A Boy Named Osama-A Man Named Adolph

Sometimes people are just ignorant. Sad to say that means all people, including me. My wife told me about a lady she works with. Not a close friend, just a colleague. This somewhat fastidious woman, and concerned mother, was upset her child had to read a story about a boy named Osama in school. Definitely a tough name to have in this day and age, and your heart has to go out to the kid. I did a little research and tried to find out what I could. The child is an Islamic kid attending school in New York. The constant harassment he received over his name left him severely traumatized and led to a botched (if you could ever call an unsuccessful suicide attempt a failure) suicide attempt and a transfer to a school for traumatized students. I guess it figures students would be pretty cruel to a kid named Osama. After all kids are by nature quick to jump all over strange names, and man can they be hateful. Osama, however, wasn’t bullied by other students, far from it. In his own words he described his classmates as being very supportive. No, Osama was bullied by teachers. Teachers, just like me. He was told he would never pass no matter what he did, he put up with comments like, “Oh Osama you’re here, and I thought you were hiding in a cave somewhere. The school principal went so far as to tell Osama, a Nigerian-born Muslim, he would be better off in an Islamic school. This went on for over two years and led to the eventual suicide attempt. In his new school Osama prefers to be called Sam, but will revert back to his given name when he reaches 18.
Where do my stupidity and a man named Adolph figure into this? As unpopular as the name Osama has to be for people carrying that moniker through life in this day and age, Adolph was equally hated in the post-war years. You know which war I’m talking about, the last one we won. As a child my neighbor across 4th avenue from us was named Adolph Lucas. Mr. Lucas I’m sure was a nice man. He never missed mass, always shoveled his walks, and his wife Mary was quick to share a freshly baked cookie. None of this mattered to Don and I. We were shitty to Adolph Lucas. We would see him get home from his job with the county roads department, park his pickup in his driveway, and make his slow purposeful stroll up the sidewalk to his front porch. Don and I would hide behind the bushes and yell terrible things at Mr. Lucas. You can imagine, especially if you know Don, what we yelled. The name Hitler or worse yet Heil Hitler, Nazi and a number of other equally insulting barbs were constantly hurled. Think about how cruel this must have seemed to Adolph Lucas. Imagine what he must have been thinking as he took communion and there stood Don and I as alter boys in our cassocks, doing the work of the Lord. My guess is he wasn’t mad, he didn’t consider suicide, and he wasn’t looking to sue anyone. My guess is he felt sorry for us.

I See This Kid

I See This Kid

I see this kid in front of the building
Pants way too baggy
The crotch at his knees.
A cap
Bill pointing straight to the side
Laughing, holding a skateboard
Waiting for the bell to ring.

I see this kid in the hallway
Her hair is pink, and orange, and maybe green
Big buckles, chains, adorn her
Baggy pants
Laughing and walking
With a friend

I see this kid in class
Polo shirt, shorts, flip flops
A hemp choker around his neck
Writing a poem, doing his work

Who are these kids?
What will they become?
My guess is..
Parents, teachers
And
Maybe engineers.

"Friendship Is Not One Big Thing, Its a Million Little Things"

Previously in this blog I talked about writing assignments I give my class. I always write what they are writing, and am quick to share. Today I led a great lesson on friendship. We watched three short videos with different friend-based themes and discussed each. The last video ended with a young man proclaiming "Friendship is not one big thing, its a million little things." I used that as my prompt and turned the kids loose. below is what I wrote, and no I won't share this one with kids. I did not use my school only language.

Friendship can either be the most comforting or most terrifying aspect of life. In the minds of some middle school children it is the only thing. In an ever-changing digital world where the number of friends you have on My Space or Facebook is a badge of honor to be worn proudly there cannot be a timelier topic. Last week The New Oxford American Dictionary named unfriend the word of the year. Unfriend is defined as a verb meaning to remove someone as a friend on a social networking site. Teenagers and young adults interviewed on the subject almost unanimously felt being unfriended on-line is more devastating than a face-to-face blow out. Is it no wonder the saying “Friendship is not just one big thing, its a million little things.” Is confusing to kids today.
Friendship is like a wedding cake. There is a big bottom layer. Sure I see these people as friends, but in reality they are acquaintances. People I know and like, but not really friends. You bump into them at wedding receptions and during happy hour. For the most part you are happy to see them, exchange pleasant greeting and move on.
The next layer, that smaller middle layer of the cake are the people I work with. The bond is obvious and we have a common goal. Because of these commonalities you grow close. Many times you travel to conferences and meetings with these Dudes, sit in meetings, and share that common pool of blood, sweat, and tears. With this group it is not one big thing, far from it, it is the million little things. You share joy over a kid acing a test, or finishing a paper. You cry together when a student loses a parent to death, jail, or desertion. You grieve when a treasured colleague changes schools. The million little things you have in common build a bond that knows no bounds.
The top layer, that small little chunk of sugar and frosting forgotten in the freezer, are the friends you love. You help them move with out complaining, even when the thermometer is topping out at 100 degrees. You drop what you are doing to go give them a jump start at 5:30 a.m. You leave for work 45 minutes earlier than usual so you can follow them to the mechanic then give them a ride to work. You make a million little sacrifices and get back so much more than you can count. These friends listen to you never ending litany of “fucked-up decisions made by dick-headed non-educators posing as administrators.” They pull over so you won’t puke in the car. They clean your fish and fix your lawn mower. Those friends you share a million little things with are the ones that are there when you need that one big thing.
Friendship is not an easy A. Many people grade themselves as friends closer to a C, but a high C. If you get what the saying “Friendship is not one big thing, it is a million smaller things” means that’s all that matters. You understand friendship, and live that value. Unfriend means nothing to you.

Fanning the Flames

Thank you Indianapolis. November 5-7 I attended the National Middle School Conference in Indianapolis. Teaching at the middle level is quite possibly one of the most hazardous jobs on the planet. Lacking HAZMAT suits, tazer guns, or pepper spray we wade into battle everyday armed with nothing but a laptop and a sense of humor. Dr. Sharon Faber, as entertaining an educator as you will ever see, puts it best when she describes the typical 8th grade boy. “They run everywhere they go, bump into something then make a sexually inappropriate comment when they get there.”
Seriously, I thoroughly enjoy teaching Middle School. The trials at this level are a daily reminder of just how much adolescence can suck. Each day brings Johnnies who’s heads are fighting a losing battle with gravity. “It’s weird Mr. T, as soon as I sit down gravity pulls my head straight down to the table, I’m weak I can’t lift it, oh I’m so weak.” And whose hormones are in the red zone, “I can’t believe that bitch said that, that is it, she is through, I will ruin her life.” To that one I step in and in my best Ward Cleaver intervene, “Excuse me Johnette, no matter how mad you are at one of your friends you must be respectful, think of more school appropriate language to express your feelings.”
Johnette stops texting, looks up blankly, pops a bubble and murmurs, “I’m talking about my mom you Asshole.”
God I love it. The conference in Indy stoked the old furnace. Each session I attended offered me hope, fostered confidence, and fueled the creativity I’ve always relied on in the classroom. The icing on the cake was the opportunity to be a presenter. For the second time in five years a few of my colleagues and I led a session on technology in the classroom. We once again presented to a jam-packed room. The feedback we received praised our enthusiasm and ingenuity, and validated our belief in what we are doing. And for that I say, Thank you Indianapolis.

My Best Day Ever At School

I gave my students the following assignment. Write a short personal narrative about either your best day ever at school or your worst day ever at school. When I give writing assignments I always write along side the kids. Here is what I wrote.

My throat was so dry no amount of water could slake my thirst. I had not slept for five nights. Every possible worst-case scenerio imaginable had been played and replayed in my mind like a favorite episode of Seinfeld. And yet, believe it or not, this was my best day ever in school.
From August 1980 until December of 1993 I trudged my way through college. To say my journey was more like a marathon than a sprint does not even begin to give the process the recognition it deserves. It was a marathon for sure, but imagine a marathon that at different times during the race you have various handicaps thrust on you. “For this mile and a half you will have a broken leg, wear a blindfold, and have a 100 pound bag of hammers tied to your wrist.”
I staggered, stumbled, fell in the mud, but always, and baby I mean always, picked myself up and raced on. December 19, 1993 I finished the race. I was a college graduate. And that day led me to my best day ever at school. On that day I had that degree in education and I was a teacher.
So, cotton-mouthed, sleep deprived, bowels of water and knees of jelly I stood at the front of the class, looked those 4th graders in the eye, smiled and sang to the mountaintop, “Good morning class, my name is Mr. Theobald, I am your teacher.” My first day of teaching was without a doubt my best day ever at school.

Nobody Smokes Anymore

I sometimes think my Mom’s two main food groups were cigarettes and coffee. Sure she would eat, usually after the rest of the family. With seven kids around the table, 8 if you include the old man, she had little time to sit down and join us. But during the day when children were off terrorizing their teachers, or hanging out at the pool, mom was on the cigarettes and coffee. For her smoking was a social event, a vice to be shared only with those few close friends who could appreciate a smoke filled kitchen and a pot of fresh black coffee. She wouldn’t smoke a cigarette with just anyone, no sir, that was a privilege reserved for only the chosen few.
A quick check of the contents of the ashtray was like reading the guest book after a wedding. The brand of butts ground out in the bottom of the tray revealed the afternoon’s smoking partners. If it was only Kents, you know Randi had walked up for a quick cup of coffee after lunch. These little chats usually revolved around Alter Society gossip and the latest troubles of their respective brood. Camel non-filters let you know Jeanne stopped by after her weekly trip to the grocery store. I can still see her, “I only have time for one cup Liz, I have ice cream in the car.” Jeannie loved those camels. She would take a hit, then daintily pick tobacco scraps from her tongue. A few ground out Marlboros and I knew Phyllis was up. Mom and Phyllis usually had the most animated, and longest conversations. Swim team, children, grand children, fights with spouses, and gossip, gossip, gossip.
These four women accounted for 24 children. I would be curious to know how many of those 24 smoke today. My guess is very few. I know I don’t. But I do miss the smell of cigarette smoke in the kitchen and the sound of my mom’s laughter. Nobody smokes anymore, it’s kind of sad.

School is In

Now that school is in session I am back on the blog. I had a great summer, short, but great. Over the next few weeks I will share some of my summer experiences, but today, I want to talk about school. As the year begins, my 16th as a teacher, memories of years gone by rush back. This year I find myself thinking about my third grade year.
I always look back at the old elementary school building in Red Cloud with a certain amount of reverence. The drinking fountains in the middle of the floors, the wooden stairs warped in the middle from so many Ked’s and P.F. Flyers tromping up and down through the years. My favorite feature was the little hallways each classroom had for the kids to hang their coats. It ran the length of the room and had hooks on the wall. There was a door at the end of it that entered the classroom at the back of the room. We put coats, lunches, boots and any other random paraphernalia we brought to school for the day.
My teacher in third grade, who will remain nameless at this time, was not the best classroom manager in the world. Jeff Neely and I did nothing to help her. Very early in the year we figured out a wonderful little fact. If you acted like an idiot in class she would send you out in the hallway. Neely and I were all over this. Class would start, we would get mouthy, boom, “to the hallway.” You would think she would have been wise to us, you would think she would have figured out to not send us both out there at the same time. My guess is she knew better, but having the two of us out of her hair, was the ultimate prize. Neely and I loved it.
We were supposed to sit on the floor with our backs to the wall quietly until she came out to to retrieve us. That lasted about 10 seconds. First we would check out the lunch boxes. There was always a bag of m & M’s, a Reese’s Peanut Cup, or a Nestle’s Crunch to snag. Having satisfied our craving for a snack we began inventing different games to keep us occupied. The one we truly loved was “How far can you get?”
It went like this. One of us would get up and take off down the big, wide staircase and then come back. “How far did you get Jeff?”
“ I made it to the second floor, down by Mrs. Stokes’ room.” Then I would try and outdo him. One day I made it all the way down to the basement, past Mrs. Barta’s (A freaking saint) and all the way to the music room then back up. Neely couldn’t live with this, he had to top it. Off he goes down the stairs, and then I hear, “Jeffery Neely, where are you going.” The voice of God? No Just Orpha. Seconds later, and I truly mean seconds, back came Jeff on a dead run, he slid to a stop and sat down quickly. Orpha was not that easily fooled, she was on his tail, and her claws were out. “Are you supposed to be downstairs young Man?’
“No.”
This was too rich. “I told him not to go, I told him to stay here.”
I looked at Orpha with my best Opie Taylor smile.
She looked at me, her eyes narrow, no trace of a smile. “you know Ted the less you talk the better off you’ll be.”
I still haven’t learned that lesson.

You'll Never Go Back

Sometimes the worst curse is to excel at something. From the time I was a small child I was a natural regarding athletic endeavors. Swimming and baseball 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, and I enjoyed everything associated with both. Often on weekends, in the evening, or all summer I would play pick up games with older kids.
I loved football. The practice, doing drills, getting yelled at by the coaches all just thrilled me. 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. Small colleges, but colleges nonetheless. 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 couldn’t wait to hit and get hit.
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 shake my head, knowing he was wrong, knowing I would go back.

Mrs. Peterson, Mrs. Tupper, and Dr. Bob Kirby

The guy who worshipped basketball as a kid sometimes didn’t make the team. You know the kid, the one who could smell out a backyard game of horse from blocks away. That statistical Svengali versed in the most obscure stat on every baller who pulled on an NBA jersey. The kid who epitomized basketball sometimes just didn’t make the team. I empathize with that kid. My present attitude on writing mirrors his experience. I love writing; I study it, teach it, and practice it. Whenever possible I read as many new authors as possible. I just can’t make the team. Yet.
Three teachers, from very different levels of education, are at the origin of my current attitude about writing. In fifth grade Norma June Peterson struck the spark. She assigned writing assignments that were begging to be explored by a highly active, imaginative, disorganized, semi-rebellious, secretely-sensative boy. I loved Mr. Peterson. We wrote tall tales, the taller the better, and poems about football, and the moon. We memorized poetry. “I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth I know not where. Who has sight so keen and strong that it can follow the flight of song.”? I still remember it.
Barb Tupper taught me a completely new way to look at writing. We read Catcher In The Rye, stories from The Canterbury Tales, A Tale of Two Cities, and of course several books by Willa Cather. Through Mrs. Tupper I learned to look at literature as writing not reading. This sweet, sweet lady genuinely knew writing; I just wish she would have felt better physically. Symbolism, protagonist, theme, and conflict-terms I teach kids today first gained legs in her classes. Mrs. Tupper loved good writing, and she recognized something in me. Her feedback was always cherished, her praise always unadulterated. As a junior I won a speech-writing contest. Sponsored by the VFW, the Voice of Democracy contest that year asked young authors to write a paper titled “My Role In America’s Future. I can’t remember what I wrote, I’m sure it was bullshit. I can remember Mrs. Tupper calling me up to her desk, showing me the flyer announcing the winner of the contest. She smiled, “You’re a writer Ted,” She knew then. I just wish I had her confidence.
As my long drawn out years of undergrad study was winding down I took one last English class. Dr. Bob Kirby was my teacher. Dr. Kirby was teaching his last semester. He was looking forward to moving to Fairplay, Colorado to live in the cabin he built with his own hands. Dr. Kirby was great. A big fan of O Henry, he assigned several of the author’s short stories for us to read. In class discussing an assigned reading I always had a different slant on the story than my fellow students. I was at least 10 years older than most of them, and I’m sure that had something to do with my warped view on O Henry’s Americana. Kirby loved me, he loved my opinions, and he loved my writing. With each reading assignment came a writing assignment. Knowing we would be getting our writing assignments back that day always made me nervous as hell. What would he say? Would he hate it? He almost always had positive, encouraging feedback to offer. The last day of class with Dr. Kirby I stayed behind a few minutes to say goodbye. He encouraged me as he always did to change my major from education to English. I didn’t. He then told me “You have a knack for writing Ted, keep it up.” I have.

Young Authors

Pulling a nail out of petrified wood in below zero weather with your teeth is undoubtedly easier than getting 8th graders to write. “I don’t know what to write about!” “I don’t get it!” “Writing is stupid!” “How do you spell the?” You have all heard it. But when they start, when that idea starts to grow, when it gets legs, words like theme, protagonist, rising action, resolution, man vs. nature, all become part of your classroom vernacular. Damn! That is an incredible environment.
I strive for that, and sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. Last week the district celebrated The Young Author’s Contest winners in a simple, classy, gathering. The winning and honorable mention authors were called to the stage and given a certificate. A local teacher, an incredible person, read an excerpt from each piece. The audience got a small slice of the heart-felt writing we were gathered to celebrate.
This evening was the highlight of my 15-year teaching career. A few of my students did very well, and I have to admit I felt an almost perverse sense of satisfaction. So many people in the district do not understand what we are trying to do here, but are quick to criticize-“They don’t teach any English over there at all.” Yeah, I got a little charge out of that. The students however provided the huge charge.
An ex-student of mine was a winner in the ninth grade poetry division. If you met this kid on the street poet would be the last adjective you’d imagine. Thug, gangster, wanna-be all would come to mind. How wrong you would be. This kid is a sensitive, caring individual who has been the primary caregiver to an elderly grandfather with Parkinson’s disease. His poetry was simple, concise, and teeming with emotion. After the ceremony I gave him a hug and let him know how proud I am of him. He reminded me of my role in his writing.
“You were the one that got me started Mr.T. Remember when we began writing poetry in class? I said I didn’t know how to write poetry and you told me, everything you say is poetry Will, just start writing it down.”
Another student won the 8th grade non-fiction category with his autobiography. Most 8th graders autobiographies would be pretty empty. Justin’s was brimming with detail. He wrote about the night of the fire, how we went out one door and the rest of the family used a different one. He wrote about the surgeries, the skin grafts, the skin harvesting, the fight against infection, physical therapy, months in the hospital, his incredible mother. As George shared an excerpt from this piece you could hear several gasps in the room. Tears were filling eyes, rolling down cheeks, and spotting clothing up and down each row.
Kids will write, and they will write well. But like that stubborn nail, it takes more than one person to loosen it.

I'm Back

As you can tell, it has been a while since I have added a post. Sorry. Joanne and I were in Italy for 10 days, then I was busy at school making sure there was "No Child Left Behind." I'm back, the posts will be piling up again. Read and enjoy and please let me know what you think.

Tears in Amsterdam

We knew where we were going, we weren’t sure how to get there. Joanne had seen a map, knew the general direction we should be going, and remembered the names of a few landmarks we would pass, other than that we were navigating on instinct. Time was not really on our side. We had a couple of hours at the most before we would make our way back to the train station. Taking off down a street we were pretty sure was the right direction we walked by a few cops, recognized the palace, turned right, buzzed by the Apple Store and suddenly we were confronted with a small que of people.
“This has to be it.” I turned to my wife. We took our place at the end of the line. Before we could ask if we were in the right place another group of obviously American visitors approached the line. One of the ladies was not very ambulatory. She managed to move with the help of a cane in each hand.
“Is this the Anne Frank House?” The American cane handler asked no one in particular.
“Yes”
The line moved very quickly. We were told the tour would last about an hour. A short video at the beginning of the tour nailed me; it was the beginning of my personal tour. If you’ve read her diary you are familiar with the people Anne Frank lived with, fought with, and relied on during her two years of hiding. Seeing Miep on video telling the story of Otto calling her into his office, confiding in her, asking her to put her own life at stake, while I was standing in that very office. My god!
We stood in Anne’s bedroom, the pictures of Ray Milland, and Jean Harlow still where she glued them up. We stood in the bathroom, the cause of so much distress for Anne and the others; we went upstairs and stood by the stove. I could see them making sausage, boiling lettuce, fighting about how many potatoes they should fry. Then, all alone, in a glass case, the diary. Anne Frank’s diary. Not an imitation, a copy, a facsimile. The diary.
I share a hometown with a Pulitzer Prize winning author. In high school I had some pretty powerful experiences reading the works of Willa Cather. Standing in her house, walking the streets she walked, but never had I been as affected, as touched, as moved as I was in the Anne Frank House. On that warm day in Amsterdam literature came to life, history came to life. Standing in front of that diary with tears filling my eyes, and a full hollow ache in my throat I knew, I just knew.

Chairlift Chatter

Some of the richest conversations I have in my life take place on the chairlift. True, I’m usually the only one in the chair, but I have some damn good conversations with myself. More ideas for lessons and projects have been hatched with the wind in my face and the snow swirling in my eyes. For some reason when I’m perched on that seat with my snowboard swinging from my left foot my mind is clear, my intellect keen. But it’s the other conversations, the ones where the other side of the chairlift is actually occupied, that leave their mark. Several years ago I had a group of 4 or 5 sixth grade students who were equally fanatic about riding their snowboards as their teacher. Many Saturdays and Sundays that winter I would run into these little Johnnies on the slopes. The chats I had with whichever one of these junior flying tomatoes were priceless. We talked about snowboards, boots, music, movies, families, problems, fears, dreams---anything but school. I told my wife on more than one occasion I got more teaching done on a 5-minute chairlift ride than I could ever hope to achieve in nine months in the classroom. Today as I was thinking of some of those conversations in the lift line the operator hailed me to the front of the line to ride with another single. The chair swung around, my plopped down, we headed up the slope and I turned to greet my fellow chair jockey.
“Great day, huh” I chirped enthusiastically. My partner turned to me and smiled widely behind a huge pair of yellow goggles, and under a heavy hat and hood. “Is that you Mr. T?” Bam. Another conversation with a former student. In that short ride this young man, certainly not the best student I’ve taught, and one who on more than one occasion was on the wrong end of a blistering butt chewing, talked to me about things he had not spoken to an adult about in years. Problems with his mom and step-dad, his decision to move in with his dad, mistakes he made that led to a move from one high school to another, recent successes in the classroom. One of those conversations you just can’t have with your feet on the ground. Before unloading I wished him luck and invited him to keep in touch. He replied, “You know Mr. T you always rode my ass in class, thank you for that, you helped me more than you will ever know.” We unloaded and headed our separate ways. I hope through the course of all that chairlift chatter over the years I managed to make a difference in someone’s life, I know they made a difference in mine.

Gravitational Pull

“Hurry up, I’m not waiting all day.” The guy turned toward us and shook his head slowly as we sat idling in the boat. All eyes were on two teenagers standing at the edge of a cliff. The precipice was probably 50, maybe even 60 feet above the lake. Neither kid looked very anxious about jumping. “They have been up there for 20 minutes, I don’t think either of them has the balls to jump.” The man was sitting on the bank across the small cove from the wanna-be cliff jumpers and appeared to be talking to no one in general, or was it anyone who would listen?
“Are those guys with you?” I asked him as I deferentially watched the boys playing the “You go, no you go” game.
“Yeah I know the idiots, they’re my sons.” He quickly shot back with a wide smile, and a shy, fun-loving twinkle in his eye.
I looked at the other people in the boat with me. Jimmy Lee and Mama, The boys, my daughters, Joanne my wife. “I’m going for it,” I declared and was over the side of the boat swimming toward the shore like an otter at the zoo. The path up to the cliff was steep and greasey, at least for someone as wet as a whale and bare footed. It switched back a few times and was dutifully gaurded by large cactus and yucca plants. As long as you stayed on the path you were okay, stray a little and forget about it. Your feet would end up like Bruce Willis’s in Die Hard. Remember that scene? Dirty wife-beater, over-acted limp, blood trailing behind him like a Wildebeest’s placenta on Mutual Of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.
Upon reaching the summit I had to stop and catch my breath. Putting my hands behind my head and gulping in lung fulls I saw the two brothers about 20 feet in front of me, still dry, and still scared shitless. As I slowly approached the cliff’s brink they turned to look at me. The argument came to an immediate stop. I could see it in their eyes, feel it in their gaze, they were in awe, they were in the presence of a master, They were wondering, “what the heck is this fat old man up to?”
Sidling up alongside them I smiled and said, “How’s it going Johnnies?”
The older of the two, and neither of them were over 16, said “You gonna jump man?”
“I didn’t climb up here to crawl back down.” I looked one time over the edge, turned to wave at the occupants of the boat and jumped. What a rush! For what seemed like a minute I was suspended in air, I was Wiley Coyote. Just as I peeped out over the cliff across the bay gravity kicked in. The walls of the canyon rushed by, my eyes watered, my hair fluttered, and I reached down and protected my Jimmies. Splash. That was it.
I kicked to the surface, broke free and ripped off a Dukes of Hazzard quality rebel yell. Grinning goofily at the boat the only thought occupying my mind was “I gotta get up there and do that again.”