Sometimes I feel no one is listening to me. I talk and I write and I try to get to the heart of very important things, but it seems that a great many people either tune me out or mentally pat me on the head as if to say, “There, there now, dear, it’s not good for your blood pressure to get so worked up.”

On good days, when the medication is working the way it’s supposed to, I realize that I’m not alone and most people prefer not to hear unpleasant things (unless the unpleasantness is someone like Brittney Spears singing) and they would rather just pretend that everything is okay. I wish I had the ability to do that. It would make my life — and Mama’s and Budge’s — a lot easier. Forty six years ago this week, people weren’t listening in South Vietnam either.

Right here and now, let me be clear. This is not a post or discussion of the Vietnam War. My kind and fun-loving father fought and died in Vietnam and sent a similar looking stranger that no one in the family, including Mama, knew back to his home in his place. I lost the father I never got to know to the Vietnam War — that is all I know of that war and I’m quite passionate about that fact. If you don’t believe me, feel free to contact the Clemson professor who told the class I sat in my sophomore year that Vietnam was fought by a bunch of drugged out baby killers. I did manage to graduate once the charges were dropped though. So, spout politics around me all you want, but leave the Southeast Asian War Games out of it.

But I digress.

Forty six years ago. South Vietnam. The president of that vile little nation was a vile little man named Ngô Đình Diệm. Under his administration, religious freedom was quashed throughout the land. The Mahayana Buddhist monks of the country were especially hard hit and oppressed. Their temples were being invaded and destroyed in some cases and many of the monks themselves were jailed or, in some cases, murdered outright. Despite the protests from within and without the country, Diem turned a deaf ear to the monks’ pleas. He simply refused to listen to them. Unfortunately, lots of the powerful people in his nation and the world at large didn’t listen either. It wasn’t their concern, they weren’t Mahayana Buddhists, it didn’t affect them, they weren’t going to worry about it.

Then along came fifty-six year old monk Lâm Văn Tức. He didn’t feel anyone was listening to him either and it broke his heart and moved him to take action to ensure people would listen. At rush hour on June 11,  1963, he, accompanied by a handful of his monastic brothers and pupils, walked out into the busiest intersection in Saigon, seated himself in the lotus position, poured five gallons of gasoline over his head and body, lit himself on fire, folded his hands in his lap, and burned to death. Perhaps you’ve seen the Pulitzer Prize winning picture taken by Malcolm Browne?

Lam Van Troc burning himself to death June 11, 1963.

The administration didn’t immediately cease the crackdowns, but the monk’s actions had inflamed the population against Diem. Before the end of 1963, he would be dead by an an assassin’s bullet and his government replaced by a military coup. The oppression ended then. It took drastic measures, but someone finally started listening.

Now, I don’t think anyone who reads this should self-immolate. I am using the extreme to draw attention to the mundane. Having said that, do you think anyone is listening to teachers, librarians, parents, police officers, firemen . . .?

The list could go on. Our professions are attacked and our motives vilified. We make too much money and the students we turn out are inferior. We are saddled with laws and policies and rules that we had no voice in making and the people who made them will take no hand in bringing to fruition. Is anyone listening?

I have a very short time left that y’all will listen to me. That’s why I’m writing these hard to take posts now instead of usual summer fare. I’m not employed anymore . . . it seems increasingly unlikely that I will be a librarian or an educator of any sort come start of school next year. For good or bad, it seems principals don’t want “my type” in their schools. That means I’ll begin losing credibility with others who are educators because I won’t be “in the trenches” anymore, so I’m trying to fire you up now and leave you with a battle call that lasts after your memory of me fades.

Summer is here. Rest, recuperate. Most of all, though, plan your battles for the upcoming year. You are usually your students’ best advocates. You often know them better than their parents. Do not allow them to squander their potential, but more than that, do not allow the godforsaken system of testing and “rote”ssiere learning to victimize their spirits. Every brawl I’ve gotten into with the powers that be has been over my doing what I thought best for children. Whatever I’ve done, for nearly fifteen years now, I’ve done for my kids. When no one would listen, I made them hear, but that kind of passion is not without its price as Don Quixote and I have discovered.

I know lots of you may not feel like it, but I won’t be there to carry on the fight . . . so don’t let the fight die down.

Please. For me. For them.

Now, wash your feet, y’all, preferably in a nice cool ocean surf on some beach . . . somewhere.

Till next time. Love y’all.

This post has been on my mind for quite some time now and tonight is just as good a night as any to get it off my chest. Not to put too fine a point on it, I am sick and tired of fighting the crab bucket people inhabiting this crab bucket world with its abundance of crab bucket mentality.

Some of you get the allusion right off; others of you are convinced, if you weren’t already, that I have finally lost my mind. I stepped in something barefooted and the toxins went through the crust on my grocery store feet and right to my brain. I hear you thinking now, “The poor man (or we would say here in the South, “Bless his heart”) he’s overcome by seafood.”

For those who don’t know the story, a young man walked up to a guy crabbing off a pier and noticed the crabber had a bucket with several crabs in it and the bucket had no lid. Being a curious sort, the youngster inquired of the man why his bucket was lidless. Wasn’t he afraid of losing his hard won bounty? The crabber’s reply is telling and if we work in education it sticks a knife in our guts if we dare to give it more than a passing read; if we really let it sink in: “No son, you don’t have to put a lid on a crab bucket. The crabs take care of themselves. Soon as one gets a claw on the bucket rim and starts to work its way out, some of the others will grab it and drag it back on down into the bucket. Seems like they want to make sure everyone gets to the boiling water together.”

Know any crabs? Seen a bright student flush with potential get locked onto by some pincer claws and pulled back down into the crab bucket chaos? Crabs are everywhere and we’re all in the middle of a big crab bucket. The easiest crabs to deal with are those outside. They’re a lot of them, but they can be quickly dismissed as lacking intelligence enough to discuss the matter at hand. Politicians seem to be a crabby lot and they come to mind in this first bunch. You know the ones who get up and bluster “our public schools are FAILING OUR CHILDREN and if you elect me and support my voucher campaign, we’ll fix everything!!!!” Those of y’all working in those so-called “failing schools” and turning out exceptional children each year probably get a little nauseated everytime you feel that cold crab claw closing.

The second species of crabs are much worse . . . much, much worse. They are the insiders. They are the purest form of crab because they really ARE in the same bucket with you. Ever heard one colleague remark about or even TO another colleague something on the order of “I don’t know why you are bothering with National Boards (or getting a Phd or another Masters or working with a difficult child or using a different brand of toilet paper . . . etc) because it’s just a waste of time and effort because . . . ” and the old crab gives a list of reasons why “it’s a waste of time and effort” and, more often than not, the poor crabbitten victim starts to believe some of the poison.

So crabs are everywhere. You’ve got your Principal Crabs, your School Board Crabs, Parent Crabs, and the list can go on and on of people who just seem to enjoy watching, and sometimes helping, others fail. It’s human nature at its absolute worst. “I can’t do that so I’ll be hanged if I let you do that.” We think that schoolyard stuff gets left behind in the halls of middle school, but it has a way of surviving. Crabs are a very old group of animals and they’ve adapted well at surviving.

Still, those aren’t the worst crabs. The absolute, no doubt, bar none worst crab we have to deal with is the one reading this computer screen right now. Yep, I said it. WE are our own WORST CRABS. We listen to the devil on our shoulders. We believe the negative self talk and depressing thoughts about ourselves that always seem present. How many of you have ever sat down to hash out how you were going to do something new and innovative? How many times have you had to fight through the self-whispers like “What am I thinking?” and “This’ll never work!”

Dunno, maybe I’m the only one who has to deal with a nasty crusteacean between my ears. In any event, it’s up to us to fight back and claw our way out of these buckets we’re in by any means necessary. For some, it may mean a job change while for others it may take setting different boundaries with some family members. You can be your sweet Aunt Rosie’s right rear cheek that it won’t be easy, no matter what. But, you owe it to yourself to do it.

If I’d listened to the crab-thoughts in my head, I’d never have set foot on a college campus, much less ended up with a MLIS, and I’m a horrible crab fighter. So, the old school year just ended. Crush all your crabs and have a good old fashioned Lowcountry Boil. Vow right now to make next year a crab free time.

While you’re at it . . . watch out for your kids and for each other. Sometimes it’s easier for a friend to knock those pesky creatures off another friends back. Remember what I’ve always said if you don’t remember anything else I ever right in this dinky little corner of cyberspace “we are all on this rock together and we won’t make it if we don’t help each other AND just because no one else seems to want to help is no reason I shouldn’t.” We’ve got to look out for each other, y’all. It’s the only way we’ll make it.

Until next time, check out some of the new members of my blog roll for some crab fighting tips and as always, I love y’all and don’t forget to wash your feet.

I won’t belabor my point and post today. Suffice it to say that 65 years ago today, a brave group of men from America and our Allies launched the largest beach assault the world had ever seen. It was the beginning of the campaign to retake Europe from the hands of a madman. It was D-Day for Operation Overlord.

Every June 6, I always miss Papa Wham even more than on other days. Papa was a member of the Big Red One, the US Army’s First Infantry Division. His DD-214 reads like a map of the European / African / Mediterranean Theater of WWII. The one battle he would never discuss with me, however, was that day at Normandy. From snatches overheard in the back room of the store Papa ran while the old men talked about The War when they thought I wasn’t listening, this is what I managed to piece together.

Papa was in the fourth wave to hit Omaha Beach. The two boats to either side of his were blown to bits by artillery, probably an .88 on Point Du Hoc, before they ever made the surf line. He was one of ten men to get out of his LC-I alive when the ramp dropped, one of five to reach the beach proper through the surf, one of three to take cover behind a tank barricade, and the single survivor of that craft once the sun had set. From that strip of beach, he walked all the way to the Rhine River.

In any event, Papa wouldn’t ever watch the movie “The Longest Day” and he was gone on before “Saving Private Ryan” made Tom Hanks a legend. Normally, he didn’t have flashbacks and if he suffered PTSD (as I’m certain he must have to some degree) he suffered quietly, but around D-Day, he would often get moody and, every tenderhearted, he would cry much easier than usual. Daddy, who had fought in his own war, tried to explain it to me as Papa’s way of remembering all those boys on that beach so far away.

As for me, all I can say is how much I appreciate Papa making it home, but I also appreciate all those young lifes who gave up all their tomorrows so that I could have a future. I only knew my papa, but I imagine there were many, many papas among those boys. Many papas who would never get to bounce a grandchild on their knees, but who were willing to die storming a beach to assure that someone would bounce that grandchild in freedom.

Freeing Europe from the Nazi fist was a job that had to be done, and Papa Wham, and the tens of thousands of men like him, did it. God help us if that need should ever arise again. Given the “me first” attitude and utter decadence of our current American society, I doubt a modern day Hitler would have anything to worry his sleep.

As you read this post, I ask that you please leave your politics at the door and join with me to remember Lexington, Yorktown, Lake Erie, New Orleans, Shiloh, Antietam, San Juan Hill, Santiago, Belleau Wood, Ypres, Argonne, Pearl Harbor, Guadalcanal, Anzio, Normandy, Inchon, Chosin, Khe Sahn, Da Nang, Saigon, Kuwait City, Baghdad, Fallujah, Tikrit, Kabul, and a thousand other bloody fields famous, infamous, or maybe forgotten where American men and, lately, women have spilled their blood to dye the red stripes of Old Glory and keep her waving high.

They did not have the luxury of picking their wars or their battles. The veteran of the jungles of I Drang could not switch places with his forebear at Iwo Jima. One who stormed the beach at Sicily cannot walk through the Sunni Triangle. At this time and on this day, let there be no debate over whether their cause was just . . . they fought and they died for their comrades in arms, their families back home, and for their country.

Please do not demean or belittle the names on the black granite scar because they did not free the world of tyranny as their comrades enshrined a few hundred yards away did. They went where they were told to go and they all, from the colonial militiaman taking aim at a Redcoat to the squad of Marines creeping house to house in Iraq, died under arms to make this country — for good or ill — what it is today.

General Sherman said that war is indeed hell, but, sadly, war and death will always be necessary so long as Lady Liberty lifts her light in New York Harbor. This country will always be hated for what we stand for, warts and all. So let us look with awe upon the rows of white stones at Arlington, the sea of white crosses overlooking the beaches at Colleville-sur-Mer, the monuments in over a hundred cemeteries here and abroad where brave men and women lie still and cold in the earth’s embrace that liberty and freedom might burn hot and active across this country.

Never forget them. Never forget the price they paid. They are our fathers and mothers, our brothers and sisters, our relatives and friends.

They are the honored dead.

Remember them.

In Flanders Fields

By: Lt Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

The Reason I Get Up in the Morning and I share a love of movies. Now our tastes in movies differ, sometimes significantly, but then that’s what girlfriends and man-dates are for, now isn’t it? Anyway, Summer ’09 is shaping up to be one of the best movie seasons in my recent memory. TRIGUITM and I had already seen Wolverine and Star Trek, and, last night, we caught  the 6:30 showing of Angels and Demons. So far we think Hollywood is three for three. I have thoroughly enjoyed each of the last three weeks’ opening offerings. Since two of these three blockbusters have their genesis in print, we rode home discussing some of the better novel adaptations (Angels and Demons was very gracious to the novel) and then turned to some of the travesties that have come out of SoCal over the years.

I thought the latter would make an interesting post and so, without further ado and for your eddification, here’s my list, in somewhat particular order, of the worst examples of butchering a novel to every grace the silver screen. Share your own thoughts about my accuracy, or lack thereof, in the comments!

The Prince of Tides (from the novel by Pat Conroy): Okay, the novel was one of my favorites, not least because it was by a fellow South Carolina boy with a personality that I find very much like mine. Truth be told, the movie was not horrible, but the movie wasn’t about the book. The book, I thought, was the story of a family. The movie was a love story. It’s hard to remain faithful to a novel when the movie pretty much leaves out the main character, in this case, Tom Wingo’s older brother, Luke.

The Bridge on the River Kwai (from the novel by Pierre Boulle and based on a true story): Well, I loved the movie and “Colonel Bogey’s March” that the British soldiers are whistling as they come into the POW camp gets in your head as only “It’s a Small World After All” usually can. Having said that, the movie, and the novel to a great extent, are a slap in the face of every brave POW who worked and died building the two real bridges in Burma over the Kwai River. Not only does it take liberties with the novel, but this movie also has the kind of historical value that The Patriot would make famous decades later. For the real story, get and watch a copy of The History Channel’s excellent documentary.

Starship Troopers (from the novel by Robert Heinlein): This pairing is one of those that’s about as bad as it gets. Director Paul Verhoeven and screenwriter Edward Neumeier admitted they only read the first chapter of Heinlein’s seminal science fiction novel. As a result, they made a typical Hollywood “shoot ’em up” set in space rather than delving into the political science and ideology that are really at the heart of Heinlein’s novel. Of all the books to movies I’m discussing here, if you haven’t read Heinlein’s novel, but you HAVE seen the movie (and it IS a fun movie) you owe it to yourself to read the book. You may not agree with Heinlein’s politics, but you will admit Hollywood lost something in translation.

The Secret of NIMH (from the novel Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH by Robert C. O’Brien): The 1972 Newbery Award winning children’s book was completely rewritten for this animated feature. The movie did start like the book did and they both have NIMH in the title and that’s pretty much it. The characters are the same, but their fates and motivations are not. I like to call this movie a “book report buster” because if a child makes the mistake of writing a book report (gods, what a horrible fate anyway) and bases it on the movie alone he or she is busted. Both are good works in their own rights, but the movie butchers the novel.

Eragon (from the novel by Christopher Paolini): I do not usually advocate violence, but directors who foist such grave damage onto such an incredible book should be shot, or at the very least be forced to read the book. I have read that Paolini was “quite happy” with the movie adaptation of his novel. All I can say is, if that’s the case, he doesn’t care much about what folks do with his work.  Or, maybe he just likes the idea of being rich. If the latter is the case, he should have followed the lead of J.K. Rowling, who, though not one of my favorite people in the world, managed to make sure that the movies that would add “filthy” onto the “rich” in front of her name were reasonably accurate depictions of what went on in her novels. I was stoked to see the movie when it came out. I have only been more disappointed in one other movie based on a novel and that movie was

The Golden Compass (based on the novel Northern Lights by Phillip Pullman): Oh the chances wasted. I don’t like Phillip Pullman, not because he is an atheist, but because he is an arrogant evangelical atheist. Arrogant evangelical anybodies get on my nerves. America is called land of the free for a reason. Having said all that, the man wrote a wonderful novel. I mean, talking BEARS that WEAR ARMOR and FIGHT?! What’s not to love? After listening to the excellent audio version of the book on my way to work, I was, once again, stoked to see the movie. Budge was even more hyped up than I was! She’d read all three novels in preparation for the movie. When we saw the previews, we just knew this was going to be an amazing movie — star studded cast, cutting edge CGI — we were ready. We also came unbelievably close to walking out halfway through the movie. It was that bad. The TALKING, ARMOR WEARING bears? Very, very important to the novel. Did I mention they WORE ARMOR, TALKED and FOUGHT? Extremely, unbelievably cool! Very little time on screen. The novel was the first of a trilogy, but the way the movie bombed, don’t hold your breath for a sequel.

And finally,

The Wizard of Oz (From the novel The Wonderful Wizard of Oz by L. Frank Baum): Heresy! You think I should be burned at the stake for such a terrible suggestion? Well, actually, no. While the Wizard of Oz is one of my Budge’s favorite movies and is one of the most beloved films of all time, as well as one of the best, it showed very little faithfulness to Baum’s novel. The differences are multitudinous and the vast majority can be put down to the fact that Baum’s novel had political undertones that were outdated by 1939, still, changing silver slippers to ruby and a clear glass city to emerald green would have to be considered considerable poetic license with the original text. In this case, though, the movie has eclipsed the novel many times over. Had the studio waited a year to release the film, it probably would have wracked up at the Oscars. As it lay though, Oz lost out in almost all of its many, many nominations to another little film based on a novel. Perhaps you’ve heard of Gone with the Wind?

Hope you like the list! Now, scrub your necks and wash your feet, then tell me what y’all think!

Love y’all 🙂

Right now I’m extraordinarily happy and that’s a big deal for me. I just did my nightly check of the blog stats before bed and today “Grocery Store Feet” broke the 10,000 viewings mark. Crazy as that sound, ten thousand people (or maybe one person ten thousand times? MAMA!!) have clicked on a link to read what I’ve written. If nothing else shows me the power of what librarians call Web 2.0, this figure does. Ten thousand people read this. That’s more than the population of my home town by a factor of ten. That’s like every person at a good sized university reading my blog.

I know that pride goeth before a fall and I know I’ve just changed directions somewhat on what I’m concentrating on, but I can’t help hoping the traffic increases. Now, I don’t figure I’ll ever be a “Boing, Boing” or a “Lifehacker”, but I wouldn’t mind being a Southern version of a “Blue Skunk”! Maybe I should change the name to “The Blue Possum Blog”?

Wonder what Doug would think about that 🙂  ?

In any event, folks, I thank every one of you who has viewed and read what I’ve had to say and I hope y’all will stick around to see if I get better with time and practice. Until next time, love y’all and remember to scrub your necks and wash your feet.

Well, I don’t know quite how to say this delicately, so I guess I’ll fall back on the old standby of just blurting it out. My days as a school librarian are most likely over. The district I was working in closed two schools in three years and ended up with five schools and six librarians. That made me odd man out. (Literally, odd MAN. I was the only guy librarian in the district). Of course, the year doesn’t end until June 4 and my contract technically runs through June 30, but that’s all “on paper” stuff, really. State testing started yesterday and I’ve got more days of leave accumulated than there are school days left. Add to all that some simmering bad blood between me and a couple of colleagues and, well, let’s just say I’ll be using all those “sick days” regardless of if I want to or not. I meet with the personnel director tomorrow morning at 9:00 to discuss exactly how I’ll be spending the last three weeks of this school year, but I’d advise all you who are betting types out there to put your money on “paid administrative leave” and, believe you me, I’ll be more than thankful if that’s all it turns out to be. So I’m officially back in the job market and I’m pretty sure my next source of income won’t be a school district. This will be the yet another time I’ll have left my metaphorical bridges pretty much the same way General Sherman left Atlanta.

So, I’m going to take the blog in a little different direction. As you can see if you’ve been a reader before, I’ve already changed the name a bit. Basically, I’m dropping all pretext of being an expert in anything, especially an expert librarian. I’m going to focus more on what comes naturally to me and that’s storytelling and commentary. I spent a big chunk of my early formative years in the back room of Papa Wham’s auto parts store listening to crusty veterans of World War II swap war stories, fishing stories, and a few stories that Granny Wham would have blistered my hide just for standing around to listen to.

Each of those elderly gentlemen is gone now, and I fervently hope they achieved a well-deserved rest, but their stories and the stories my grandparents and other older relatives told me during family reunions, church suppers, and power outages left me with a tremendous appreciation for word and phrase. As I’ve grown older, I’ve acquired more than a few stories of my own and I hope to share those with you as well.

So there you have it. Grocery Store Feet walk on, just in a slightly different direction. I hope those of you who began this journey with me find it worthwhile to stay with me. Hopefully, I’ll make it worth your while. Until the next time, don’t forget to wash your feet, y’all! 🙂