Firth's characterization and Ford's choices in the film do not rather cause a distraction between the grayness of grief and the colors of life, but rather juxtapose the vibrancy of life and love to the starkness of loss and death. This emphasis is especially true in a time and place where homosexuality is an invisible minority. We, the audience, see that George lives in a glass house but he and his sorrow are invisible to his neighbors, invisible to all but the few who choose to peek inside his enclave and into his soul. To the world, George is an ordinary man, but Firth and Ford hint to his exceptionality by the use of his impeccable dress, his attention to detail, and to his fury within his class room, where eventually when George opens up, his voice is loud and clear, even defiant. It is this fanfare of the common man that allows us to understand and empathize with George’s grief. We again get the chance to understand his sorrow when George opens up to Charley as she dismisses his love, and therefore, his grief, as a substitute for the real deal.
You may say that Ford’s work is flawed, especially if you view it as a formulaic drama built on the paradigms of a heterosexual perspective. I say, it is an exceptional work of art, worthy of the Academy Award because it shows a glimpse into the fervent world of George and his repressed passions. It shows the grayness of invisibility amid the colors of life and the sudden bursts of hopes and desires a gay man faces even today.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Review of Canoe, a restaurant in Vinings, GA
| Is this your restaurant? |
Canoe |
 | Canoe: "I'm Sorry" by idealist (1 review) December 21, 2007 - Doesn't like it "I'm sorry" was the theme of our Friday night at Canoe. I'm sorry that I ordered the chutney duck, as it was served as a piece of extremely rare duck smothered in soy sauce. Now, nothing about Canoe's menu said "Asian food" . Nothing about the menu said, "Eat at your own risk". Nothing said, "Bring blood pressure medicine to compensate for our cooking or lack of skill therein." The waitress did say, "I'm sorry," when I told her that the duck had a strange taste that didn't co-incide with its title, Chutney Duck. However, the prompt service of the team of water servers kept me in gallons of refills as I attempted to eat the duck without calling attention to the fact that I was choking on the sodium; it was my yearly business dinner with my boss and colleagues--making a complaint about the quality of food was not an option in this company. When I told the waitress, whispering on the side, "it's 2 degrees from nasty," she did reply again with a smile, "I'm sorry." and proceeded to pour more water. What did I need to do? Ask for a side of pepper? Return the duck to swim on Salt Lake? Have it fly over to the Morton plant? Certainly these were options. At $24.95 for the entree', I could have FedEx'ed the duck across the USA. On the way out, while my boss was waiting on the valet, I told the Canoe hostess -again the reply? "I'm sorry" Yes, this time, I got the message. "I'm sorry" that I went to Canoe; "I'm sorry" that I didn't make a scene. "I'm sorry" that subtlety is not a tool that Canoe waitresses are trained to hone in on. "I'm sorry" that the menu was misleading--both in type and preparation of its type of cuisine. I'm sorry that I didn't know what I was getting into. (The sushi plates should have been my first clue). "I'm sorry" that I won't sleep tonight. "I'm sorry" that I will be trotting to the bathroom all night. "I'm sorry" that I chose gentlemanly manners to avoid conflict at my boss's holiday dinner party." Mostly, "I'm sorry that I ate at Canoe." I guess if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, and tastes like soy sauce, it must be sushi," at least according to Canoe. 19 / 20 people recommend this review Recommend |
Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.
2 Corinthians 11:13-15 (New International Version)
Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society
Friday, October 15, 2010
Oprah.com post r.e. Waiting for Superman Tue 9/28/2010 2:23 PM
I am a 29-year veteran teacher; I attribute many of Education's problems to a flawed values and beliefs system. Call it a negative spiral where all parties are guilty of believing that kids cannot achieve, teachers are ineffective, & parents do not care. This vacuum of negativity drains the energy out of schools and resources. I have kept a 29-year journal of outrageous beliefs and behaviors out of so-called professionals, parents, booster organizations, and students. I have titled it The Problem in American Education: People Behaving Badly! These beliefs and behaviors have chipped away at the foundation of Education until it has crumbled around us. Granted, I can also share encounters with hundreds of wonderful people throughout my career, yet this post is to dissect why many of our schools are failing. If we as educators believe that students cannot achieve based on their race, gender, sexual orientation, or test scores, then we produce a product based on that belief: a failure. If we believe that all students can achieve given the right direction and choices, then we will produce a high achieving student regardless of the aforementioned factors. Exclusive schools are based on exclusion; inclusive education is based on inclusion of all. The strength of our diversity of people & talents make our country strong. When we espouse our own self-serving agendas, ethnocentric motivations, & political platforming, we forget: E pluribus unum, "Out of many, one...great nation.
Thanking the Academy, March 15, 2006
Clearly, the Academy slammed the Hollywood closet door shut, and put a deadbolt on it, too! The peoples' backs they broke were the gays and lesbians worldwide. Also, AMPAS has generated an affirmation for me personally. I personally thank all those associated with the development of Brokeback Mountain: the film is pivotal in American history and film. I would like to thank the Academy and Tony Curtis for inadvertently opening the door to this forum of discussion. I would like to thanks those who died before me that I might live, and I would like to thank those who tortured me so that I might become storing. I would like to thank those who hate me that I might be open to love. I would like to thank the radio dj's and the late-night talk show hosts who laugh about me, and the cartoonists that mock me, that I may stand as tall as this mountain and proudly state, "I isn’t queer." I am a homosexual man who has been promised "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness." --And I don't need a trophy to validate my existence or my success.
Brokeback Mountain is "The face [of gays] that launched a thousand ships," or shall I say keyboards? This is a film that provokes thought and discussion, brings bashers' anger to the printed word, such as the anger displayed by bloggers who proclaim "get over it, and voices of old Hollywood AMPAS members' defiance to view the film.
This is the film that has triggered true-life recollections of abuse and alienation by many gay men in America; it shows the hatred toward gays such as Matthew Shepherd and others who remain nameless and forgotten, killed for being gay "in the wrong place at the wrong time." [We’re dead]. Brokeback Mountain provides a glimpse of gay life and suffering in a Red State, and shows Blue Hollywood's hypocrisy. [Here I could insert a litany for the dead that I have known in my life]. This film, thanks to Ang Lee, Annie Proulx, the producers, and the actors, shows a rigid belief system that American homophobes don't want others to see--yet, it stands as a Mountain of Triumph for gays who have been mocked by caricatures such as Capote, Jack McFarland, Paul Lynde, and other gay stereotypes. Though these portrayals show the comic mask of gayness, the characters of Brokeback Mountain show the heart of gayness--a sexual orientation based on love, not on affected witticisms or clever costumes of flamboyance. Annie Proulx's direct and pointed comments to AMPAS conceal nothing and hide no truths behind Hollywood's facade. Just as Brokeback Mountain revealed "a love that dare not speak its name," Annie's words lay out the truth about Hollywood.
Brokeback Mountain is "The face [of gays] that launched a thousand ships," or shall I say keyboards? This is a film that provokes thought and discussion, brings bashers' anger to the printed word, such as the anger displayed by bloggers who proclaim "get over it, and voices of old Hollywood AMPAS members' defiance to view the film.
This is the film that has triggered true-life recollections of abuse and alienation by many gay men in America; it shows the hatred toward gays such as Matthew Shepherd and others who remain nameless and forgotten, killed for being gay "in the wrong place at the wrong time." [We’re dead]. Brokeback Mountain provides a glimpse of gay life and suffering in a Red State, and shows Blue Hollywood's hypocrisy. [Here I could insert a litany for the dead that I have known in my life]. This film, thanks to Ang Lee, Annie Proulx, the producers, and the actors, shows a rigid belief system that American homophobes don't want others to see--yet, it stands as a Mountain of Triumph for gays who have been mocked by caricatures such as Capote, Jack McFarland, Paul Lynde, and other gay stereotypes. Though these portrayals show the comic mask of gayness, the characters of Brokeback Mountain show the heart of gayness--a sexual orientation based on love, not on affected witticisms or clever costumes of flamboyance. Annie Proulx's direct and pointed comments to AMPAS conceal nothing and hide no truths behind Hollywood's facade. Just as Brokeback Mountain revealed "a love that dare not speak its name," Annie's words lay out the truth about Hollywood.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Review of Looped, starring Valerie Harper, 2010
Looped, starring Valerie Harper, made the legend of Tallulah real for the now generation.
Costar Brian Hutchison annoyed the hell out of me for the first act, and then by the second act, I knew that that was his intent. His discomforting tension and edginess kept me fidgeting along with him as I listened to the badinage from Valerie Harper's Tallulah. He was the perfect foil for Tallulah to express her free spirited life view. Not only was I looped by the dialogue, I was also hooked within minutes of Ms. Harper's entrance. I grew up in Tallulah's home town of Jasper, Alabama, and longingly admired her reputation and also her mansion there. To gain a glimpse of the renowned Bankhead family and to discover the catalyst for Tallulah's rebellion compelled me to hang onto every word of dialogue the play had to offer. The tension and contrast of the main character and her foil led to a synergy in the second act, both hilarious and cathartic.
Valerie Harper was able to show the embodiment of a true stage and screen diva. The young men rollicked in laughter at her every zippy one-liner. I was glad to witness that these young men were learning that a diva is always a diva, even when facing the demise of her reputation, like a decaying Southern mansion.
Looped, starring Valerie Harper, made the legend of Tallulah real for the now generation. Costar Brian Hutchison annoyed the hell out of me for the first act, and then by the second act, I knew that that was his intent. His discomforting tension and edginess kept me figiting along with him as I listened to the badinage between his character and Valerie Harper's Tallulah. He was the perfect foil for Tallulah to express her free spirited life view. Not only was I looped by the dialogue, I was also hooked within minutes of Ms. Harper's entrance. I grew up in Tallulah's home town of Jasper, Alabama, and longingly admired her reputation and also her mansion there. To gain a glimpse of the renouned Bankhead family, and to discover the catalyst for Tallulah's rebellion compelled me to hang onto every word of dialogue the play had to offer. The tension and contrast of the main character and her foil led to a synergy in the second act, both hilarious and cathartic.
Valerie Harper was able to show the embodiment of a true stage and screen diva. The young men in the audience rollicked in laughter at her every zippy one-liner. I was glad to witness that these young men were learning that a diva is always a diva, even when facing the demise of her reputation, like a decaying Southern mansion.
Photoshopped 9-27-10
I want to be photoshopped and made to look cool
I want to be airbrushed so that I can fit on the cover of GQ
I want my Fred Mertz body to take a shit until
I am as thin as Brad Pitt.
9-27-10Ramona Patton replies 9-27-10
Brad Pitt has the looks
Brad Pitt has the gold
Brad Pitt has Angelina
You have a belly roll!!!!
Review of Hamlet on Broadway, starring Jude Law, 2010
Mr. Brantley’s sullied perception does not do justice to Jude Law’s performance in Hamlet. Relying on his own Cliff Note’s version of what Hamlet should be, and who the character should be, Mr. Brantley and his written opinion were far from what I saw on stage on Nov. 22, 2009.
Either Mr. Brantley had terrible seats when viewing the show in October, or either his scathing review of Mr. Law led to an excellent performance in November. Mr. Law used nuance to depict the introspection of Hamlet. This “rakish leading man of film” articulated the lines with a fusion of verbal and kinetic synchronicity that emoted Hamlet’s inner struggle almost to perfection. Quite frankly, he was able to carry the play. To give Mr. Brantley the benefit of the doubt, perhaps Law’s mirror to life cast a weak reflection early in the play’s run only because the flaw in the play was the other actors’ ability to match and respond to Law’s subtleties. Even the royal court’s character portrayals were flat. It was Law who kept the plot focused, even when the dialogue was paced at an allegro clip. Law was able to portray Hamlet not so much as a Freudian weakling, but rather as a royal disgusted to have to deal with Denmark’s courtly petty deceit and staleness.
Once I was able to get past Claudius’s Leno-esque profile, I could begin to see this character come to life. Flat to begin with, Kevin R. McNally redeemed his performance in his prayer soliloquy. Geraldine James finely portrayed Gertrude’s regality, but the delivery of her lines paralleled a Kennebunkport matriarch’s hostessing skills…a little to frilly and shallow. Gugu Mbatha-Raw’s Ophelia was developing, but the director’s choices in her mad songs left us without a full understanding of Ophelia’s angst. That, coupled with her impeccably coiffed beauty in the scene left us without knowing her state of trauma. Staging, sound effects, and set design were not, Mr. Brantley, overblown beyond Shakespeare’s original intent, but where designed more as a chronicle of our times. And that towering stage worked well to bring the characters down to crawling between heaven and earth.
Yet, it was Law, his Hamlet, who was able to stand tall. It was Law, who was able to bring pregnant words to life. It was Law who was able to depict a believeable Hamlet, both in age and in dignity. I admit it, this teacher of Hamlet for the past 21 years stood outside the stage door seeking an autograph from Jude Law, not because I was star-struck, but because I was inspired. If Law can mesmerize and enthrall a theater full of teenagers and, in your words, Mr. Brantley, ‘captivate Broadway theatergoers who wouldn’t normally attend productions of Shakespeare,” then indeed, just as I muttered to Jude Law as he signed my playbill, “I hope he wins the Tony!”
On Seeing the "Ancient Faces" Exhibit at the British Museum
In the British Museum, I went to the Mummy special exhibit-from Greece, some were Etruscan and of other heritages-and the exhibit was of "painted faces on wood" coffins of the people. It was an interesting mix of realistic painted faces of different classes of people: artistocrats, middle class, and even slaves. Yet, all were treated the same in death. Their portraits were painted. For the exhibit, each face was numbered and labeled by descriptions, such as "the skinny man," "the bearded man", and "the naked man". It inspired me to write a poem, seeing the face numbered #161.
#161 was descirpted as "Eyes Painted in Alabaster"
Eyes rendered in painted alabaster:
The head was painted
no different from the rest.
The mask was clay,
the boy was dust.
And come to this,
we must!
--
Robert Robinson
#161 was descirpted as "Eyes Painted in Alabaster"
Eyes rendered in painted alabaster:
The head was painted
no different from the rest.
The mask was clay,
the boy was dust.
And come to this,
we must!
--
Robert Robinson
Dear Governor Perdue:
Dear Governor Perdue: I have written you before, but did not receive a response. Though I appreciate your 4% raise proposed for educators, something more important is needed for the teachers of Georgia. That is 25-year retirement with NO PENALTIES. Here are some reasons:
1) After 25 years, many if not most teachers are burned out; allowing those who wish to retire after 25 will bring fresh new teachers in and relieve some of the apathy and poor performance from those who are burned out. Though veteran teachers who wish to stay probably aren't burned out and will continue on.
2) I am the sole caregiver of an elderly mother who needs my attention--as a "baby boomer", you know many of us are taking care of our parent(s) earlier than anticipated. (I am just finishing my 24th year of teaching, and my mom needs me now, since my dad died last June.)
3) Other SE states allow 25-year retirement; why doesn't Georgia? Many other teachers from Alabama who want to continue to teach after 25 years drive over the state line into Georgia and fill Georgia's need for qualified teachers.
4) I need to take care of my Mom in Alabama, but I am too old to start over in a new retirement system and reciprocity does not exist between Alabama and Georgia.
5) By taking away the penalities for 25-year retirement and letting us draw our benefits immediately, we can follow our traditional family duties, as laid out generationally.
6) The military allows retirement after 20 years, so do some state government jobs, and social worker jobs; why must teachers work (by force) until 30 years?
7) You would overall improve the quality of education in GA by allowing burn outs, worn outs, tired outs, and special needs teachers like me to move on and not bog down the educational system with apathy or shifts in priority.
8) I have raised a generation, and now am a lead teacher training other teachers---allow me to retire with dignity and grace....like other states do.
9) And by the way, I started out making $800.00 per month and have lived as a single teacher ever since, and my quality of life keeps going down, though my degrees and experience keep going up. Attached is a vitae for your consideration of my plight.
1) After 25 years, many if not most teachers are burned out; allowing those who wish to retire after 25 will bring fresh new teachers in and relieve some of the apathy and poor performance from those who are burned out. Though veteran teachers who wish to stay probably aren't burned out and will continue on.
2) I am the sole caregiver of an elderly mother who needs my attention--as a "baby boomer", you know many of us are taking care of our parent(s) earlier than anticipated. (I am just finishing my 24th year of teaching, and my mom needs me now, since my dad died last June.)
3) Other SE states allow 25-year retirement; why doesn't Georgia? Many other teachers from Alabama who want to continue to teach after 25 years drive over the state line into Georgia and fill Georgia's need for qualified teachers.
4) I need to take care of my Mom in Alabama, but I am too old to start over in a new retirement system and reciprocity does not exist between Alabama and Georgia.
5) By taking away the penalities for 25-year retirement and letting us draw our benefits immediately, we can follow our traditional family duties, as laid out generationally.
6) The military allows retirement after 20 years, so do some state government jobs, and social worker jobs; why must teachers work (by force) until 30 years?
7) You would overall improve the quality of education in GA by allowing burn outs, worn outs, tired outs, and special needs teachers like me to move on and not bog down the educational system with apathy or shifts in priority.
8) I have raised a generation, and now am a lead teacher training other teachers---allow me to retire with dignity and grace....like other states do.
9) And by the way, I started out making $800.00 per month and have lived as a single teacher ever since, and my quality of life keeps going down, though my degrees and experience keep going up. Attached is a vitae for your consideration of my plight.
Brokeback Mountain Breaks Down Barriers 2006
Brokeback Mountain Breaks Down Barriers 2006
Let's put it like this: Oh my God! When I saw Crash! I knew that it was a magnificent film and it both dispelled stereotypes and showed the beliefs in stereotypes as truths. Truly, the Academy Awards should have an award for Best Ensemble Cast. As a college professor, my students saw Crash and then discussed it in my Multiculturalism class this past summer. I thought at that time that nothing could beat it as Best Picture....but like Emerel says, "BAM!"
Along came Brokeback Mountain and the subtle eloquence of the music, scenery, and empathy were interrupted by magnificantly timed moments of Pathos! "Bam! The heartwrenching cruelty of society so played out by Randy Qauid, the murder and hatred of gays, and the repressed lies that society has caused gays (and their loved ones) to suffer---leading Heath to represent loss , repression, and fear, and Jake, representing both hope and helpless vulnerability beyond his control. These two heartwrenched lovers juxtaposed to the beauty of the cinematography is artistic nuance at its finest, making Ang Lee my choice for Best Director. And Let's not forget Jake as "Best Supporting Actor" at the Academy Awards. He epitomizes the tender side a gay man often must conceal and reveals the lonliness gays face in a crowd.
Crash is reality at its harshest----but Brokeback Mountain reveals to the American general public the repressed, secret suffering that so many gays have experienced in their real lives.
As I sat mesmerized in the theater, I noticed other men sharing the same silent suffering they and I had experienced in life--represented by Heath-- a repressed rage: loss and desperation that has to be endured. "If we can't fix it, we have to stand it." That stoicism stands like Brokeback Mountain itself and Ang Lee gracefully chisels away at America's prejudices, shaping our future culture. This by far, trumphs the reality the we all know exists in Crash---
Let's put it like this: Oh my God! When I saw Crash! I knew that it was a magnificent film and it both dispelled stereotypes and showed the beliefs in stereotypes as truths. Truly, the Academy Awards should have an award for Best Ensemble Cast. As a college professor, my students saw Crash and then discussed it in my Multiculturalism class this past summer. I thought at that time that nothing could beat it as Best Picture....but like Emerel says, "BAM!"
Along came Brokeback Mountain and the subtle eloquence of the music, scenery, and empathy were interrupted by magnificantly timed moments of Pathos! "Bam! The heartwrenching cruelty of society so played out by Randy Qauid, the murder and hatred of gays, and the repressed lies that society has caused gays (and their loved ones) to suffer---leading Heath to represent loss , repression, and fear, and Jake, representing both hope and helpless vulnerability beyond his control. These two heartwrenched lovers juxtaposed to the beauty of the cinematography is artistic nuance at its finest, making Ang Lee my choice for Best Director. And Let's not forget Jake as "Best Supporting Actor" at the Academy Awards. He epitomizes the tender side a gay man often must conceal and reveals the lonliness gays face in a crowd.
Crash is reality at its harshest----but Brokeback Mountain reveals to the American general public the repressed, secret suffering that so many gays have experienced in their real lives.
As I sat mesmerized in the theater, I noticed other men sharing the same silent suffering they and I had experienced in life--represented by Heath-- a repressed rage: loss and desperation that has to be endured. "If we can't fix it, we have to stand it." That stoicism stands like Brokeback Mountain itself and Ang Lee gracefully chisels away at America's prejudices, shaping our future culture. This by far, trumphs the reality the we all know exists in Crash---
"Heather" 1986
"Heather" 1986
1986 This teacher remembers the time a father called and complained to me for using the word "butt" in class. What he didn't know was that I was repremanding the boys in class for passing around naked pictures of his daughter passed out drunk. She was in a bathtub naked, passed out, and surrounded by beer cans. When I told the boys to surrender the pictures, one said something rude to me and I told him to "butt out!"
1986 This teacher remembers the time a father called and complained to me for using the word "butt" in class. What he didn't know was that I was repremanding the boys in class for passing around naked pictures of his daughter passed out drunk. She was in a bathtub naked, passed out, and surrounded by beer cans. When I told the boys to surrender the pictures, one said something rude to me and I told him to "butt out!"
Going Postal 2002
Going Postal 2002
Did I tell you about the time that I taught diversity at the Postal Service in Milwaukee and was assaulted by one of the participants, a janitor? And then, I had 2 uniformed federal marshals guarded my door for 7 days, and I had an undercover FBI agent in my class each day? Oh well, and someone stole my credit cards? Seems that my boss forgot to tell me there had been a double murder and 1 suicide there the week before with someone going postal---all that for $400.00 a day, so I guess driving in the sludge this Dec. 16, 2005, wasn't so bad in comparison--even though my bronchitis is still acting up and driving me crazy--On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and to my country (oh, never mind, that was my boy scout pledge--you remember Boy scouts, that's where Robby Br---- peed in a Beer Can and made another guy and me drink it--luckily the other guy went first, so when it was handed to me, I threw it to the ground and told him to piss off---get the pun? Anyway, I can't believe that every NE county in Georgia closed school today and I had to drive to work in sleet and slush in the dark just to be here on time; and can you believe, one of the administrators called a 7:45 meeting for all HS teachers this am----nor rain nor sleet nor snow, will keep me from school or your party---no wait, that's the postal service------my one guest could be my good friend PHLEM, you know, Mucus Welby’s son. At any rate, how could I miss the possibility of this annual gathering with the big screen slide show of me dressed as George Michael at Halloween? And how could I miss seeing Todd F call me Bob F , and Miss Sherri saying "hey ya'll", and Ciara giving me big hugs with the "t" word, and saying the Irish "shiet" every other moment; that is before of course, the courtly guests arrive from Alfredo--good cheer and good company--I hope to be well enough to be there---I guess I could wear a surgical mask and keep the germs away from everyone. Kicklighter could bring me one.
Did I tell you about the time that I taught diversity at the Postal Service in Milwaukee and was assaulted by one of the participants, a janitor? And then, I had 2 uniformed federal marshals guarded my door for 7 days, and I had an undercover FBI agent in my class each day? Oh well, and someone stole my credit cards? Seems that my boss forgot to tell me there had been a double murder and 1 suicide there the week before with someone going postal---all that for $400.00 a day, so I guess driving in the sludge this Dec. 16, 2005, wasn't so bad in comparison--even though my bronchitis is still acting up and driving me crazy--On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and to my country (oh, never mind, that was my boy scout pledge--you remember Boy scouts, that's where Robby Br---- peed in a Beer Can and made another guy and me drink it--luckily the other guy went first, so when it was handed to me, I threw it to the ground and told him to piss off---get the pun? Anyway, I can't believe that every NE county in Georgia closed school today and I had to drive to work in sleet and slush in the dark just to be here on time; and can you believe, one of the administrators called a 7:45 meeting for all HS teachers this am----nor rain nor sleet nor snow, will keep me from school or your party---no wait, that's the postal service------my one guest could be my good friend PHLEM, you know, Mucus Welby’s son. At any rate, how could I miss the possibility of this annual gathering with the big screen slide show of me dressed as George Michael at Halloween? And how could I miss seeing Todd F call me Bob F , and Miss Sherri saying "hey ya'll", and Ciara giving me big hugs with the "t" word, and saying the Irish "shiet" every other moment; that is before of course, the courtly guests arrive from Alfredo--good cheer and good company--I hope to be well enough to be there---I guess I could wear a surgical mask and keep the germs away from everyone. Kicklighter could bring me one.
Life is what happens as you make other plans 2005
Life is what happens as you make other plans:
If someone would have told me that at age 33 most of my friends would be wiped out by a plague, I would not have believed it. Yet, 27 of my friends died of AIDS in a two-year period. The timing of this after finishing an MA in Communications and another 45 hours of an add-on Master of Education in English was devastating. However, I stood strong and enrolled for an Ed.D. in Educational Counseling in 1996.
I was accepted without reservations in 1996. However, Life decided to knock me for another loop—in June of 1996, I was rear-ended on the interstate highway by a retired 70-year old school teacher. She called it "a little bump". It totalled her Cadillac! I guess she called the Civil Rights Movement, "a little altercation." As for me, I spent the next two years in physical therapy compensating for 2 collapsed disks.
Dad had sudden renal failure in 2000 and spent the next 5.5 years on dialysis before succumbing to kidney failure, COPD, and emphysema , all resulting from 60 years of smoking cigarettes and cigars.
As family members' life spans approached their end, we lost 2 aunts and 2 uncles thereafter.
Mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, along with my sister. Their recoveries took 5 years and they are now both cancer free.
Now, the total of friends passing has exceeded 30 by the time I reached fifty.
Currently, I am blessed with new friends who have helped fill the void left by the passing of the others, though they can never be replaced.
Cliché’ or real, life is what happens when you are making other plans.
If someone would have told me that at age 33 most of my friends would be wiped out by a plague, I would not have believed it. Yet, 27 of my friends died of AIDS in a two-year period. The timing of this after finishing an MA in Communications and another 45 hours of an add-on Master of Education in English was devastating. However, I stood strong and enrolled for an Ed.D. in Educational Counseling in 1996.
I was accepted without reservations in 1996. However, Life decided to knock me for another loop—in June of 1996, I was rear-ended on the interstate highway by a retired 70-year old school teacher. She called it "a little bump". It totalled her Cadillac! I guess she called the Civil Rights Movement, "a little altercation." As for me, I spent the next two years in physical therapy compensating for 2 collapsed disks.
Dad had sudden renal failure in 2000 and spent the next 5.5 years on dialysis before succumbing to kidney failure, COPD, and emphysema , all resulting from 60 years of smoking cigarettes and cigars.
As family members' life spans approached their end, we lost 2 aunts and 2 uncles thereafter.
Mother was diagnosed with breast cancer, along with my sister. Their recoveries took 5 years and they are now both cancer free.
Now, the total of friends passing has exceeded 30 by the time I reached fifty.
Currently, I am blessed with new friends who have helped fill the void left by the passing of the others, though they can never be replaced.
Cliché’ or real, life is what happens when you are making other plans.
Wicked Witch of the Cafeteria 1997
Another example of people behaving badly was this witch of an administrator in one of the high schools where I worked.
I had a 10th grade African-American boy in my class who had sickle-cell anemia. He was short for his age and developmentally challenged. He had a withered hand and a withered foot, so he had great difficulty carrying the high school books in a backpack as big as he was; the bag probably weighed 30-40 pounds, without exaggeration.
At any rate, he was a sweet kid that looked like a mini Erkle. He was able to achieve, though he was much slower. Another difficulty is that he had this quirk. When he began to experience anxiety, he would masturbate, play with his penis, or whatever you want to call it. He was unconscious of this very bad habit. Most of the time, it went unnoticed. Yet, one day 2 girls came to my desk and asked to move to new seats in the room because the young man’s habit was embarrassing them. I complied.
Every day, the bell would ring and the guy would have great difficulty loading his books into his book bags. Every day, I would help him, life his heavy literature book, because he was unable to do this with one hand. I would help him put his book bag on his back and wait patiently for him to slowly walk to the door. Then I would lock my room and go to lunch.
Unfortunately, every other week, I had lunch duty. Our school had 2500 students and was the square footage of 3 acres. I had to zigzag through the halls crowded with students to race to the cafeteria where I had duty. It was at the complete opposite end of the building. There, after a 5-minute class change, teachers were supposed to shut the doors to the cafeteria and guard the door. Needless-to-say, when my student “M” was in my class, my helping him made me late to duty at least once or twice a week.
One particular week, the witch was supervising the teachers on duty and the cafeteria.
I was late and could not get to the door in time to close it. As I was running to the door to the cafeteria, (we had 8 doors in an octagon-shaped cafeteria), Mrs. Witch shut the door in my face at the tardy bell!
Without asking why I was late, she opened the door and hatefully said, “What in the world would our school be like if all teachers were like you?” I just smiled, but was very hurt inside. Understanding diversity would have been a good point for the Witch to learn. Common Sense would have been for her to ask why I was late.
I had a 10th grade African-American boy in my class who had sickle-cell anemia. He was short for his age and developmentally challenged. He had a withered hand and a withered foot, so he had great difficulty carrying the high school books in a backpack as big as he was; the bag probably weighed 30-40 pounds, without exaggeration.
At any rate, he was a sweet kid that looked like a mini Erkle. He was able to achieve, though he was much slower. Another difficulty is that he had this quirk. When he began to experience anxiety, he would masturbate, play with his penis, or whatever you want to call it. He was unconscious of this very bad habit. Most of the time, it went unnoticed. Yet, one day 2 girls came to my desk and asked to move to new seats in the room because the young man’s habit was embarrassing them. I complied.
Every day, the bell would ring and the guy would have great difficulty loading his books into his book bags. Every day, I would help him, life his heavy literature book, because he was unable to do this with one hand. I would help him put his book bag on his back and wait patiently for him to slowly walk to the door. Then I would lock my room and go to lunch.
Unfortunately, every other week, I had lunch duty. Our school had 2500 students and was the square footage of 3 acres. I had to zigzag through the halls crowded with students to race to the cafeteria where I had duty. It was at the complete opposite end of the building. There, after a 5-minute class change, teachers were supposed to shut the doors to the cafeteria and guard the door. Needless-to-say, when my student “M” was in my class, my helping him made me late to duty at least once or twice a week.
One particular week, the witch was supervising the teachers on duty and the cafeteria.
I was late and could not get to the door in time to close it. As I was running to the door to the cafeteria, (we had 8 doors in an octagon-shaped cafeteria), Mrs. Witch shut the door in my face at the tardy bell!
Without asking why I was late, she opened the door and hatefully said, “What in the world would our school be like if all teachers were like you?” I just smiled, but was very hurt inside. Understanding diversity would have been a good point for the Witch to learn. Common Sense would have been for her to ask why I was late.
The Thinker 2003- A Re-gifter Caught in the Act
The Thinker 2003- A Re-gifter Caught in the Act
Two years ago, a friend of mine, also an associate of my fashion designer cousin, came over to stay with me for Merchandise Market in Atlanta, an annual event. He had been doing that for the past few years. Every time that he would come stay, he would bring me a "host gift" for letting him stay. He has brought me a nice art print, Faberge-style eggs, designer shirts, and in 2003 he brought me a nice sized bronze of "The Thinker." I placed it in my living room, isolated on top of a nice chest, with a mirror behind it, and a spotlight on it as well. It catches everyone's eye when they come to my house.
This week is market, too, but for the last 2 years my friend decided that he would stay at a hotel and take the train to market. I digress. Instead, my cousin came to stay and brought another of their associate designers, Brian, to stay. Quite an agreeable fellow, he was. He complimented me on my home, told me how pretty it was, and then admired "The Thinker." He asked where I recieved it. I told him my friend, D---, gave it to me two years ago. He told me, "Oh really? I gave it to him 3 years ago for Christmas....it cost me a lot of money. I have been asking what he had done with it, as I had not seen it since....now I know!"
So my friend D---- was caught in the act of "re-gifting". I apologized to my house guest, told him that I had no idea it was a re-gift, and offered to give it back to him. He was crushed at D----, but no matter how much I persisted, he would not accept The Thinker back. From now on, I will tell admirers my friend, Brian gave it to me.
"Foul deeds will rise, though the whole earth or'whelm them, to men's eyes." Shakespeare
Two years ago, a friend of mine, also an associate of my fashion designer cousin, came over to stay with me for Merchandise Market in Atlanta, an annual event. He had been doing that for the past few years. Every time that he would come stay, he would bring me a "host gift" for letting him stay. He has brought me a nice art print, Faberge-style eggs, designer shirts, and in 2003 he brought me a nice sized bronze of "The Thinker." I placed it in my living room, isolated on top of a nice chest, with a mirror behind it, and a spotlight on it as well. It catches everyone's eye when they come to my house.
This week is market, too, but for the last 2 years my friend decided that he would stay at a hotel and take the train to market. I digress. Instead, my cousin came to stay and brought another of their associate designers, Brian, to stay. Quite an agreeable fellow, he was. He complimented me on my home, told me how pretty it was, and then admired "The Thinker." He asked where I recieved it. I told him my friend, D---, gave it to me two years ago. He told me, "Oh really? I gave it to him 3 years ago for Christmas....it cost me a lot of money. I have been asking what he had done with it, as I had not seen it since....now I know!"
So my friend D---- was caught in the act of "re-gifting". I apologized to my house guest, told him that I had no idea it was a re-gift, and offered to give it back to him. He was crushed at D----, but no matter how much I persisted, he would not accept The Thinker back. From now on, I will tell admirers my friend, Brian gave it to me.
"Foul deeds will rise, though the whole earth or'whelm them, to men's eyes." Shakespeare
Wal-Mart Customer Service April 2005
Wal-Mart Customer Service April 2005
9:00 am I leave home, go to Wal-Mart to return stainless steel cleaner==I ask a customer service representative to call for more help because 1 associate is handling all 5 customers, while cashiers are idle, greeters, are idle, etc. the customer service representative yells across the store, rather than using the intercom: “Val----, someone wants you over here.” Val---- saunters, sashays, or shuffles, dragging her feet over, and asks who wants the help.
I said "I do, but the 2 other people are in front of me"; both are African American...and I acknowledge them with an affirmative nod and eye contact.
Val---- asks, "But what do you want?" I told her I have a return…"do you want to help me?" "Not before the other people I don’t", she says, (sucks her teeth )flicks them, which means “fuck you” in non-verbal street slang and walks to the counter. The customers in front of me stay out of it. I say: “Val----, I want them to go in front of me, the one customer service person needs your help.
Val--- helps the other 2, then the 1st customer service rep credits my return to my Amex card and I leave. I ask a cart collector outside if he knows if the manager Lorraine is in and he says no; I ask him if he knows any one named : “Val----". He spontaneously laughs, and says,“ I just mind my own business. I say, “Judging by your laugh, you know her well; I won’t press you further, have a nice day." I call and ask for the acting manager, am put on hold, the hold is lost, so I call back and speak to a man; he voluntarily tells me he is white; I relayed the story to him, he says he’s sorry, I told him, "I don’t want an apology from you; I want you to listen to my story." I give him my experience as a diversity trainer, tell him what the sucking of teeth means in street slang, and then say that what recommend is that you have “Val----, pushing carts outside rather than working in customer service." I thank the man for his time.
There is no point in meanness and rudeness for no reason.
9:00 am I leave home, go to Wal-Mart to return stainless steel cleaner==I ask a customer service representative to call for more help because 1 associate is handling all 5 customers, while cashiers are idle, greeters, are idle, etc. the customer service representative yells across the store, rather than using the intercom: “Val----, someone wants you over here.” Val---- saunters, sashays, or shuffles, dragging her feet over, and asks who wants the help.
I said "I do, but the 2 other people are in front of me"; both are African American...and I acknowledge them with an affirmative nod and eye contact.
Val---- asks, "But what do you want?" I told her I have a return…"do you want to help me?" "Not before the other people I don’t", she says, (sucks her teeth )flicks them, which means “fuck you” in non-verbal street slang and walks to the counter. The customers in front of me stay out of it. I say: “Val----, I want them to go in front of me, the one customer service person needs your help.
Val--- helps the other 2, then the 1st customer service rep credits my return to my Amex card and I leave. I ask a cart collector outside if he knows if the manager Lorraine is in and he says no; I ask him if he knows any one named : “Val----". He spontaneously laughs, and says,“ I just mind my own business. I say, “Judging by your laugh, you know her well; I won’t press you further, have a nice day." I call and ask for the acting manager, am put on hold, the hold is lost, so I call back and speak to a man; he voluntarily tells me he is white; I relayed the story to him, he says he’s sorry, I told him, "I don’t want an apology from you; I want you to listen to my story." I give him my experience as a diversity trainer, tell him what the sucking of teeth means in street slang, and then say that what recommend is that you have “Val----, pushing carts outside rather than working in customer service." I thank the man for his time.
There is no point in meanness and rudeness for no reason.
On Diversity and No Child Left Behind Dec. 2003
On Diversity as an Educational Practice
Just as Corporate America has experienced the influx of diverse employees into the workforce, America’s public schools have experienced the same boon in a diverse student population. Meeting the needs of all the students enrolled in schools is not only essential to humanity, but now it has become a federal law under President Bush’s “No Child Left Behind” mandate. Schools must demonstrate inclusion for each and every student at all levels of education.
It clearly follows that the diverse work population will want the best possible education for its children. No longer is it the norm for communities to be clustered or segregated into ethnic groups. Instead, our communities and schools are reflective of a multicultural nation. Meeting the needs of the schools and communities invites the opportunity for adults to bring in a worldview and macrocosmic understanding of human needs and similarities. As a result, many consulting groups, diversity trainers, and passionate individuals can see the benefits of inclusion and of a multicultural perspective on our global marketplace and community.
Some schools in the Atlanta, Georgia, area boast as many as 17 different native languages spoken within its student population. If investigated, other schools even could boast more. The Valuing Diversity paradigm includes an understanding of these differences and sees each student’s cultural heritage as enrichment to the school climate and the curriculum. Those schools that still practice Assimilation or Else are indeed missing educational opportunities and are certainly leaving children behind.
Defining Human Diversity simply means the ways people are unique, including their age, gender, physical and mental abilities, and sexual orientation. Diversity does not stop there, though. Cultural Diversity includes people’s attitudes, heritage, values, and religious beliefs. Furthermore, Systems Diversity refers to organizational schemes in which people have worked and includes our schools and how people are educated.
Educational trends have already acknowledged differences in students from Learning Styles Inventories, Special Education, Gifted Education, Talents, and Inclusion classes. Many schools are lacking in the awareness of Institutionalized Discrimination. Institutionalized Discrimination is defined as discrimination so embedded into an environment that it becomes commonplace and unnoticed to those people living and working within the confines of that environment. Most of the time, an outsider has to come into the institution to recognize that this paradigm paralysis exists. If not, the school is at risk for creating either a discriminatory or hostile environment for some of its population.
Cultural surveys reveal patterns among different ethnicities, but the prudent principals or headmasters would assess their own educator base and student population so that accurate educational orientations would be determined. Then in order to get 100% out of the teachers and paraprofessionals in the school, and to reach 100% of the student population, that principal or headmaster would implement strategies based on those findings. Then the school would certainly master the “No Child Left Behind” concept.
What can a school do? By having policies in place and a work climate and educational climate that promotes diversity, people can bring their unique qualities to work and into the classroom. This workplace satisfaction will allow a teacher to focus on the task at hand rather than struggling with a barrier in the school that states, “Your difference is clearly not welcomed here.” Those talented, diverse educators have gained the social leverage and social mobility to move into school systems that establish diversity as a precedent and an advantage. Clearly, if your school does not reward a diverse climate, those talented educators will move elsewhere. If students stay in a barrier-filled learning environment, the educators are asking students to learn with one hand tied behind their backs—what child wants to do this? Imagine the loss of learning when an educator or environment inhibits a child’s capacity to learn.
In order to have high-achieving schools and high achieving students, our educational leaders must provide diversity training for its staff and its students. Our schools then must implement these diversity practices as part of their operating norms on a daily basis. Then, and only then, shall we in America achieve the “No Child Left Behind” mandate.
*Copyright pending 12-4-03
Just as Corporate America has experienced the influx of diverse employees into the workforce, America’s public schools have experienced the same boon in a diverse student population. Meeting the needs of all the students enrolled in schools is not only essential to humanity, but now it has become a federal law under President Bush’s “No Child Left Behind” mandate. Schools must demonstrate inclusion for each and every student at all levels of education.
It clearly follows that the diverse work population will want the best possible education for its children. No longer is it the norm for communities to be clustered or segregated into ethnic groups. Instead, our communities and schools are reflective of a multicultural nation. Meeting the needs of the schools and communities invites the opportunity for adults to bring in a worldview and macrocosmic understanding of human needs and similarities. As a result, many consulting groups, diversity trainers, and passionate individuals can see the benefits of inclusion and of a multicultural perspective on our global marketplace and community.
Some schools in the Atlanta, Georgia, area boast as many as 17 different native languages spoken within its student population. If investigated, other schools even could boast more. The Valuing Diversity paradigm includes an understanding of these differences and sees each student’s cultural heritage as enrichment to the school climate and the curriculum. Those schools that still practice Assimilation or Else are indeed missing educational opportunities and are certainly leaving children behind.
Defining Human Diversity simply means the ways people are unique, including their age, gender, physical and mental abilities, and sexual orientation. Diversity does not stop there, though. Cultural Diversity includes people’s attitudes, heritage, values, and religious beliefs. Furthermore, Systems Diversity refers to organizational schemes in which people have worked and includes our schools and how people are educated.
Educational trends have already acknowledged differences in students from Learning Styles Inventories, Special Education, Gifted Education, Talents, and Inclusion classes. Many schools are lacking in the awareness of Institutionalized Discrimination. Institutionalized Discrimination is defined as discrimination so embedded into an environment that it becomes commonplace and unnoticed to those people living and working within the confines of that environment. Most of the time, an outsider has to come into the institution to recognize that this paradigm paralysis exists. If not, the school is at risk for creating either a discriminatory or hostile environment for some of its population.
Cultural surveys reveal patterns among different ethnicities, but the prudent principals or headmasters would assess their own educator base and student population so that accurate educational orientations would be determined. Then in order to get 100% out of the teachers and paraprofessionals in the school, and to reach 100% of the student population, that principal or headmaster would implement strategies based on those findings. Then the school would certainly master the “No Child Left Behind” concept.
What can a school do? By having policies in place and a work climate and educational climate that promotes diversity, people can bring their unique qualities to work and into the classroom. This workplace satisfaction will allow a teacher to focus on the task at hand rather than struggling with a barrier in the school that states, “Your difference is clearly not welcomed here.” Those talented, diverse educators have gained the social leverage and social mobility to move into school systems that establish diversity as a precedent and an advantage. Clearly, if your school does not reward a diverse climate, those talented educators will move elsewhere. If students stay in a barrier-filled learning environment, the educators are asking students to learn with one hand tied behind their backs—what child wants to do this? Imagine the loss of learning when an educator or environment inhibits a child’s capacity to learn.
In order to have high-achieving schools and high achieving students, our educational leaders must provide diversity training for its staff and its students. Our schools then must implement these diversity practices as part of their operating norms on a daily basis. Then, and only then, shall we in America achieve the “No Child Left Behind” mandate.
*Copyright pending 12-4-03
Venice, July 2001
“Ah, Venice, the world would wail the loss of thee”, says Lord Byron over 170 years ago…Venice hasn’t changed much since then, and still hasn’t sunk into the Mediterranean.
Spending two glorious weeks in Venice this summer was the much needed respite from our modern America and its hectic pace—and though I have visited Venice as a tourist four times before, I finally learned what life was like as a resident of the island of Venice. My friend and I chose to rent an apartment on one of the residential streets just a couple of blocks from the Vivaldi church—which is on one of the lesser-known piazzas in Venice.
I had always wondered what was behind those double doors we always passed on our ACIS tours, and I had longed to capture a glimpse of what lay behind them. The apartment was the third floor of a former three-story residence behind a set of those double doors. The home was still in the family –the Mother occupied the first landing, the son, Caesar, the second; we had the privilege of climbing 66 stairs to reach our apartment---and it was a privilege because once there, we had a view of the campanile of San Marco, the terra cotta rooftops, of secret gardens that lay behind other homes—all this was for our pleasure on a daily basis. Occasionally one of the cruise ships would sail past and seem to stealth behind the rooftops.
But the most glorious part of my residence remained to be seen. It was only when waking before dawn that I received my biggest thrill. How can one capture in words the mist from the Grand Canal coating the rooftops in reflections of moonlight? How can one describe the complete stillness of the morning—without the sounds of cars whizzing in a maddening rush? God gave me a moment I will never forget…because in that moment of complete mist and stillness, I was able to capture in my memory a sunrise of most glorious proportions. The sunrise was a secret one, serenely rising over the campaniles---cresting over the staggered silhouettes of the buildings—and then making a simple statement: I am the sun: I am here, rest assured—and Venice will be, too—bask in the glory—and from that moment, life awakened.
A seagull began screeching---flying in zigzag patterns to awaken the others---and suddenly the air was alive with countless echoes from other birds, and the bells chime-in the morning—and as the sun began to radiate—the dew dissolved—and the bells continued for minutes. The cacophony continued—and I, too, was alive! -Alive in a way that can only occur in Venice. Each morning was like this—I anticipated sleep so that I might have other joyous awakenings.
Dr. K--- of Georgia State University, a renowned author and historian, lives in Venice each summer. She hosted Dr. E-- and me for a day of Venetian history and touring. The service she provided to us was immeasurable. She took us through the Venetian hospital, which was a former monastery. She narrated the history of several churches, pointing out architecture, historical significance, but also refreshed us with historical anecdotes that only a scholar could know.
Dr. K--- is famous for translating medieval manuscripts. Her colorful depictions of medieval leaders delighted us. We then took a ferry to Torricelli where we received a personal tour of the Etruscan museum. Dr. Kuntz’s knowledge of the civilizations of Venice was matched by her knowledge of the archeological discoveries in the Veneto. From laughter at sitting in Attila’s throne, to sobriety at discussing the frescos within Torcello’s churches, we gained a day of education that will probably never be matched.
Dr. K---’s brilliance did not take away from her generosity. She treated us to the Cipriani Hotel for lunch. There, the manager of the restaurant gave us white-glove treatment befitting a “professori doctori”
of her reputation. From the seafood salad anti-pasta served in shell, to the bronzoni baked and seasoned to perfection, we dined in the best of style. Since we could not decide on which dessert to have, the waiter just gave us each three different desserts---we were stuffed. –All this while looking onto the rose-gardens and grape-trellished pathway to The Church of Santa Maria (?).
Dr. E--- and I selected a favorite café, Cleopatra’s, family-owned and operated. We took at least one of our meals daily there. The result was rewarding. The whole family began to call us by name: Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Pop, and three children all knew us by the end of our stay. Their smiles were huge when we would approach daily…They knew our favorite treats---pomodoro and mozzarella in oil and basil, vino rosso, and of course, a different flavor of gelatto at every meal. Seeing them daily allowed me to practice my Italian and learn more each time; Dr. E was already a scholar. The familial atmosphere was welcoming.
One morning we decided to take a train to the Friouli region and had another treat along the way. We caught one of the early water-taxis –and sitting in the prow of the boat, we were able to view a silent Grand Canal—the perfect photographic opportunities were around every bend….there I snapped Byron’s villa, the San Giorgio church, the Salute, the Academia, the Rialto Bridge—all illuminated by morning sunlight. Something inspiring exists in the silence of morning and in seeing an image untainted by reminders of modern times. We were almost transported: the taxi might have been a gondola, the century might have been the 19th---not the twenty-first. I thought, “What news on the Rialto?” as I passed under the famous bridge.
Spending two glorious weeks in Venice this summer was the much needed respite from our modern America and its hectic pace—and though I have visited Venice as a tourist four times before, I finally learned what life was like as a resident of the island of Venice. My friend and I chose to rent an apartment on one of the residential streets just a couple of blocks from the Vivaldi church—which is on one of the lesser-known piazzas in Venice.
I had always wondered what was behind those double doors we always passed on our ACIS tours, and I had longed to capture a glimpse of what lay behind them. The apartment was the third floor of a former three-story residence behind a set of those double doors. The home was still in the family –the Mother occupied the first landing, the son, Caesar, the second; we had the privilege of climbing 66 stairs to reach our apartment---and it was a privilege because once there, we had a view of the campanile of San Marco, the terra cotta rooftops, of secret gardens that lay behind other homes—all this was for our pleasure on a daily basis. Occasionally one of the cruise ships would sail past and seem to stealth behind the rooftops.
But the most glorious part of my residence remained to be seen. It was only when waking before dawn that I received my biggest thrill. How can one capture in words the mist from the Grand Canal coating the rooftops in reflections of moonlight? How can one describe the complete stillness of the morning—without the sounds of cars whizzing in a maddening rush? God gave me a moment I will never forget…because in that moment of complete mist and stillness, I was able to capture in my memory a sunrise of most glorious proportions. The sunrise was a secret one, serenely rising over the campaniles---cresting over the staggered silhouettes of the buildings—and then making a simple statement: I am the sun: I am here, rest assured—and Venice will be, too—bask in the glory—and from that moment, life awakened.
A seagull began screeching---flying in zigzag patterns to awaken the others---and suddenly the air was alive with countless echoes from other birds, and the bells chime-in the morning—and as the sun began to radiate—the dew dissolved—and the bells continued for minutes. The cacophony continued—and I, too, was alive! -Alive in a way that can only occur in Venice. Each morning was like this—I anticipated sleep so that I might have other joyous awakenings.
Dr. K--- of Georgia State University, a renowned author and historian, lives in Venice each summer. She hosted Dr. E-- and me for a day of Venetian history and touring. The service she provided to us was immeasurable. She took us through the Venetian hospital, which was a former monastery. She narrated the history of several churches, pointing out architecture, historical significance, but also refreshed us with historical anecdotes that only a scholar could know.
Dr. K--- is famous for translating medieval manuscripts. Her colorful depictions of medieval leaders delighted us. We then took a ferry to Torricelli where we received a personal tour of the Etruscan museum. Dr. Kuntz’s knowledge of the civilizations of Venice was matched by her knowledge of the archeological discoveries in the Veneto. From laughter at sitting in Attila’s throne, to sobriety at discussing the frescos within Torcello’s churches, we gained a day of education that will probably never be matched.
Dr. K---’s brilliance did not take away from her generosity. She treated us to the Cipriani Hotel for lunch. There, the manager of the restaurant gave us white-glove treatment befitting a “professori doctori”
of her reputation. From the seafood salad anti-pasta served in shell, to the bronzoni baked and seasoned to perfection, we dined in the best of style. Since we could not decide on which dessert to have, the waiter just gave us each three different desserts---we were stuffed. –All this while looking onto the rose-gardens and grape-trellished pathway to The Church of Santa Maria (?).
Dr. E--- and I selected a favorite café, Cleopatra’s, family-owned and operated. We took at least one of our meals daily there. The result was rewarding. The whole family began to call us by name: Grandma, Grandpa, Mom, Pop, and three children all knew us by the end of our stay. Their smiles were huge when we would approach daily…They knew our favorite treats---pomodoro and mozzarella in oil and basil, vino rosso, and of course, a different flavor of gelatto at every meal. Seeing them daily allowed me to practice my Italian and learn more each time; Dr. E was already a scholar. The familial atmosphere was welcoming.
One morning we decided to take a train to the Friouli region and had another treat along the way. We caught one of the early water-taxis –and sitting in the prow of the boat, we were able to view a silent Grand Canal—the perfect photographic opportunities were around every bend….there I snapped Byron’s villa, the San Giorgio church, the Salute, the Academia, the Rialto Bridge—all illuminated by morning sunlight. Something inspiring exists in the silence of morning and in seeing an image untainted by reminders of modern times. We were almost transported: the taxi might have been a gondola, the century might have been the 19th---not the twenty-first. I thought, “What news on the Rialto?” as I passed under the famous bridge.
Post 911 Travel 2002
Passing Thoughts...
This is the year that I didn’t go to Europe. I didn’t walk along the Seine in Paris, or stop for a glass of wine at the corner café, nooked underneath the big elm tree. –you know, the one across from the Cathedral of La Madeleine. I didn’t visit the Musée d'Orsay and didn’t marvel at Van Gogh’s self portriat. This is the year that I wasn’t blinded by the sun as I walked up the Champs Elysees in the afternoon. –or lose the kid on the Metro on the way to the Louvre. I didn’t walk under those Louvre porticos where buggies had scrapped the stone walls, or had wobbled along those cobblestone roads upon approach. This is the year that I didn’t reflect on how pitiful the peasants must have felt prior to the French Revolution, wanting for a piece of cake. This was the year I wasn’t angry at the Louis’s.
This is the year that I didn’t make friends with a tour manager as brilliant as Rebecca or Debbie …and didn’t gain an international pen pal. This is the year that I regretted not taking a moment of quiet time talking to my new found friend as the students romped about the streets of Paris, or Rome, or London, or nostalgically at the close of our trip.
I didn’t see the Tragian’s column or pyramid; I didn’t hold back tears in the protestant cemetery in Rome standing over the graves of Keats, or Shelley, or Hunt. No one clicked a snapshot of a wayward cat in the cemetery or the Colloseo, or the Pantheon. No one smelled the oleander.
I didn’t drip my gellatio across the Bridge of Sighs, or scowl at the panhandlers that made the way across the canal so tight with tourists. I had no proscuitto and mozzarella at Café’ Cleopatra’s in Venice, no vino rosso, no proud winks at my companions as we wondered how the poor people lived. I heard no bells in any campanile. I heard no voices echo in the narrow streets. I took no gondola rides.
I had to wait in no long lines outside the Tower, and didn’t have to hurry past the Crown Jewels. No chance for me to pray or reflect in Poet’s Corner and visualize the voices of angels ringing in the nave. I wasn’t yanked back to the curb for looking the wrong way on a busy London street, and I wasn’t refreshed by afternoon tea.
No kids matured a year’s worth in three weeks. No kid imitated the statue in Trafalgar Square, or back in the Platz d’ Bastille. No one laughed at Churchill’s portly belly or marveled at Queen Elizabeth II’s petite coronation gown. No one said, “Mind the gap.” No luggage broke.
I didn’t smell the fresh air on Mt. Pollutes or cast a reflection into Lake Lucerne. No snuggling under goose down comforters in July this year!
I had no chance to see the transformation in my students’ clothes and behavior as they entered the dining room of the Hotel Grande Lucerne, complete with its white linens, sparkling crystal, and dour waiters. No chance. No chance.
I took no train rides, no chunnel trip, no Eurostar---. I counted no heads as my group departed the terminals --no medieval towers passed my windows, and no fields of sunflowers made me gasp.
This was the year I didn’t take an ACIS trip to Europe. This was the first year I skipped since 1993. I won’t let the opportunity pass again. I am already planning my trip for 2003.
copyright 2003
This is the year that I didn’t go to Europe. I didn’t walk along the Seine in Paris, or stop for a glass of wine at the corner café, nooked underneath the big elm tree. –you know, the one across from the Cathedral of La Madeleine. I didn’t visit the Musée d'Orsay and didn’t marvel at Van Gogh’s self portriat. This is the year that I wasn’t blinded by the sun as I walked up the Champs Elysees in the afternoon. –or lose the kid on the Metro on the way to the Louvre. I didn’t walk under those Louvre porticos where buggies had scrapped the stone walls, or had wobbled along those cobblestone roads upon approach. This is the year that I didn’t reflect on how pitiful the peasants must have felt prior to the French Revolution, wanting for a piece of cake. This was the year I wasn’t angry at the Louis’s.
This is the year that I didn’t make friends with a tour manager as brilliant as Rebecca or Debbie …and didn’t gain an international pen pal. This is the year that I regretted not taking a moment of quiet time talking to my new found friend as the students romped about the streets of Paris, or Rome, or London, or nostalgically at the close of our trip.
I didn’t see the Tragian’s column or pyramid; I didn’t hold back tears in the protestant cemetery in Rome standing over the graves of Keats, or Shelley, or Hunt. No one clicked a snapshot of a wayward cat in the cemetery or the Colloseo, or the Pantheon. No one smelled the oleander.
I didn’t drip my gellatio across the Bridge of Sighs, or scowl at the panhandlers that made the way across the canal so tight with tourists. I had no proscuitto and mozzarella at Café’ Cleopatra’s in Venice, no vino rosso, no proud winks at my companions as we wondered how the poor people lived. I heard no bells in any campanile. I heard no voices echo in the narrow streets. I took no gondola rides.
I had to wait in no long lines outside the Tower, and didn’t have to hurry past the Crown Jewels. No chance for me to pray or reflect in Poet’s Corner and visualize the voices of angels ringing in the nave. I wasn’t yanked back to the curb for looking the wrong way on a busy London street, and I wasn’t refreshed by afternoon tea.
No kids matured a year’s worth in three weeks. No kid imitated the statue in Trafalgar Square, or back in the Platz d’ Bastille. No one laughed at Churchill’s portly belly or marveled at Queen Elizabeth II’s petite coronation gown. No one said, “Mind the gap.” No luggage broke.
I didn’t smell the fresh air on Mt. Pollutes or cast a reflection into Lake Lucerne. No snuggling under goose down comforters in July this year!
I had no chance to see the transformation in my students’ clothes and behavior as they entered the dining room of the Hotel Grande Lucerne, complete with its white linens, sparkling crystal, and dour waiters. No chance. No chance.
I took no train rides, no chunnel trip, no Eurostar---. I counted no heads as my group departed the terminals --no medieval towers passed my windows, and no fields of sunflowers made me gasp.
This was the year I didn’t take an ACIS trip to Europe. This was the first year I skipped since 1993. I won’t let the opportunity pass again. I am already planning my trip for 2003.
copyright 2003
"This Life", Poem to Langston Hughes copyright 1999
"This Life", Poem to Langston Hughes copyright 1999
"This Life"
To Langston Hughes
I sat on the lap of George C. Wallace
While he was wheel-chair bound
When I was a child
Posing for a picture.
I met John F. Kennedy Jr. in 1988
And he said, “hello” and “isn’t the democratic convention inspiring”
And he treated me as his equal
Carrying on pleasantries for a few minutes.
And I felt good.
I have seen the age spots hidden by make-up
on the camera-ready hands I shook
Of George Herbert Walker Bush
And Heard Vice-President Dan Quayle give a cognizant speech, believe it or not.
I have been molested by a good
Southern preacher
when I was 10, as he talked about
loving the Lord
and coming to Jesus.
I have danced on the stage of the Limelight
‘til the wee hours
with RuPaul
When he still dressed as a she-man.
I have seen friends commit suicide
And 27 die of AIDS-
And I have known rivers, too,
Langston Hughes.
date unknown. Revised 07/20/99
copyright 1999
"This Life"
To Langston Hughes
I sat on the lap of George C. Wallace
While he was wheel-chair bound
When I was a child
Posing for a picture.
I met John F. Kennedy Jr. in 1988
And he said, “hello” and “isn’t the democratic convention inspiring”
And he treated me as his equal
Carrying on pleasantries for a few minutes.
And I felt good.
I have seen the age spots hidden by make-up
on the camera-ready hands I shook
Of George Herbert Walker Bush
And Heard Vice-President Dan Quayle give a cognizant speech, believe it or not.
I have been molested by a good
Southern preacher
when I was 10, as he talked about
loving the Lord
and coming to Jesus.
I have danced on the stage of the Limelight
‘til the wee hours
with RuPaul
When he still dressed as a she-man.
I have seen friends commit suicide
And 27 die of AIDS-
And I have known rivers, too,
Langston Hughes.
date unknown. Revised 07/20/99
copyright 1999
European Travel Vinettes 1995-1997 copyright
European Travel Vinettes
1995 Venice
Somehow our courier timed our arrival perfectly...as we arrived on the ferry in the Grand Canal, every church bell began to chime in our noon welcome; the ringing crescendoed as we drew nearer and nearer. We began to see the magnificent architecture of the churches...our pulses raced. The students and I ran to the side of the ferry. And there, as the twelfth chime rang, we saw Piazza San Marco, the Doge Palace and the Cathedral of San Marco in all its glory...Venice in all of its glory... and we were here!
1996 Rome:
Our courier, Debbie, made special arrangements to take me to the English Cemetery in Rome, the burial place of John Keats and Percy Shelley. Keats had always been my favorite poet, and now that I was an English teacher, I had longed to see this landmark. To my surprise, though, the cemetery was a transcendent place, cloistered behind a stone wall and nestled in the shadow of The Cestius pyramid. Debbie and I were the only visitors at that time; we discovered that we shared the same love of literature and art...and the visit became special to both us. The oleander was in full bloom and the sun was brilliantly shining. As we wandered thoughtfully we noticed that one of the tombs was protected by a weeping angel---the sight of her was tragic, yet comforting....then as we approached the corner of the cemetery where Keats is buried, I felt that the glistening light of the sun took on a special ambiance. The poetry of Keats filled my mind at that moment...and I felt the comfort of eternity in this special place.
1996 Capri:
We found our way to a cliffside cafe overlooking the Mediterranean Sea...the sea was not dotted with sails, but punctuated by a single clipper alone in crystalline blue...the hillside homes stood out from the rocks, yet were a part of it: the flowering vines embroidered the dwellings in a coat of comfort and they belonged as a part of the landscape...I thought, “I could live here---I’m home!”
1996 London
“Mr. Robert! Mr. Robert!” The two senior girls shouted. “We saw it! I can’t believe we saw it!” “Oh my god,” they said, “ we saw John Keats’s house in Hampstead...you gave us our free time and while everyone else went shopping, we took a bus and found our way to Hampstead Heath...everything you taught us last semester came back to us; now we know why you love Keats’s writing so much...it came alive!”
1997 Eze, France
The chilly morning in Eze, just outside of Nice, was a journey back in time...we meandered through the cobblestone streets and glanced into the many shops carved into the hillside....stopping only for mist-filled vistas into the French Rivera of the past...a gardener trimming rose bushes...a maid carrying linens to a backdoor... the path of adventure led us onto a side street occupied only by locals who smiled and gestured us into a shop for a cup of cappuccino...we were warmed in the fellowship of smiles and good company.
Back in Nice, the sun broke through as we gathered on the beachside pavilion of our hotel...our journey was coming to a close...we had one last day in the sun.
1995 Venice
Somehow our courier timed our arrival perfectly...as we arrived on the ferry in the Grand Canal, every church bell began to chime in our noon welcome; the ringing crescendoed as we drew nearer and nearer. We began to see the magnificent architecture of the churches...our pulses raced. The students and I ran to the side of the ferry. And there, as the twelfth chime rang, we saw Piazza San Marco, the Doge Palace and the Cathedral of San Marco in all its glory...Venice in all of its glory... and we were here!
1996 Rome:
Our courier, Debbie, made special arrangements to take me to the English Cemetery in Rome, the burial place of John Keats and Percy Shelley. Keats had always been my favorite poet, and now that I was an English teacher, I had longed to see this landmark. To my surprise, though, the cemetery was a transcendent place, cloistered behind a stone wall and nestled in the shadow of The Cestius pyramid. Debbie and I were the only visitors at that time; we discovered that we shared the same love of literature and art...and the visit became special to both us. The oleander was in full bloom and the sun was brilliantly shining. As we wandered thoughtfully we noticed that one of the tombs was protected by a weeping angel---the sight of her was tragic, yet comforting....then as we approached the corner of the cemetery where Keats is buried, I felt that the glistening light of the sun took on a special ambiance. The poetry of Keats filled my mind at that moment...and I felt the comfort of eternity in this special place.
1996 Capri:
We found our way to a cliffside cafe overlooking the Mediterranean Sea...the sea was not dotted with sails, but punctuated by a single clipper alone in crystalline blue...the hillside homes stood out from the rocks, yet were a part of it: the flowering vines embroidered the dwellings in a coat of comfort and they belonged as a part of the landscape...I thought, “I could live here---I’m home!”
1996 London
“Mr. Robert! Mr. Robert!” The two senior girls shouted. “We saw it! I can’t believe we saw it!” “Oh my god,” they said, “ we saw John Keats’s house in Hampstead...you gave us our free time and while everyone else went shopping, we took a bus and found our way to Hampstead Heath...everything you taught us last semester came back to us; now we know why you love Keats’s writing so much...it came alive!”
1997 Eze, France
The chilly morning in Eze, just outside of Nice, was a journey back in time...we meandered through the cobblestone streets and glanced into the many shops carved into the hillside....stopping only for mist-filled vistas into the French Rivera of the past...a gardener trimming rose bushes...a maid carrying linens to a backdoor... the path of adventure led us onto a side street occupied only by locals who smiled and gestured us into a shop for a cup of cappuccino...we were warmed in the fellowship of smiles and good company.
Back in Nice, the sun broke through as we gathered on the beachside pavilion of our hotel...our journey was coming to a close...we had one last day in the sun.
"Snob" poem copyright 1998
"SNOB"
CHATTERING FOOLS
BANTERING ABOUT NOTHING
TO THE INCREASING VOLUME OF IDIOTS
SHOUTING OVER EACH OTHER
IN HOPES THAT THEIR POINT IS MORE WELL TAKEN
THAN SOMEONE ELSE'S
AS
I SIT SILENTLY
AND ATTEMPT TO READ
VERLAINE
"This is Poetry" copyright 1998
NOT EVEN A METAPHOR
WILL FILL THIS VERSE
NOT EVEN A RHYME
SHOULD FILL THE PAGE
NOT EVEN A POIGNANT THOUGHT
NOT EVEN A METAPHOR
WILL FILL THIS VERSE
NOT EVEN A RHYME
SHOULD FILL THE PAGE
NOT EVEN A POIGNANT THOUGHT
WILL REACH YOUR EYES
AND YET
THIS
IS
POETRY.
WILL REACH YOUR EYES
AND YET
THIS
IS
POETRY.
WILL FILL THIS VERSE
NOT EVEN A RHYME
SHOULD FILL THE PAGE
NOT EVEN A POIGNANT THOUGHT
NOT EVEN A METAPHOR
WILL FILL THIS VERSE
NOT EVEN A RHYME
SHOULD FILL THE PAGE
NOT EVEN A POIGNANT THOUGHT
WILL REACH YOUR EYES
AND YET
THIS
IS
POETRY.
WILL REACH YOUR EYES
AND YET
THIS
IS
POETRY.
"Quality of Life" poem on teaching copyright 1999
Quality of Life
When my days are spent waiting
on white out to dry
And too nice kids to show some interest
in what they are learning
And when I am sorting through the sea of names in alphabetical order
with no faces (sardines in the factory of public education where the copying machine does not work.)
And when parents keep the teachers in apples
as if we are some sort of thoroughbred bringing them the garland--
Awarding the kids with pedigrees from the finest universities
(high SAT scores included)
When bumper stickers stating I have an honor student at WHS, a National
School of Excellence whiz through the parking lot while I stand in the rain holding my two briefcases and a cup of caffiene
And I wonder if I “touch the life of just one child” am I doing America
justice or if this is just another facade of American PTA-ism to keep
the haves from the have nots
"My honor student committed suicide" is many a parent's truth
And I ask, when administrators with walkie-talkies march past in too-tight
pantyhose
When they smile and say, “The class average is really 21 students per class;
when I know it is really thirty-plus so the coach can have an extra hour free (as if he ever did any work in the first place)
I ask-
Is this my quality of life? (I remind myself that the kids are really
nice.)
When my days are spent waiting
on white out to dry
And too nice kids to show some interest
in what they are learning
And when I am sorting through the sea of names in alphabetical order
with no faces (sardines in the factory of public education where the copying machine does not work.)
And when parents keep the teachers in apples
as if we are some sort of thoroughbred bringing them the garland--
Awarding the kids with pedigrees from the finest universities
(high SAT scores included)
When bumper stickers stating I have an honor student at WHS, a National
School of Excellence whiz through the parking lot while I stand in the rain holding my two briefcases and a cup of caffiene
And I wonder if I “touch the life of just one child” am I doing America
justice or if this is just another facade of American PTA-ism to keep
the haves from the have nots
"My honor student committed suicide" is many a parent's truth
And I ask, when administrators with walkie-talkies march past in too-tight
pantyhose
When they smile and say, “The class average is really 21 students per class;
when I know it is really thirty-plus so the coach can have an extra hour free (as if he ever did any work in the first place)
I ask-
Is this my quality of life? (I remind myself that the kids are really
nice.)
“Doves”
“Doves”
The doves came back today
it’s their fourth year
I guess they’re here to stay.
Today I am 37.
It’s my birthday.
The doves are gray-
as I-at my temples.
The flutter shadows against my windows
as the ghosts of dead friends gay.
Today I am 37.
It is my birthday.
The doves came back today
it’s their fourth year
I guess they’re here to stay.
Today I am 37.
It’s my birthday.
The doves are gray-
as I-at my temples.
The flutter shadows against my windows
as the ghosts of dead friends gay.
Today I am 37.
It is my birthday.
"Bitterness" poem copyright 1998
“Bitterness”
Shallow kids sit
showing indifference-
callow bullshit
saying fuck at the drop of a hat-
thinking they are Lawrence Ferlinghetti
wearing their Calvin Klein jeans
and their Jennifer Anniston haircuts-
what they do not know
is that hemp destroys the brain.
Hip-hop- hanging with the homeboys
gold chains and bustin’ a sag
these white boys
jump in the jeeps and head home
to Mummy’s catered
Publix deli dinners served with
tennis skirts, gossip, and cellulite.
Birthday girl in clogs and miniskirt
stumbles down the hall
since she has had no cotillion training-
she tugs at a bouquet of balloons
too big for her to carry
(but her Mummy bought them for her
since Mummy cannot buy love)
with books and flowers-
Learning early what it means
NOT to help the impoverished.
10:25 am 3-19-98 Copyright
Shallow kids sit
showing indifference-
callow bullshit
saying fuck at the drop of a hat-
thinking they are Lawrence Ferlinghetti
wearing their Calvin Klein jeans
and their Jennifer Anniston haircuts-
what they do not know
is that hemp destroys the brain.
Hip-hop- hanging with the homeboys
gold chains and bustin’ a sag
these white boys
jump in the jeeps and head home
to Mummy’s catered
Publix deli dinners served with
tennis skirts, gossip, and cellulite.
Birthday girl in clogs and miniskirt
stumbles down the hall
since she has had no cotillion training-
she tugs at a bouquet of balloons
too big for her to carry
(but her Mummy bought them for her
since Mummy cannot buy love)
with books and flowers-
Learning early what it means
NOT to help the impoverished.
10:25 am 3-19-98 Copyright
"grunge" poem rated "R" for language 1996 copyright
grunge
This is not my vision of poetry
the rough caustic bitter
envelopment of hard images
that you professors seem to espouse
in your love for the visceral experience
these are not my images of poetry
that you artsy fartsy teeny-bopper
grunge posers seem to imitate
in your generation X lack of depth
and your shallow wannabee sexually liberated fuckers
fuck fuck fuck everything that moves, walks, talks
What about romance? What about love?
What about the never-ending essence of the oversoul;
What about that?
This is not my vision of poetry
the rough caustic bitter
envelopment of hard images
that you professors seem to espouse
in your love for the visceral experience
these are not my images of poetry
that you artsy fartsy teeny-bopper
grunge posers seem to imitate
in your generation X lack of depth
and your shallow wannabee sexually liberated fuckers
fuck fuck fuck everything that moves, walks, talks
What about romance? What about love?
What about the never-ending essence of the oversoul;
What about that?
"The Spirit of Love" to Bethany 1999 copyright
"The Spirit of Love"
To Bethany on her wedding day
Love takes somber,silent joy
and walks softly
in the form of Donovan.
Love creates music--
music becomes strength and character
and this is Donovan.
Love takes the raidance of beauty
and offers it out unto the world
in the form of Bethany.
Love takes the beauty and offers
it in the voice of song
and this is Bethany.
Love lifts the Spirit into Oneness-
fusing music and voice-
and offers it out as a beacon of light,
lifting Donovan and Bethany
up in joy for eternity
and this is marriage.
Love moves outside of itself
and offers its light to God
This is the Spirit of Love-
soaring through space
unto heaven
for eternity.
copyright 1999
To Bethany on her wedding day
Love takes somber,silent joy
and walks softly
in the form of Donovan.
Love creates music--
music becomes strength and character
and this is Donovan.
Love takes the raidance of beauty
and offers it out unto the world
in the form of Bethany.
Love takes the beauty and offers
it in the voice of song
and this is Bethany.
Love lifts the Spirit into Oneness-
fusing music and voice-
and offers it out as a beacon of light,
lifting Donovan and Bethany
up in joy for eternity
and this is marriage.
Love moves outside of itself
and offers its light to God
This is the Spirit of Love-
soaring through space
unto heaven
for eternity.
copyright 1999
Frog-giggin' 1987
Frog Giggin’
Frog-Acre is an acre of bogland just off the Warrior River a ways up Cane Creek. It pretty much looks like land until you step out of the boat, then you find out otherwise. You find out that it is a contortion of water lilies and lilly pads wrapped together and tied and covered with algae all over the whole surface of the lake that the creek feeds. One time my beagle, Soupy, -he was called Soupy for the way he did his business when he was a puppy—jumped out of the boat and tried to catch a frog himself. Soupy got all tangled up in the lilies and we finally had to chop him out with our boat paddles. And it seemed that all the frogs just laughed at him the whole time that he was caught and struggling.
Frog Acre is where we usually go when we want to catch us some big frogs. You have to gig the big ones to get any meat on their bones.
Frogs are a strange sort, anyway, and pretty ugly. It’s sort of funny to consider that this bloated green , slimy fellow would make some of the best eatin’ around. And it’s funny that they are closest in relation to humans. I guess that explains it when you see a baby and say, “You’re just cute enough to eat!” But to experience this feast -the frog legs, not the baby—you have to participate in the huntin’. “Cause what good is the meal if you don’t join in on the game?
You have to wake up pretty damn early to catch the frogs. They dislike the heat as much as you and I do, so they pretty much stay in the water after the sun comes up.
So we crawl out of bed at about four-thirty in the mornin’, to to the boatshed, get our hats with the carbide lanterns, our life jackets, our paddles, and of course, our gig. A gig is a long pole, maybe six or seven feet long, with a three-pronged devil’s fork on the end. You have to watch, too, when getting into the boat so that you don’t punch a hole into the bottom of the boat, or that you don’t gig your dog, especially Soupy—or your fellow frog gigger.
Once you’re in the boat, you are ready to go. Now the main thing that you have to do is to be real quiet, the frogs will hear you if you don’t. If you’re far away from where you are going, it’s o.k. to use a small trolling motor to get you there as long as you remember that you must shut it off a good ways before you get to Frog-Acre. You have to be still, too, cause if you bump the sides or the bottom of the boat, then you’ll cause all the frogs to jump off their lily pads and into the water. --Don’t worry though, because you know when to turn off the mother and when to get real quiet. When you round the bend in Cane Creek, you hear the frogs as you move into Frog-Acre. It sounds like thousands of them --and it probably is! You need to listen for the ones with the deep bellowing voices; they make the best eatin’. They are granddaddy bull frogs. Some are as old as I am. -I’ve even seen them as big a cats! And I’m not kidding you either. They could swallow a whole rat and probably some carp for dessert. They make the best eatin’ because they have the most meat on their legs. And the meat just breaks apart in chucks at the calves and thighs. So good, so good.
The reason I ‘m telling you that you have to listen is because you can’t see. It is pitch black on the creek before the sun comes op; and there is a mist as thick as butter and it rise up about fifteen feet over the surface of Frog-Acre.
I particularly like the mist in the morning. It sits all around you and covers your face, and gives a fresh smell to everything around you. And it prepares the trees and foliage for the summer heat. The limbs droop down and touch the water; they are so heavy with dew. My son doesn’t like it though. He’s ten years old and he hates morning anyway. He says that it makes his clothes wet and draws mosquitoes to him. I tell him not to be so sweet. This is God’s time.
Now once you hear the frogs croakin’, you shut down the motor and everything gets as quiet as prayer on Sunday Morning—unless of course you are Church of God, like my wife’s folks.---Except for the frogs—You hear them loud and clear. This is when you light your carbide lanterns.
A smart man thought up the carbide lantern. It has chemicals in it, but we won’t get into that. Just be careful not to burn yourself. IT has a blue-green and yellow flame when you light it and a very strong smell. You begin to appreciate the smell once you get used to it. Sort of a sweet sulfur. And the lamp also warms and dries the mist off your face. See, the lamp is attached to a dish that reflects the light; and you wear it on your cap. That way, wherever you turn your head, you’ve got the light aimed in the right direction. Boys these days want to use flashlights until they realize that a flashlight ties up your hands. They realize it once they drop their first granddaddy off their gig and into the water.
So once you greet the silence, you wait on the calm to take over. You take your paddle to the water, and ever so quietly, you slip it in.
Don’t splash! You have to be an artist to be able to maneuver the paddle over the edge of the boat with one arm and to hold the seven-foot gig in the other. What you then do is ease the boat, ever-so-quietly toward the general direction of the bellowing bullfrog.
Don’t look at him! You’ll scare him into the water, along with every other frog around him. If you’ve got someone else with you, he can hold the gig. As soon as you get into close range—about five feet—off the granddaddy, be quick! Turn your head as quick as you can and look that frog square in the eye. This’ll scare him and stun him. He won’t be able to move. You’ll blind him. Imagine an “X” directly over his heart. That’s your target.
And while you are blinding him, jab him! Jab him hard and quick! That three-pronged devil’s fork will go right in him. He’ll never know what hit him. An “X” over the heart always kills on the spot.
He’ll be yours! You do have to aim for his belly—but that’s most of him anyway.
When you lift him into the boat, you have to hold tight onto that gig—that fat-ass bull frog will slip right off if you don’t. And hold that fork up in the air so that if the frog does slip, he’ll slip further on and not off the gig. Drop that sucker in a bucket and you are ready to go again. Do this about a hundred times before the sun comes up, and you’ll have a mess of frog legs that would feed all of Walker County…so good, so good.
Frog-Acre is an acre of bogland just off the Warrior River a ways up Cane Creek. It pretty much looks like land until you step out of the boat, then you find out otherwise. You find out that it is a contortion of water lilies and lilly pads wrapped together and tied and covered with algae all over the whole surface of the lake that the creek feeds. One time my beagle, Soupy, -he was called Soupy for the way he did his business when he was a puppy—jumped out of the boat and tried to catch a frog himself. Soupy got all tangled up in the lilies and we finally had to chop him out with our boat paddles. And it seemed that all the frogs just laughed at him the whole time that he was caught and struggling.
Frog Acre is where we usually go when we want to catch us some big frogs. You have to gig the big ones to get any meat on their bones.
Frogs are a strange sort, anyway, and pretty ugly. It’s sort of funny to consider that this bloated green , slimy fellow would make some of the best eatin’ around. And it’s funny that they are closest in relation to humans. I guess that explains it when you see a baby and say, “You’re just cute enough to eat!” But to experience this feast -the frog legs, not the baby—you have to participate in the huntin’. “Cause what good is the meal if you don’t join in on the game?
You have to wake up pretty damn early to catch the frogs. They dislike the heat as much as you and I do, so they pretty much stay in the water after the sun comes up.
So we crawl out of bed at about four-thirty in the mornin’, to to the boatshed, get our hats with the carbide lanterns, our life jackets, our paddles, and of course, our gig. A gig is a long pole, maybe six or seven feet long, with a three-pronged devil’s fork on the end. You have to watch, too, when getting into the boat so that you don’t punch a hole into the bottom of the boat, or that you don’t gig your dog, especially Soupy—or your fellow frog gigger.
Once you’re in the boat, you are ready to go. Now the main thing that you have to do is to be real quiet, the frogs will hear you if you don’t. If you’re far away from where you are going, it’s o.k. to use a small trolling motor to get you there as long as you remember that you must shut it off a good ways before you get to Frog-Acre. You have to be still, too, cause if you bump the sides or the bottom of the boat, then you’ll cause all the frogs to jump off their lily pads and into the water. --Don’t worry though, because you know when to turn off the mother and when to get real quiet. When you round the bend in Cane Creek, you hear the frogs as you move into Frog-Acre. It sounds like thousands of them --and it probably is! You need to listen for the ones with the deep bellowing voices; they make the best eatin’. They are granddaddy bull frogs. Some are as old as I am. -I’ve even seen them as big a cats! And I’m not kidding you either. They could swallow a whole rat and probably some carp for dessert. They make the best eatin’ because they have the most meat on their legs. And the meat just breaks apart in chucks at the calves and thighs. So good, so good.
The reason I ‘m telling you that you have to listen is because you can’t see. It is pitch black on the creek before the sun comes op; and there is a mist as thick as butter and it rise up about fifteen feet over the surface of Frog-Acre.
I particularly like the mist in the morning. It sits all around you and covers your face, and gives a fresh smell to everything around you. And it prepares the trees and foliage for the summer heat. The limbs droop down and touch the water; they are so heavy with dew. My son doesn’t like it though. He’s ten years old and he hates morning anyway. He says that it makes his clothes wet and draws mosquitoes to him. I tell him not to be so sweet. This is God’s time.
Now once you hear the frogs croakin’, you shut down the motor and everything gets as quiet as prayer on Sunday Morning—unless of course you are Church of God, like my wife’s folks.---Except for the frogs—You hear them loud and clear. This is when you light your carbide lanterns.
A smart man thought up the carbide lantern. It has chemicals in it, but we won’t get into that. Just be careful not to burn yourself. IT has a blue-green and yellow flame when you light it and a very strong smell. You begin to appreciate the smell once you get used to it. Sort of a sweet sulfur. And the lamp also warms and dries the mist off your face. See, the lamp is attached to a dish that reflects the light; and you wear it on your cap. That way, wherever you turn your head, you’ve got the light aimed in the right direction. Boys these days want to use flashlights until they realize that a flashlight ties up your hands. They realize it once they drop their first granddaddy off their gig and into the water.
So once you greet the silence, you wait on the calm to take over. You take your paddle to the water, and ever so quietly, you slip it in.
Don’t splash! You have to be an artist to be able to maneuver the paddle over the edge of the boat with one arm and to hold the seven-foot gig in the other. What you then do is ease the boat, ever-so-quietly toward the general direction of the bellowing bullfrog.
Don’t look at him! You’ll scare him into the water, along with every other frog around him. If you’ve got someone else with you, he can hold the gig. As soon as you get into close range—about five feet—off the granddaddy, be quick! Turn your head as quick as you can and look that frog square in the eye. This’ll scare him and stun him. He won’t be able to move. You’ll blind him. Imagine an “X” directly over his heart. That’s your target.
And while you are blinding him, jab him! Jab him hard and quick! That three-pronged devil’s fork will go right in him. He’ll never know what hit him. An “X” over the heart always kills on the spot.
He’ll be yours! You do have to aim for his belly—but that’s most of him anyway.
When you lift him into the boat, you have to hold tight onto that gig—that fat-ass bull frog will slip right off if you don’t. And hold that fork up in the air so that if the frog does slip, he’ll slip further on and not off the gig. Drop that sucker in a bucket and you are ready to go again. Do this about a hundred times before the sun comes up, and you’ll have a mess of frog legs that would feed all of Walker County…so good, so good.
Shooting the Cow on Christmas Day 2005
Dec. 25, 2005 Alabama----I saw the distant neighbor's lost cow today----she was up at lover's lane, before you get to our property on top of the mountain. So I came back down to the farm, loaded some hay in the back of my jeep and left a"Hansel and Gretel" trail back down to the farm. I opened the nearest gate to the farm, so perhaps the cow could sneak in the pasture without our big dog Pepper scaring it off. That way, if we can get it into the pasture, we can close the gate and hold it captive (with food) until the owner can be contacted. I left the gate to the hay barn open, so the cow could feast and be protected from the elements. Right now it is 40 degrees and drizzling, with harsh winds. Currently, the cow was beginning to look skinny. It has been "lost" for 5 days.
It has been nice, warm and cozy in the house, without too much sadness being addressed. We actually have had a really pleasant holiday with some fond memories of my Father, recently deceased.
Last night, I put up some shelves in my neice's room so she could display a lot of her teen nicnacs. We had fun and laughed while putting them up. ( a good bonding moment.) She is caught up in being 16. I don't know if she liked the "Sweet 16" bracelet I bought her or not. Mother liked the necklace I bought her.
The cow is getting good hay, but she has not made her way down to our pasture---we haven't seen her today. I rode the lawn mower up to the top of the hill to look for her, but she wasn't in sight---lots of woods up there---and way too much cudzoo.
Saw good cousin and he took me to his new flower shop. Lots of good cheer.
Mother is doing well today. I ordered my neice a DELL laptop similar to mine, but she wanted a smaller one so she could carry it easily to school. It has all the stuff on it as mine does, but it is 3.5 pounds and has a 12.5" monitor.
12/27/05
It has been a busy day. Mother and I worked in the yard since it was sunny and 62 degrees. We trimmed trees, completely cut down some small trees that blocked the view to the river; we cleared an old rock staircase that led down to the river where the dock was in front of the honeymoon cabin; I cut down a tree at the marker to our property with a machete and a bow saw---I couldn't get the gas power saw to crank.
However, I was very pissed off today when I was cutting down the last tree, because someone killed the cow! I bet it was one of those hunters/shooters I was telling you about....probably just like the person that killed our yellow lab. Also, someone shot a deer and dressed it in the middle of the ballpark at the entrance to Farm Road at the highway. That too makes me so mad to leave the carcass there---but I know that is the primitive way to feed the vultures and carrion others.
However, Mother called the police and reported the cow as dead--it is literally lying on the side of the road to our property--about 50 yards from our property line. And this cow was as harmless as it could be. This is the part of Alabama that I hate---the "Deliverance Mentality." However, I burned major calories today swinging the machete. I pity the fool that would have run into me today....(figuratively speaking) as we say in Alabama, "I would have bit his head off and shit down his neck if he fucked with me."
Dec 27, 2005
6:30 pm---the local police called and said that the cow "charged at them" and they were the ones who shot her. She was only 1.5 years old and harmless; she never charged me, my niece, or Mother when we approached her. She ran. My opinion is that the police shot the cow because they did not want to deal with her. She was lying on a hill, face toward the road; therefore, for the cow to have "charged the police" she would have had to jump down a 10 ft hill, across a drainage ditch of 2 feet deep and 3 feet wide and land in the road....sounds more like an antelope charging than a cow---has anyone ever heard of a skiddish cow leaping 13 feet off a hillside to charge a policeman? Oh and by the way, they were in their police car....a safare-style hunt, no doubt.
It has been nice, warm and cozy in the house, without too much sadness being addressed. We actually have had a really pleasant holiday with some fond memories of my Father, recently deceased.
Last night, I put up some shelves in my neice's room so she could display a lot of her teen nicnacs. We had fun and laughed while putting them up. ( a good bonding moment.) She is caught up in being 16. I don't know if she liked the "Sweet 16" bracelet I bought her or not. Mother liked the necklace I bought her.
The cow is getting good hay, but she has not made her way down to our pasture---we haven't seen her today. I rode the lawn mower up to the top of the hill to look for her, but she wasn't in sight---lots of woods up there---and way too much cudzoo.
Saw good cousin and he took me to his new flower shop. Lots of good cheer.
Mother is doing well today. I ordered my neice a DELL laptop similar to mine, but she wanted a smaller one so she could carry it easily to school. It has all the stuff on it as mine does, but it is 3.5 pounds and has a 12.5" monitor.
12/27/05
It has been a busy day. Mother and I worked in the yard since it was sunny and 62 degrees. We trimmed trees, completely cut down some small trees that blocked the view to the river; we cleared an old rock staircase that led down to the river where the dock was in front of the honeymoon cabin; I cut down a tree at the marker to our property with a machete and a bow saw---I couldn't get the gas power saw to crank.
However, I was very pissed off today when I was cutting down the last tree, because someone killed the cow! I bet it was one of those hunters/shooters I was telling you about....probably just like the person that killed our yellow lab. Also, someone shot a deer and dressed it in the middle of the ballpark at the entrance to Farm Road at the highway. That too makes me so mad to leave the carcass there---but I know that is the primitive way to feed the vultures and carrion others.
However, Mother called the police and reported the cow as dead--it is literally lying on the side of the road to our property--about 50 yards from our property line. And this cow was as harmless as it could be. This is the part of Alabama that I hate---the "Deliverance Mentality." However, I burned major calories today swinging the machete. I pity the fool that would have run into me today....(figuratively speaking) as we say in Alabama, "I would have bit his head off and shit down his neck if he fucked with me."
Dec 27, 2005
6:30 pm---the local police called and said that the cow "charged at them" and they were the ones who shot her. She was only 1.5 years old and harmless; she never charged me, my niece, or Mother when we approached her. She ran. My opinion is that the police shot the cow because they did not want to deal with her. She was lying on a hill, face toward the road; therefore, for the cow to have "charged the police" she would have had to jump down a 10 ft hill, across a drainage ditch of 2 feet deep and 3 feet wide and land in the road....sounds more like an antelope charging than a cow---has anyone ever heard of a skiddish cow leaping 13 feet off a hillside to charge a policeman? Oh and by the way, they were in their police car....a safare-style hunt, no doubt.
Oprah's World
Oprah’s World
I have no voice but my own
No marching to the beat of a different drummer
just the slow suffocation
of my mind by the wet blanket
of flat-minded people in this round world of ours
[This ball of gas].
People lack the vision of harmony
—people with Fallwell’s smirking arrogance
and Chevy Cavaliers with dove gray interiors
because this is their idea of peace
[the commercial said so].
I have no voice but my own, yet it cannot resonate-
[-Smog alerts and global warming-].
My thoughts escape through holes in the ozone layer
pushed up by people bitching
because Clinton got a blowjob
and didn’t announce it on national TV—
[hot air-hot air].
These people have Jerry Springer lives
and I live in an Oprah world
[-of oneness, harmony, spirituality]
but her ratings go down and I lose my voice...
11:14 pm 7-6-99
I have no voice but my own
No marching to the beat of a different drummer
just the slow suffocation
of my mind by the wet blanket
of flat-minded people in this round world of ours
[This ball of gas].
People lack the vision of harmony
—people with Fallwell’s smirking arrogance
and Chevy Cavaliers with dove gray interiors
because this is their idea of peace
[the commercial said so].
I have no voice but my own, yet it cannot resonate-
[-Smog alerts and global warming-].
My thoughts escape through holes in the ozone layer
pushed up by people bitching
because Clinton got a blowjob
and didn’t announce it on national TV—
[hot air-hot air].
These people have Jerry Springer lives
and I live in an Oprah world
[-of oneness, harmony, spirituality]
but her ratings go down and I lose my voice...
11:14 pm 7-6-99
My Funny Valentines
My Funny Valentines
(dedicated to the Walton H.S. Winterguard Fashion 1993 before their winning the Southeastern Championship and before becoming a Winterguard International Finalist., APRIL 1994).
As I stood, with my back arched, my chin held high,
I thought,
“I cannot take this anymore…I don’t want to lose.
The competition is too great; they are all too good.”
I felt the tension in my back grind its way up my spine
To my brain.
I choked back the tears.
“I cannot lose,” I thought. “Not again. The work has been too hard, the fear too real;
The hours too long; the pain too great.”
They all said that we would fall apart.
I stood with my chin held high
In front of an audience too large, too critical, to show any form of weakness, I stood with my chin held high.
I thought, “I cannot lose. It would be undignified.”
Before they called out the scores, this raced through my mind,
And I knew what I learned from Winterguarad and from you…
I had already won.
On Southeastern Championships 1993
Love, Mr. R
(dedicated to the Walton H.S. Winterguard Fashion 1993 before their winning the Southeastern Championship and before becoming a Winterguard International Finalist., APRIL 1994).
As I stood, with my back arched, my chin held high,
I thought,
“I cannot take this anymore…I don’t want to lose.
The competition is too great; they are all too good.”
I felt the tension in my back grind its way up my spine
To my brain.
I choked back the tears.
“I cannot lose,” I thought. “Not again. The work has been too hard, the fear too real;
The hours too long; the pain too great.”
They all said that we would fall apart.
I stood with my chin held high
In front of an audience too large, too critical, to show any form of weakness, I stood with my chin held high.
I thought, “I cannot lose. It would be undignified.”
Before they called out the scores, this raced through my mind,
And I knew what I learned from Winterguarad and from you…
I had already won.
On Southeastern Championships 1993
Love, Mr. R
My Funny Valentines
My Funny Valentines
(dedicated to the Walton H.S. Winterguard Fashion 1993 before their winning the Southeastern Championship and before becoming a Winterguard International Finalist., APRIL 1994).
As I stood, with my back arched, my chin held high,
I thought,
“I cannot take this anymore…I don’t want to lose.
The competition is too great; they are all too good.”
I felt the tension in my back grind its way up my spine
To my brain.
I choked back the tears.
“I cannot lose,” I thought. “Not again. The work has been too hard, the fear too real;
The hours too long; the pain too great.”
They all said that we would fall apart.
I stood with my chin held high
In front of an audience too large, too critical, to show any form of weakness, I stood with my chin held high.
I thought, “I cannot lose. It would be undignified.”
Before they called out the scores, this raced through my mind,
And I knew what I learned from Winterguard and from you…
I had already won.
On Southeastern Championships 1993
Love, Mr. R
(dedicated to the Walton H.S. Winterguard Fashion 1993 before their winning the Southeastern Championship and before becoming a Winterguard International Finalist., APRIL 1994).
As I stood, with my back arched, my chin held high,
I thought,
“I cannot take this anymore…I don’t want to lose.
The competition is too great; they are all too good.”
I felt the tension in my back grind its way up my spine
To my brain.
I choked back the tears.
“I cannot lose,” I thought. “Not again. The work has been too hard, the fear too real;
The hours too long; the pain too great.”
They all said that we would fall apart.
I stood with my chin held high
In front of an audience too large, too critical, to show any form of weakness, I stood with my chin held high.
I thought, “I cannot lose. It would be undignified.”
Before they called out the scores, this raced through my mind,
And I knew what I learned from Winterguard and from you…
I had already won.
On Southeastern Championships 1993
Love, Mr. R
Blues In the Night
Blues In the Night
I am the moon,
Brooding, melancholy-
Hidden glow behind the clouds
Waiting for the wind to free me.
You are the stars,
Brilliantly glowing—
Sudden bursts of radiance
Steady sparkles of light and youth.
Shine for me—
Light up my night sky
And I will answer you
With light,
radiance
and
love.
1-12-1994 copyright
I am the moon,
Brooding, melancholy-
Hidden glow behind the clouds
Waiting for the wind to free me.
You are the stars,
Brilliantly glowing—
Sudden bursts of radiance
Steady sparkles of light and youth.
Shine for me—
Light up my night sky
And I will answer you
With light,
radiance
and
love.
1-12-1994 copyright
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
"I Want..."
I don't think Fred has hair on his head
You have a mane that puts Dolly to shame
Brad's always sad
...Cause Angie's so bad
...You get to mingle
Since you are still single
GQ is fake art
without any heart
I think you look cool
don't brothers drool?
And as Granny said,
"You can wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first."