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.