I learned about the War, the more I held Papa in awe. This small, precious man had served in the First Infantry Division, “The Big Red One.” He was part of the invasions of North Africa, Sicily, Italy, and, of course, Normandy. Papa NEVER moved much faster than a walk. A slow trot was his ABSOLUTE top speed and the house pretty much had to be on fire to get that out of him. Whenever Granny or anyone else complained about his slowness, he liked to say, “I ran from North Africa all the way to the Rhine River and that was enough for a lifetime.” Papa never bragged about his military service, but I have his DD-214 and the one medal that made it home with him. When I asked him about the rest, he told me they were in a sea bag somewhere in New York Harbor and he really didn’t care where. Daddy told me Papa’d accidentally dropped his sea bag on his way across the gangplank when he got home, but Papa was so glad to be on American soil again, he never bothered trying to get it back.

After the war, Papa married Granny and together, they raised a family. Aunt Judy died only four hours after her birth, but Daddy and Aunt Cathy made it here just fine. In 1953, Papa put $8,000 cash down on a three bedroom brick home in Fountain Inn and paid it off ten years later. Aunt Cathy still lives there and about 75% of the best memories I have growing up took place inside those four walls.

I could go on and on about him. He was my hero and I miss him just as much today as I did the day I sat on the pew at Beulah Baptist Church and listened to his funeral being preached. I had a huge grin on my face and couldn’t help it. Aunt Cathy was mortified and wanted to know what I found so funny. I’ll end this post with that story . . .

Papa was a deacon, one of twelve, at the church. It came time for new carpet and pew covers and Papa and the other three “older” men on the deacon board voted for a conservative “sea foam” green color scheme. Unfortunately, the rest of the board, composed of “the younger generation”, won a majority and the church was redone in a crimson and scarlet color of fabric and carpet that Papa said looked like belonged in a Parisian whorehouse. I was a teenager at the time and couldn’t help but ask Papa just exactly how he knew what the inside of a Parisian whorehouse looked liked, He cut his eyes at me, but couldn’t help smiling and said, “You’d best be glad your granny didn’t hear you say that or we’d both be in a world of trouble.”

Anyway, when Granny asked Papa at supper that night what the church would look like, Papa said, “Mama, just know that when you see it, I voted SOLIDLY against it.” Those were the words that were running through my mind in my beloved Papa Wham’s soft voice as I sat between Granny Wham and Aunt Cathy that hot July day in the church and saw, reflected in Papa’s brushed steel, flag drapped casket, a scarlet that “belonged in a Parisian whorehouse.”

They don’t come like my Papa Wham anymore. I don’t have the same faith in an afterlife I once did, but what faith I do have, I cling to in large part because of my hope of seeing Papa Wham again one day beyond the clouds. I don’t know of much of anything else in this world or the next that would make me happier.

Happy Birthday, Papa. I love you.

And I love y’all as well. Wash your feet, now, and if you think about it, say a prayer for me and my beloved Papa.

Two hundred thirty three years ago tonight, it was hot and sticky in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Clouds of biting mosquitos would undoubtedly infect some of those gathered with Yellow Fever for which colonial Philly was famous. Crowds cheered and the Liberty Bell rang as America’s birth certificate was read to the masses. The greatest experiment in representative democracy since the Roman Republic had begun.

Two and a third centuries, five declared wars, a bloody Civil war, many other uses of the armed forces, several recessions, and one Great Depression later and we’re still here. Sure, we may not do everything right everytime, but if we’re such a bad place, why do so many people risk so much — up to and including their lives — to come to our country by any means, legal or illegal?

Truthfully, we need look no farther than the hysteria taking place in Iran. They have an election, the ruling party is theoretically ousted and they don’t leave. Instead, they recount the votes, claim victory, and SHOOT anyone who disagrees. Now, the difference between us and them is, granted, around fifty percent of the people in the country don’t want the person who is President to be President but we don’t SHOOT each other over it.

So, watch the fireworks and let’s hope that when all gets said and done, this recession ends and we keep Cadillacing along. After all, we can’t go under . . . the world needs America. Otherwise, who else would the rest of the world love to hate?

Keep your feet washed y’all and have a happy Fourth 🙂

Yesterday was Father’s Day. That means Saturday past I had to perform the most difficult scheduled task in my year. I had to pick out a Father’s Day card for Daddy. The problem that makes the task so onerous is my inability to lie to myself and others coupled with the extreme lack of creativity exhibited by most greeting card writers.

Most cards for Father’s Day, at some point in them, will say something on the order of “Thank you for always being there for me” or “I could always count on you being there.” I can’t buy those cards because they would be a lie. Daddy wasn’t always there for me. As a child, he almost NEVER was there for me. I can’t remember a play or a chorus concert he ever attended. I wrestled four years in high school. He came to one match.

Daddy doesn’t live in Texas or Alaska or anywhere else like that. He lives about six or seven miles away from me, as he has pretty much since he left Mama and me.

Now, things are better these days between the two of us. Budge worked very hard in the early years of our marriage to broker, if not complete reconciliation, then at least a peaceful coexistence that allowed us to be in the same room without firing daggers at one another out of our eyes. For reasons I don’t fully understand, Daddy loves my Budge very much — not that I find that hard to believe, but Daddy actually TELLS her he loves her.

So holidays are pretty much enjoyable these days. I can go eat a meal my stepmother (who is the woman Daddy left Mama for) has prepared without nausea; I can even acknowledge that she makes my favorite chicken since Granny Hughes stopped cooking. Daddy, Nicholas (my 12 year younger half-brother, that I don’t count the “half” because none of this sordid mess was his fault and he’s always loved me warts and all), and I can sit in the living room with our spouses and have grown up civil conversations.

Daddy has not mellowed much over the years. Rather, he’s gotten older and so cannot keep up the rant for as long as he once could. He is not a happy man. A good part of that is due to terrible times he endured in Vietnam’s Central Highland killing fields as a 19 year old kid. Some of it is due to Granny’s unyielding and un-breathing over-protectiveness. Some of it is due to his own father, my late, beloved, sainted Papa Wham’s belief that a man showed love to his family by providing comforts for them rather than quality time.

Daddy is very complex and I love him tremendously. I have ALWAYS loved him, even when I’ve wanted to rip his heart out and take a bite out of it right in front of him. At the heart of 99% of everything I’ve ever done, attempted, or accomplished has been the desire for two things: to show Daddy just what a great thing he left AND to hear him say, “Son, I’m very proud of you.” He will never admit the former and I still haven’t heard the latter in 38 years.

I cannot discuss my relationship with Daddy in “adult terms” because, for reasons I can’t explain, but my therapist probably can, any discussion of Daddy and I turns me back into a helpless, fat, blubbering, five-year old standing on the front porch of the trailer where I grew up watching Daddy put his bags in the truck I “helped” him paint as I begged him not to leave then watching him leave.

We have an understanding now, Daddy and I. No peace treaty has ever been signed. We are rather more like the DMZ of North and South Korea than we are the deck of the U.S.S. Missouri. I do love him and I live to please him AND over the years I’ve learned as a man things that a child cannot have understood. Daddy isn’t quite the monster that five year old inside me accuses him of being. Mama wasn’t quite the angelic saint the five year old clung to. In my five year old mind, the math is simple. Mama stayed; Daddy left. That was as far as I took the matter for years and it remains the “argument ending” fallback position. But I do love Daddy.

I just have a very hard time finding him a Father’s Day card that is truthful AND loving.

Fathers out there. Take this post for what it’s worth to you.

Sons out there. You do the same.

The phone lines run both ways. So do the post office, the cell towers, and email. Don’t tell me it’s too hard and don’t DARE tell me I don’t understand.

So, until next time. Love y’all like always.

Keep cool and wash your feet.