Please Pass The Gravy

“Please pass the gravy, and good lord are those marbles or lumps in the mashed potatoes?”
Ray Burns, as usual, was not the least bit happy about his meal. For forty years Ray and Twila Burns had been married. Nightly for forty years Twila lovingly prepared Ray a delicious home made supper. For forty years Ray whined about supper.
“This roast is tougher than the skin on my heels, these beans taste like they were soaked in a tub of smelly socks, I’ve had better salad in an elementary school cafeteria!”
Ray continued without taking a breath. The truly amazing thing about Ray, the art of his rant, is the more he complains, the faster he consumes the dish he is so brazenly bashing. . If he really hates something, if he finds something truly disgusting, if the recipe occupying his plate bumps Ray to the edge of nausea he shovels it in like a farmer pitching hay.
“This tepid tar you call coffee tastes like ughhhh ughhhhhh aaa.”
Ray’s eyes began to seemingly bulge out of his head as the color of his skin made a progression from a light crimson to a very disturbing shade of blue. Dropping to his knees he fixed his distended eyes on the back of his wife who was just finishing frosting a lovely German Chocolate cake, a recipe she’d seen on Regis.. His hands flew to his throat and a made a wheezing sound that resembled that chuff created by the last few pitful pounds of air escaping from a bicycle tire.
Ray’s face hit the freshly mopped linoleum floor with a dense clunk. Twyla slowly spun on her heel with a chocolate encrusted spatula in her hand and announced “Yes Ray, they are marbles.”

Educational Consultants-Don't you just love them!

Education is a fickle field my friend. We love consultants, experts, and speakers to come in and tell us how to do our job. I mean, no matter how long you have teaching, no matter how successful you have been in your field there is some expert out there by god who can make you a better teacher. The ironic part about the whole process is-these experts, for the most part, have not done what they are experts at in years. So, I ask, how do you become an expert? There are several criteria.
1. Experts have to live at least 50 miles away from you. No matter how much incredible talent and expertise you have in your district, they are not an expert. They just live too damn close.
2. They have not been a classroom teacher since the Ford Administration. Current practinoners “don’t know shit!” Look around it’s a fact. To be an expert in the field you have to have been out of the field for at least 30 years.
3. Experts have never actually done what they are experts at. Again, a fact. Have someone come in to teach you how to use technology in the classroom. They are great at whistles and bells, they’ve just never used them in the classroom. Experts at goal-setting can spend days telling you how to do it with students, they just never have.
4. You must have an acronym. The more acronyms you have, the bigger an expert. PSDA, HEAT, LOTI, LMNOP. There is no way in hell you can be an expert at anything without an acronym. Can’t happen.
5. You must have a website. Hell, enough said there.

So my friends, to wrap it all up .Here is how to become an expert in education. Move 50 miles away from anywhere, quit teaching for a few decades, come up with a catchy acronym, design a web-site. You will be revered by all, in great demand, and acquire more wealth than you ever imagined.

Question Talkers

“He’s a Question Talker”

You’ve heard them. You may even be one. It’s one of those things, those personality traits, or quirks, or inclinations; or whatever you want to call it that people either have or they don’t have. They either are one or they aren’t one. No, in the realm of question talker there is no gray area. Just like Kevin Cronin warbled in “157 Riverside Avenue” let me give you an example; let me give you an example.
Mike Golic is pissed off and letting the world know about it on Mike and Mike in the morning. Now if you are watching the show on TV you may very well think he’s pissed because of the way he looks in that hideous short-sleeved mock turtleneck. I know, I know. The previous evening in a heated NBA playoff game the Pistons in bounded the ball after either a time-out or a courtside tattoo break. “Hurry up dude, hit me with the ink, just make up some deep shit and script me man, do it!”
Anyway, the Pistons have the ball and for some reason the clock doesn’t start. Chauncey Billups hits a three pointer and the Pistons take the lead at the end of the third quarter. When this miscarriage of justice is brought to the attention of the referee’s they look at each other, scratch their Asses and say, “Yeah, uh, that play took about 4.6 seconds so yeah, the shot counts.”
That stellar little spot of officiating is why Golic is torqued, though the god-awful shirt should at least irritate him. Now comes in the question talking, “Do I think they should have taken the points off the board? Yes. Do I think they should have gone back to the end of the court and replayed that little bit of action? Yes.”
You see. Question talking, I myself call it the self-interview. Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer however, called it question talking, and who the hell am I to thumb my nose at cultural icons.
“Hey Golic, listen.”
“I think they should have taken the points off the board and replayed that little bit of action.”
Nice. Articulate. Intelligent. Is it just me? No I’m not question talking here I want to know. Is it just me? Has the frequency of the self-interview, sorry Elaine, increased or am I hyper vigilant. It’s not only sportscasters, common people do it too. Let me give you an example; let me give you an example.
“Hey John Your new shingles look nice.”
“Thanks!” John yells back at his neighbor Smiling Bob. Yeah that one. “Do I think it looks nice? Yes. Would I do it again naked in the heat of the day? No.”
See what I mean. “Hey John listen.”
“Yeah, it does look nice, but I wouldn’t do it again naked in the heat of the day.”
Nice and neighborly, and you sound so much more intelligent.

Poetry of the Seasons

In class we have been writing poetry about the seasons here in Casper. The whole thrust of the poems is for people from different parts of the world to be able to experience our seasons through poetry. For each season we used a different type of poem.
For Spring we used a quatern. This is simply four quatrains of poetry using an AABB rhyming pattern. The tricky part is the repetion we employed. The first line in the first quatrain is the second line in the second, third line in the third and fourth line in the fourth quatrain.
For summer we chose the Nonet. A nonet begins with a nine syllable line, the second line is 8 syllables, third is 7 etc. on down to a one syllable final line.
The Autumn poem was a Richtometer. This poem starts with a 2 syllable word. The next line is 4 syllables, the third line is 6 syllables. Next is an 8, then 10. The poem now goes back down 8, 6, 4, 2.
For winter we wrote free verse. I attached my movie to this blog. Check it out I hope you enjoy it./Users/theobaldt/Desktop/four seasons poetry.mov

You'll never go back!

Sometimes the worst thing that can happen to you is to be very good at something. From the time I was a little Johnny anything athletic came pretty easily to me. Swimming and baseball were the sports that occupied those pre-teen years and I did well in them. When Junior High came storming into my life football and basketball became my passion. The skills required for these sports came effortlessly to me, and I enjoyed everything associated with both.
I loved football, The whole ball of wax, practice, drills, getting yelled at by the coach. By the time I was a senior in high school I was getting some ink in the papers and some college coaches were calling and knocking on my door. If you have never played football it is hard to describe the buzz I got during games. In the huddle when the play was called, and I knew I was getting the ball it was magical. Taking the handoff or the pitch and turning up field, stiff-arming some lowly safety or running over a linebacker, dragging some poor sucker for a few yards, even getting creamed were all huge rushes. Hauling myself off the ground and trotting back to the huddle I couldn’t wait to get the ball again.
Once the comfort zone we all know as High School was over I went on to college to play football. That is where the fun left the game. Everything was too serious, the coaches were too picky, and above all I partied way too much. Way too much. That whole “you have to go to class” just didn’t stick with me. Nobody gave a crap if I slept in, or skipped class, or didn’t do my assignments. No one cared, especially me. Before I knew it my grades sucked, my parents were pissed, and I dropped out of college. My Dad, never the great communicator, told me, “You’ll never go back, You’ll never graduate. The glove had been dropped, the line had been drawn, the challenge had been… You get the picture.
I didn’t go back for a while, and more than once I started to believe the old man. Maybe I wouldn’t go back, maybe I wouldn’t get that degree. There was months and even years that I didn’t think about college. I had a pretty good job. The paycheck wasn’t huge, but it was a living. Life could be worse. Sure enough, the idea started creeping back in my mind. Get that degree, get that degree. Slow was the way to go, I knew that much. I took a class here and a class there, then declared education as my major and started taking it seriously. Not one to ask for a lot of help I wanted to do this on my own. I continued working full-time and started taking 2 or 3 three classes a semester. I had a wife, two beautiful baby girls, a full-time job, and was taking as many classes as I could afford. No school loans for me, no sir, I was paying my own way.
Thirteen years after I graduated from High school, I got my Bachelor’s degree, and I did not owe one penny in student loans. I did all the work and I paid for it myself. I will never forget the look on my Dad’s face when I showed him that diploma. There were so many things I wanted to say, so many smart-ass, in-your-face little snippets I wanted to yell at him. I didn’t. Later I went on to get my Master’s Degree, and I am very proud of that, but not as proud as I am of that Bachelor’s Degree, not as proud as I am of being able to look at my old man and just shaking my head, knowing he was wrong.

The Equality State

Mary Kettle’s column in the Saturday Casper Star Tribune hit me right square between the eyes. The day before her piece was published I came home from school telling the same story she told, almost verbatim. This was three days after Election Day, and I have to admit I was still on a high. One of those this is a freaking once in a lifetime event here folks highs. The voters had finally spoken, and spoken very articulately. We did something that should have been accomplished decades ago. I still get all gooey inside when I think of Obama’s acceptance speech, when I realize the doors of opportunity that finally got kicked open for millions of citizens and their children and their children.
At school, in the space I work so hard to grow feelings of trust, and care, and respect in I started hearing awful tirades from students. If you have ever worked with kids, had a kid, or even once had a face-to-face conversation with a kid, then you know. You know kids repeat what they hear from the adults in their lives. And if they hear it enough times they start to believe it. I heard “Now it’s going to be called the Black House.” From a sweet girl with a sunny disposition and a smile and hello for everyone she meets. I heard “Obama won’t outlaw guns, he’ll get us by outlawing bullets.” From a boy I have more than once commended for his caring attitude toward other students. From another girl who struggles like crazy with reading and writing I heard, “I don’t have anything against black people or anything, and I like black guys, I just think the President should be white.” Where do I even begin to try and help them see, to try and help them learn about diversity, and acceptance, and “All men are created equal?
I, like Mary Kettle, have to ask myself, is it only in Wyoming? I hope not. I guess that’s not true. I hope it is only in Wyoming. Not to put some kind of redneck curse on The Equality State, oh hell no. Just to be able to believe people in the other 49 states don’t have to listen to the hate and ignorance.

Walking Home

“I hate walking home alone, where the heck did Don go?” The distance from the State Theatre to my house was only about 6 or 7 blocks. My brother Don and I prided ourselves on the fact we could make it home, on a dead run mind you, in less than two minutes. Tonight however, as soon as the movie ended Don disappeared, I was on my own. No big deal, except I was only 9 years old.
The first couple of blocks were no challenge, full of weekend fun. A block south along Main Street. Small groups of kids and teenagers were walking to cars, or just hanging out talking. As I turned and headed west I felt a cool wind blowing in my face. Twangy country music drifted out the front door of the VFW club. The greasy, tasty smell of French fries and onion rings hung in the air like an approaching storm cloud. I remember asking my dad one time why it always smells like French fries in front of the club. “Nothing tastes better on a belly full of beer than hot, greasy French fries.”
Past the VFW club the dull blue and red glow of neon signs faded. Downtown was left behind and so was much of the light. One block west of downtown, across the street from the Catholic Church was Simonson’s funeral home. During the day it was pretty benign. If you didn’t know it was a mortuary you might actually think it was a house. As a matter of fact the East end of the funeral home was a house, occupied by the undertaker and his family.
At night however it seemed to go through a transformation. The small rectangular windows high up on the walls were filled with a dim smoky looking light. Knowing just beyond those windows some poor dead body rested quietly in a coffin was pretty unnerving. There was a big brick clock at the southwest corner of the home. It had dim lights in the face and a pointed top. A low evergreen bush, always trimmed neatly, surrounded it. Don would never admit it but I think those windows and the clock are the reason we usually ran home. It was not to see how fast we could run, it was because we were scared snotless.
As I approached the mortuary I didn’t think of running. I guess I was preoccupied, wondering where Don was and what I would tell my parents when they asked why I was walking home alone. If I told them because Don didn’t wait for me outside the theater I knew he would get in trouble and well, I would pay in the long run. If I told them I just took off after the movie I would catch hell for walking home alone at night. As it turned out I wouldn’t have to worry about it.
Just as I approached the mortuary, looking up at those low wide windows, I felt a shiver run up my spine. I thought to myself, “I think I will run.” When YEEEEOOOOOOW out from behind the clock came a loud scream and something jumping straight at me. Believe me, I was horrified, but not petrified. Crying and stuttering I took off like a shot, running faster than I have ever run. Unfortunately, whatever jumped out from behind the clock was right behind me. For only being 9 I was pretty fast, but whatever was behind me was equally as fast. I could hear the flop, flop of sneakers gaining on me. My hair was on end and I couldn’t see very well because the tears welling up in my eyes and running down my cheeks were blurring my vision.
Past Jerry Hayes house I bolted across the highway right in front of the grade school. Past the old fountain, streaking by the new wing across the alley, I was cruising. I was almost home. Just as I got by the huge lilac bushes in the front yard WHAM!! I was tackled from behind.
Don would not get off of me, nor would he quit laughing. “You were scared shitless. I can’t believe you didn’t pee your pants. That was classic.”
“Get off me you butt hole.” I was not amused.

Heroes

I suppose the older you get the more the word hero changes. It sure has with me. When I was a little kid, you know, grade school. My heroes were always sports figures. I loved sports and those guys were just so bigger than life, so “how can they be that cool”? Kareem Abdul Jabbar, Kenny Stabler, Fred Belitnikof, Reggie Jackson, Bob Devaney, Anyone who had ever donned the uniform of the beloved Nebraska Cornhuskers. Heroes. It makes sense I guess. They were doing what I someday wanted to do. They were living the life I thought a hero lived, the life we all desired. They were whom I rooted for, bought posters of, had trading cards of. They were who we were each recess.
Moving on to junior high and high school I changed my outlook on heroes. My heroes now represented a whole different demographic entirely. The people I tended to look up to during those years were counterculture types. Musicians, older guys in town who liked to party and get high. The guys that didn’t just bend the rules they obliterated them. These guys were cool to me, they represented the dark side, everything my parents warned me against. As I look back on that now, I can only shake my head and feel cheated. None of those guys amounted to a pile of shit. Half of them ended up in jail, the other half died young, none of them deserved my respect.
Not until I began teaching did I really realize what a hero is. I started seeing kids who had parents in jail and prison, whose moms and dads were still sitting at the kitchen table drinking when they were trying to get their 4th grade selves to school on time, who didn’t have a buck and a half for the field trip because their mom needed cigarettes that morning. I saw kids who had only known poverty, abuse, and addiction in their homes. Kids became my heroes.
I still see those kids, 15 years later, and teaching a different grade level, I still see those kids. They are older, and more sophisticated, but they are still fighting the same battles. I don’t know, maybe I feel an immense amount of guilt about my own children. Maybe I feel bad about the things I did as a kid. They way I treated my parents, other kids, girls.
Anyhow, kids are my heroes, kids will always be my heroes and I hope like hell I can always be there to do something, anything to help these heroes become super heroes.

Jensen's Dog

Jensen’s dog wasn’t very big. As size goes, some would be inclined to describe it as small. But just like with hot peppers and farts, size doesn’t really matter. That damn dog scared the living crap out of me.
Every other customer on my route that owned a dog either kept them inside, chained up, or they were so benign you hardly noticed them. Some would wag their tail and look at you lovingly, others would ignore you, but Jensen’s little beast was entirely different. It was never tied up, or in the porch behind a closed door. The damn thing was always somewhere lurking, waiting.
The scenario usually played out something like this. After leaving my bike at the curb and grabbing the paper to throw onto the porch I would look around. Nothing, No dog anywhere. Within the first three steps towards the porch a snarling, slobbering bag of hair would appear out of nowhere and rocket straight toward me. It may come from around the house, under the porch, or from any of the junked vehicles in the driveway, but as sure as night follows day it would come running. Sometimes it would get within an inch of you and nip at your heels or pant leg. Sometimes it would jump and bite at your hands or god forbid your crotch. On occasion it would even draw blood. I was terrified of that hobbit wolf.
“Here is what you do.” My brother Don had the route before me. He had been dealing with the same varmint for a few years. Upon entering Junior High his after school hours were filled with sports, so I inherited the paper route. “ Get something sweet like a hunk of Three Musketeers bar. Hold it out nice and high so the creepy little rat will have to hop up to get it.”
“Where am I gonna get a candy bar?” I couldn’t bear the thought of wasting anything as delicious as a candy bar on that little piece of crap.
“Buy one dumbass, do you want to get rid of this thing or not?”
I guess I didn’t have a choice. Half of a candy bar was a small price to pay in the long run.
“Now once the dog jumps wind up and kick it hard. I mean hard, rights square in the gut!”
“I don’t know Don,” The thought of kicking this dog scared me even more.” What if I just piss it off? I mean, what if it really gets mad and attacks me?”
“Do what you want.” Don started walking away. Turning slowly he said, “But if you want to get rid of it..”

The next day I ran in The Trading Post and bought a snickers bar. I know Don said Three Musketeers, but I liked them too much. If I had to sacrifice a candy bar it may as well be a snickers. Rolling up on the Jensen's house my hands shook. “I can do it, I can do it.” Unwrapping the snickers I held it in my right hand, grabbing the paper in my left. One step nothing, two steps nothing, three steps, all hell broke loose. From under the porch came a black and white, gnarling, growling flash, it was on me like a great white shark on a bloody, dying fish. A strange calm came over me. It occurred to me this is what soldiers on a suicide mission must feel like. They know the dangers that lay ahead, and yet they calmly accept their fate.
Holding the snickers at chest level I felt a moment of Zen. The dog leapt flashing a white underbelly like Smaug over the people of Dale. The scene was like slow motion. My knee came up hard and fast landing perfectly in the fattest part of the belly. The beasty curled up like a tennis ball and bounced once on the hard ground. She slunk away with her tail between her legs yelping and whimpering in pain. I felt terrible. As much as I detested the creature, I didn’t really want to hurt it.
Hearing the screen door squeak I glanced over and saw Mrs. Jensen standing there. Crap, I knew I was in for it. She saw me kick her dog harder than a field goal kicker on a last second boot. Head down, shuffling, I moped over ready for a first class butt chewing and handed her the paper. Slowly looking up at her I saw a toothless smile spread across her face.
“Good kick kid, she won’t bother you again. You just have to show the little bastard who the boss is.”

The Perfect Breakfast

Doctors, Teachers, and nutritional Experts
Have long since dictated,
starting the day with a proper breakfast
Surely cannot be overrated.

More importantly I wonder,
and you may think it’s silly.
Which is the more perfect breakfast
Cold pizza or chili?

"You boys better not have those damn BB guns out there"

“You boys better not have those damn bb guns out there.” My mom stepped out on the porch with a head full of curlers and a kent cigarette hanging out of her mouth. “ I mean It! If I get one more phone call about you guys shooting trucks someone is getting thumped.”
Don and I knew we were busted. We had a great set up be we also knew it would not last, nothing sweet ever does. Our house was surrounded on two sides by a wrap around porch. Some kind of bush bordered the porch. I really don’t know what kind of hedge it was but I know the old man sure liked to keep it neat. What we like about it was its height. We could kneel on one knee, lay our bb guns on the hedge and shoot trucks driving by. It was great sport. We would hear those big old tractor trailers downshift as they entered town from the west and we knew we had a bout 10 seconds. Cock, aim. Fire. Ping, ping, ping, ping all down the length of the trailer. We never shot at the tractors, nor did we go for the window, not that we didn’t hit one sometimes, we just never aimed at them.
“We need a new plan.” Don remarked as we put our guns I the garage. “As long as mom is home, we have to find a way to not get caught.”
“What if we wait until it’s dark?” I looked up at him pretty sure I had a good idea.
“Maybe” he said as he jumped on his bike and was gone apparently not giving my obviously excellent idea a second thought.

As soon as supper was done that night I was l was lying on the floor watching TV. Don tossed me a walkie talkie and said “C’mon numbnuts I have an idea.” I followed him to the garage wondering what the heck was going on. “Take this bb gun and get in our usual position, I am going up the street to Pierce’s alley with this walkie talkie. When I see a truck coming I will tell you when to fire..”
“Wasn’t waiting until after dark my idea?” I asked as I poured a handful of bb’s into the barrel of my red rider.
“Hell no, you have never had an idea good or bad.” Don answered smacking me on the back of the head and he was off.
Gun cocked, walkie talkie at my foot I was ready for battle. Just as I was thinking we usually don’t many trucks coming down the highway at night the radio cackled.
“Big truck coming, stay crouched behind the bushes and come up firing on the count of ten.”
Scrunched down cradling my weapon of choice I began counting. ….8, 9, 10 I stood straight up and without thinking, without so much as checking out my target I started firing. By the second squeeze of the trigger I knew I was in deep crap, by then it was too late. Ed Day, our small town’s night cop was slamming on the brakes of his cruiser right in front of my house. My first shot had cracked the passenger side rear-view mirror, the second one completely shattered the “bubble machine” on the roof of his old LTD.
The front door to my house, the tires on the cop car, and my bladder all squeeled at the same time. Big Ed flew out of the car waving his flashlight, “who the hell is shooting at me?” he roared scanning the nearby yards for an attempted murderer. If he would have looked a little more closely he would have found one, no not me, my mom.
“Whack!” the first slap stung my right check, the second and third ones were apparently only for effect because the first one smarted so bad I was numb. By the time Big Ed figured out what was wrong I was on my knees, not begging for mercy, just trying to hide.
Now, I could go on and relate my punishment, my humiliation, and my anger at my brother who came loping up 10 minutes later looking as innocent as a baby seal, but I won’t. What I’ll tell you is I never shot a bb gun again.

Welcome to this blog

I just want to give a quick thank you for visiting my blog. This blog will be a vehicle for me to get some exposure. I am a public school teacher and love it, by my real passion is writing. I will include personal narratives, short stories, and journal entries I have written. MOST of my writing is fiction, but hey, fiction is only reality with a strange twist. Feel free to comment on anything I have written. Enjoy the life!

Frontier Ted