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.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Monday, October 13, 2008
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.”
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.”
Sunday, October 12, 2008
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?
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?
Friday, October 10, 2008
"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.
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
Frontier Ted
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