Conception of a Failure

I have not blogged in some time. Sometimes emotions are so strong that they are difficult to express. So much has happened since I last blogged.

I did not get a job I was expecting to get. This put me in a bad place emotionally. I conceived of myself as a total failure. I have failed to contribute monetarily to my family. I am a drain on our limited resources. I questioned my worth to my family and my own self-worth.

Then I went to Wyoming.

Ostensibly, I was there to dig a dinosaur. A triceratops, to be exact. And I did that. But I also was there for another reason. I thought I was gaining a temporary reprieve from my problems, from what I perceived to be my failures.

That wasn't necessarily the case.

When we arrived, the country was wide open. At first glance there was no where to hide. No trees. Little vegetation at all. But in truth, there were a lot of little arroyos and washes, dips and canyons. But there was no where to hide from the sky.

I did a bad thing.

From Tuesday to Friday, I shut down all communication with anyone who was not with us at the dig. This was not fair to my wife and kids. I tried to lose myself in the work. Instead, the work inspired me to more deeply consider my position. Under that big sky, in the glaring sun and the punishing wind, I had some realizations.

1)While I had control of my actions that resulted in my current state, I did not have the final say so. I can't say if I was treated fairly or unfairly, but the honest truth was I did the best I could. In the end, the decisions belonged to someone else. That applied to both the non-renewal of my contract and my inability to gain a new position. Put it behind me.

2) All of my emotional energy and efforts the past two years have gone into getting a teaching position in public schools. Public schools did not treat me well as a student, and while I have changed a lot since those days, I am not sure why I expected the secondary educational system to have changed enough to accommodate me as an adult. I hoped to work within the system to make it friendlier for students such as I had been. There is always resistance to change.

3) While I had been mostly happy as a teacher, the last two years have been an emotional hell. It's not worth it. If someone offered me a teaching job tomorrow, I would take it, but after having expended so much effort, I think it is time to look in other directions.

4) I can be happy doing other things. It is time to explore those avenues. I met two gentlemen in Wyoming who have achieved their happiness outside the system. One gentleman hunts fossils and plays poker for a living. The other is a ski instructor and an ESPN camerman in the winter for college sports in Montana and hunts fossils in the summer. They aren't just making a living. They are living. While I have a family to think about, my wife has an income that will keep a roof over our heads and food in our stomachs. I have some interests I can pursue that will make me happy: assisting in exploring the geology of our karst region. Teaching as an adjunct at the college level. Writing. And other opportunities may present themselves. I must remain open to them. I have been focused so hard on the idea that I have failed a teacher that I have failed as a human being.

5) I can be a better husband and father. My emotional state has had me very wrapped up in myself. I can extend myself more. I have an opportunity to spend more time with my kids, to do more for my wife. I can't tie my self-worth to situations I have little control over. But I can be a better father and husband.

That One Line

I was reading Infinite Jest today. This was a book suggested to me by a friend. I have heard it said that if you want to look hip, trendy, and intellectual, this book is a must to be seen reading. Unfortunately, I have a Kindle. And I was alone. So no one actually saw me reading it. That means, of course, that I have to blog about reading it to get my pseudo-intellectual street cred.

At this point, I should mention I have been reading this book, off and on, for five months and change. My Kindle doesn't show page numbers, but assures me I'm only 10 % into it. It's dense. Difficult to get into. But I made a break-through today and started to enjoy it. And then I hit the line.

Before I reveal the line, let me explain where I stand on what I feel good writing is. Good writers don't waste words. Every sentence, every detail, everything in a novel should either a) advance the action or b) reveal something about a character or a situation. I think I have that idea courtesy of Kurt Vonnegut. I'm almost sure of it. But I do believe it.

And now, the line: "The door was much newer than the wood surrounding it."

Out of context, it doesn't look like much. In context, this line is sheer genius. The scene: a group of young men are discussing the staff and the actions taken by the staff at an institution of advanced training. They are in a room in a building in which several groups are having the same type of discussion. They speak of how they (the students) are being manipulated.

The line stuck out of the surrounding prose like a sore thumb. At least it did for me. It stopped me cold. Why? I didn't know. I applied my ferocious reading and literary analysis skills to determining the purpose of the line. I mean, I've got a couple of degrees saying I should be able to read this and know what it means.

But I didn't.

I tried to believe for a while that what was meant was that the surrounding and upholding structure of the system in which the young men were participants had been around for a while (the wood), and that the difficulties and obstacles they were facing (the door) was a more recent development. That worked for a while. But as I sat reflecting more deeply, I wasn't sure.

Maybe the door represented the boys themselves, barring their own entrance (exit?) into the (out of the?) inevitability of greater understanding.

Maybe I should say now that I haven't been challenging myself as much as I should lately. I haven't been reading complex texts. I don't have a peer group to bounce ideas off of, or in turn try to have a deeper understanding myself.  I've been teaching sixth graders for the last couple of months.

So the line haunts me. And it will continue to do so. And that is good writing.

Spring Day, Overcast

Brown oak leaves underfoot, last year's sodden

reminders that green will end someday. But
not today

while the creek, silent in summer, chortles
happily to itself, full of spring vigor
far below

the limestone bluff edge where
I stand, chert nodules and fractals
peeking through

springy new undergrowth, broke down
limbs, leaf litter and dark soil.  I came
for morels

too early, too chill yet. A day of sun
may bring them out. Early poke sallet and
mayapple

sprouts fool me, draw me to admire
meek plants: trillium, maidenhair fern,
spring beauty,

johnny jump-up and more whose names
I knew once but have forgotten. Alone
I don't need

names. Names mean nothing without
voices and other ears. I love the silence
I bring here.

Cognitive Dissonance Is Why You Are Better Than Me

It started with Benjamin Franklin. More specifically, the Ben Franklin effect. I stumbled upon an article describing his theory of social interaction. He posited that we don't do favors for people we like, but that we like people we do favors for. The obverse side is that we are not mean to people we dislike, but we dislike people because we are mean to them. After a little more research into this phenomenon, I am not sure I buy in completely, but I do believe that there is certainly something to be said for the idea.

The basic idea is that we alter our perceptions of people based on our interactions with them. If we do something nice for someone, we tend to like them more. This is caused by a resolution of another phenomenon I eventually found called cognitive dissonance. Cognitive dissonance occurs when we do something that interferes with a principle or belief we hold. If we believe that we are not suckers, and then we do a favor for someone we normally wouldn't, then cognitive dissonance is created. Then the magic happens.

We resolve our cognitive dissonance by altering an idea or perception. We may hold onto our initial belief (I am not a sucker), so something has to give. What gives is our attitude concerning the person for whom we did the favor. We decide that we like the person. That makes us not a sucker. We did a favor for someone we like. And the opposite is true. When we are mean to someone, we don't want to think of ourselves as mean people. So the person or people we are being mean to must have done something to deserve it.

Some people will utilize the Ben Franklin effect for gain. Benjamin Franklin certainly did. This does not have to be a bad thing. However, the dark side of the Ben Franklin effect can cause war atrocities.

But cognitive dissonance affects different people in different ways. Some of the best managers I have seen have had the ability to resolve cognitive dissonance in such a way that they were able to maintain a healthy self-image while making the hard decisions. The decision to fire people, demote people, to ask people to do things they don't want to do.

I once worked at a company with a group of people who were so able to resolve their cognitive dissonance that they could push other people to extremities and still go home and feel good about themselves. While this may have made for a very successful company, it made for a questionable morality in the workplace. I was amazed how well these people could justify their actions. Many of them engaged in adulterous affairs. One individual in upper management was well-known as a philanderer, but he was a regular church-goer. I can only imagine how he justified the conflicting behaviors.

I can only imagine because I can't ever see myself doing it. I was a terrible manager. I agonized over the hard decisions. I was in a constant state of stress. If I could have made better resolutions to my cognitive dissonance, I would have been more successful. I am too full of doubts to ever convincingly and effectively resolve my cognitive dissonances.

Or am I just justifying my failures by resolving my cognitive dissonance in a way that still allows me to feel good about myself?

This Might Be September (I'm 45)

We always compare our lives to things, and things to our lives. Metaphors. Riddles. Remember this one? What goes on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening? That's what the Sphinx asked Perseus.

Today, I compare my life to a year. The seasons, the months. Common enough metaphor. But right now I'm actually comparing my life to a year. And that creates a new level of perception.

The year started in early spring. Everyone who has ever given it serious thought knows that the year doesn't really start in January. A year begun in January is artificial, a misconception of measurement of a year imposed by rational thought and an obsessive need to delineate practically. The year doesn't really begin until spring.

That being said:

This isn't April. April is a dim memory of newness and danger, so far back to be barely remembered as only a time of joy and all inherent unpleasantness of newness forgotten.

This is not May. This isn't the first greenery showing signs of growth. This isn't crocuses peeking through the last snow. This isn't the bud of leaves or Robert Frost's gold. May is long past.

This isn't June. Spoon, moon, June. This isn't the season of early love, of sap coursing strongly in the tree, of outrageous growth and new developments. June is a beautiful time, but there is also pain there, then, at that time. The first love, the first heartbreak, containing both the wondrous beauty of a June storm, and also the destructive power.

This is not July, hot and dangerous. When the hot days create a dangerous languor that erupts into foolishness in the nights, careless risks and crazy ideas brought to perilous fruition. The joy of stupidity blossoms darkly in the soft warm July nights.

This is not August. August, the month when the heat has sucked the juices almost dry, when growth has stopped and the first hint comes that any changes coming may not be improvements.

This is probably September. There is a coolness, almost refreshing, and if there is no new growth, then there is a temporary reprieve. The rains come, but they are different rains, not the rains of spring that bring growth, but the rains that soothe, the rains that replenish in different ways, the rains that prepare for a harsher season. This might be September, when the thought of winter becomes reality, when the coolness settles in and brings goosebumps in a not unpleasant way.

There is also the chance, though, that this is October. The imaginary line may have been crossed to the time when the leaves are not yet crisp but no longer green, when they begin to come to earth and there is no turning back, when energies are gathered in different ways, when the green has gone and other means of surviving show themselves as very real in different colors and with a different light.

This is not yet November. November is coming, but is not yet here. November, when the crunch of leaves
underfoot drowns out the silence left behind by a void of something missing, something gone that was intangible but will be sorely missed. The full impact of November hasn't been felt yet, and as with all things not yet experienced, cannot be fully described.

Nor is this December. The time of quiet reflection in front of a warm but too distant fire. This is not the time of the intrinsic calidity known in July and August long gone, replaced by heat from an external source, not quite the same. A heat that doesn't push to action but to inaction and reflection.

This is not January or February, when all is still. This isn't March. March is so far off and so strange that the changes to come can't even be comprehended.

This might be September.

If It's Messy, Eat it Over the Sink

There is a novel by Tom Robbins that I enjoy.  There are actually several. Actually, all of them. He has a wonderfully ribald (some would consider it obscene) and insightful way of viewing the world that he relates in beautifully playful prose. He's not everybody's cup of tea, but at one point in my life I devoured everything he wrote with great relish and always found myself wishing he would write more.

But I'm not just writing about a great author today. I'm going to write about the way great authors write things that find their way into everyday life, that are so true that we find them intruding in ways we could never have expected while we were reading their works in the first place.

Today is a snow today. No school for me, no school for the kids. CPAs, on the other hand, do not get snow days. Especially not during tax season. My wife is a CPA. Oh, I suppose if it snowed a couple of feet and wild yeti were wandering the highways in search of meals my wife might consider not going into work. But that hasn't happened yet.

I got up early this morning, before my wife. I came downstairs and caught up my Words With Friends and read Facebook statuses and played a game and figured out who had said what in a couple of my favorite forums. Then I realized I could be wonderful and fix my wife breakfast. Of course, by that time she was out of the shower and on her way downstairs. And she wasn't going to wait for traffic to make her morning drive just that more interesting. So she left. And I ended up making myself breakfast.

I fried two eggs hard, some ham, some cheese, toasted two slices of bread and sliced a tomato. Excellent breakfast sandwich. But messy. And that made me think of a character in a Tom Robbins novel, Even Cowgirls Get the Blues. The character was something of a spoof on the wise Asian, the mentor, the advisor. But in Mr. Robbins wonderfully clever way, he was both a spoof and he wasn't. People thought he was crazy, but some people thought him wise, but he did outrageous things that made you wonder, and the best advice he offered the heroine in the novel was, "If it's messy, eat it over the sink."

When I read the novel at nineteen or twenty, I didn't get it. I thought Mr. Robbins was making a clever statement on the nature of advice given to people. It's generally useless, or so obvious that most people overlook it.

But this morning at 6:30 as I was eating my breakfast sandwich with the tomato juice running down between my fingers and the mayonnaise being squeezed out the sides and the bread slipping off one side and the ham off the other, I got it.

I realized that what he meant (or maybe just what I took from it, which is the same thing in the end) was that sometimes we encounter things in life that are worthwhile, that are good, that we need in our lives (like fried egg sandwiches with tomatoes). But the attainment of these things, the true enjoyment to be had from them, will not be easy. There might be consequences, there may be accompanying unpleasantness (tomato juice, mayonnaise). So all we can do is prepare ourselves as best we can (eat it over the sink) and go ahead and enjoy them anyway.

To take it a step further, maybe we even learn to enjoy the messy aspect. Maybe, if our minds and hearts are well-prepared, we accept the deliciousness of the sandwich and even enjoy the mess we make of ourselves while we eat it. We learn to enjoy the whole of the experience. We should learn to enjoy it all.

And that leads me to think that we as a society have worked so hard to divorce the two aspects of enjoyment that we have forgotten how to really enjoy things. Instead of just eating it over the sink, we invent a new kind of bread. Or we leave off the tomatoes. And then we forget how truly good something is.

So the next time I'm thinking about going camping and even before we begin I start dreading the clean-up and the putting away that must be done when we get home, I'll just eat it over the sink. So many experiences we might pass up, so many enjoyable things in life that we avoid because of an accompanying difficulty. I'm just going to eat it over the sink.

Finding Something to Say

Amazingly, I have nothing I really want to say this week. I'm finding it difficult to select a topic from the few that I have been considering, not because they are so fascinating, but because I can't generate enthusiasm sufficient to even make them interesting to me.

So I'm indulging myself in one of the oldest writer's tricks: when you have nothing to say, say it anyway. I always tried to get students to do this when they told me they couldn't think of anything to write.

"Just start writing," I'd say.

"I don't have anything to say," they'd say.

"So write that. Then write about why you don't have anything to say, or what is going on that is distracting you from writing, or just begin to write about your topic and how difficult it is to write anything on it. And when you reach that point, start writing about why it's hard to write about that topic." I think this may have even worked once or twice.

So I'm trying it.

I started to write about how I feel  I can't write about certain things I think or some beliefs I have. This is true. I can't. I'm looking for a job right now. This blog is public. I could possibly write something that may offend someone, or negatively influence my chances to get a position.

There are topics that must be avoided. I suppose this would be a good time to point out that all writing must take a potential audience into consideration. Audience.

But once I state that there are certain things I can't say, then I can't say much more about that. I have to demonstrate an ability to censor myself. This can be important in all social settings, and in all careers, but is crucial in teaching. So next topic.

I could revisit posts in the past about weather, and working. My younger brother and I worked down at the farm yesterday shoring up a sagging fence. I found that enjoyable. It was a beautiful day. We shored up a fence. But I didn't gain an epiphany from the experience.

My children and I have been running twice. Jackson is participating in Soul to Sole (or maybe it's Sole to Soul), so we had a program to keep over his spring break. Audra, my daughter, runs with us, although somewhat reluctantly. But I'm proud of how well she runs. She easily outpaced Jackson and I. But that hasn't really captured my imagination enough to allow me to run with the topic.

So I'll just jump from topic to topic, I guess. A compendium of experiences and not much deep thought.

I went to dinner with my family and my grandmother for her 96th birthday this past Saturday. She fell coming out of the restaurant. Tripped over a curb. Aside from some abrasions, though, she's okay. That's kind of amazing. She's amazing.

So much to write about, but so little ability on my part to invest experience with meaning. And this is something I really need to do. This makes my life worthwhile: the ability to reflect. I can feel the difference in myself when I am able to create meaning from experience. I'm happier. When I'm not reflecting, I'm not living. I'm just existing.

So this is my entry for this week. I hope by next week I'm back to living. I think exercise will help. I hope. I'm going to work on it. I will find something I want to say again.

Disjointed Thoughts on Writing

Writing well enough to satisfy other people has always been pretty easy for me.  I can sit down and hammer out a paper on just about any topic that will satisfy most expectations. I seem to be able to find a tone and an approach that will work.

This is not bragging. I don't really consider it a personal accomplishment any more than I consider breathing to be a personal accomplishment.  It's just something I do.

But now that I'm trying to do it on another level, I realize I'm now facing my harshest critic: myself. Rarely have I written something that completely satisfies me. I know what I'm trying to say, I can find the words, but when I put them on paper, they don't completely express my thoughts.

Writing the novel I've been working on has been, well...work. I can get the basics down, but the nuances are much more difficult.

I decided recently to self-publish my novel on Kindle in two parts or possibly as a trilogy. This decision means I am now editing the first part in anticipation of publication. I knew as I was writing that I would have to do some heavy editing. Now that I am going back over it, I'm picking it apart.

When I have written before, I have had a deadline. Now, I have no deadline. I can edit at my own pace. This has proven maddening. I change something then I change it back. Then I change it again, but that requires that I change several other things. Continuity in a work of this length is difficult.

I spend a good portion of my time editing. I've stopped writing new material for a bit in order to get this first portion out. As I substitute teach, I use "my" planning period to edit. I come home from school and edit. I cook dinner, eat, clean up, and then edit. I make sure the kids get in the bath and in bed on time and I edit. When my wife comes home, I talk to her for a bit, but when we sit down on the couch to watch television I edit. She goes to sleep and I edit.

The other day my children finished eating and my son sat down on the couch with me while I was editing. My son asked me what I was doing. I told him I was editing. He wanted to know what that meant, so I told him that there are many ways to say things, but usually only one best way. I'm trying to find the best way.

My daughter came downstairs and told me she had finished the first chapter of the book she was writing. Then she asked if I was editing. I said yes. My kids are hip to what I'm doing.

But I'm just writing a simple YA zombie novel. That doesn't mean it shouldn't be good. In addition to trying to write a good, engaging story, I'm also trying to do a few other things. I'm playing with Joseph Campbell's "Hero with a Thousand Faces" storyline. I'm doing an homage to Huckleberry Finn. I'm trying to depict the development of the young adult from ego-driven isolation into self-actualization as part of the whole.

Maybe I'm trying to do too much. That's why I can't be satisfied. But I think I'd rather shoot for something greater that the sum of its parts and fail than just hammer out something I think will sell.
But boy, I hope it does sell.

I've always wanted to be a writer. I'd like to make my living that way. Do I love writing? No, not really.  I love teaching. But right now that isn't working out for me. Writing is just something I can do.  Like breathing. So I probably should.

I Have Been Spat Upon

For the first time in my career as a teacher and substitute teacher, I have been spat upon.

The room I inhabited today is next to the water fountain.  I was standing in the hall outside the door prior to school starting.  A student was drinking from the fountain.  He saw me standing there.  He took a mouthful of water and deliberately spat on my crotch.

My first reaction, of course, was "He didn't really do that."  But I know the student.  He did.  He is a special needs child in middle school.  His interactions with me as a new authority figure in his world have all been fraught with exploration of behavioral boundaries.  I'm not really sure what in my demeanor suggested that spitting a mouthful of water on my crotch might be acceptable behavior.

My response, of course, was to let him know in no uncertain terms that this was not acceptable behavior.  He immediately apologized and offered me a hug.  He told me I needed a hug.  I stood firm.  I felt that he needed to understand that an infraction of that severity (although after my initial shock I wanted to laugh a little) went beyond "I'm sorry; here's a hug" reparation.

But I have limited education in how to best deal with a special needs child in this circumstance.  I turned him in to his primary teacher.

I can't leave the experience alone, though.  I have to take something away from it.  I want to apply the experience to every day interactions with all children.  Special needs children feel the same impulses and motivations that general population kids experience.  The testing of boundaries, the exploration of acceptable behaviors.  They may be more likely to act on impulses and less able to judge where the boundary lies, but the impulses are there.  General population kids will cover the spectrum on judgement and actions and behaviors.

Of course, the best response and policy is to leave no room for doubt in any child's mind where the boundaries lie.  They will test those boundaries, but the boundaries must remain consistent and enforced.  This will take care of most of the student population.

Then there are the others.  The students who need attention, who push the boundaries not to find out where they are, but to seek attention.  Even negative attention is better than no attention.  These students are problematic.  The issues and infractions committed must be addressed, but in a low-key manner.  When possible, the early signs of an attention-seeking behavior must be recognized.

I have always tried to redirect the student by finding a positive behavior to praise.  This, of course, can be difficult to do as a substitute.  Unfortunately, classroom management as a whole becomes more difficult.  Subbing several times can allow a substitute to develop a positive relationship that can be utilized in behavior control, but substitutes are often put in the position of enforcing acceptable behavior without that necessary relationship.  Substitutes are often subject to behavior built upon previous substitutes' management skills.

I hope I am never spat on again as a substitute or as a teacher.  But if it happens, I will be better equipped to deal with it.  I am happy that my response was more along the lines of "How do I best deal with this?" than "Somebody just spit on me!"  It's good to know that even in extreme circumstances, my responses are going to be considered rather than just an emotional knee-jerk reaction.

Eye Love Her Still

The pink triangle at the inside corner of your eye is called the lacrimal caruncle, or caruncula lacrimalis.  You should know this.  I married my wife because she had the most beautiful caruncula lacrimalis, bar none, that I had ever seen.  There was a lot to be said for the rest of her, too.  Her sclera were very clear, her iris a unique shade somewhere between smoky gray and Persian green, and her pupil seemed to have a healthy response to changes in light levels.

I could tell she liked me, too.  Even though the light at our time of first meeting was sufficient to read smaller fonts, her pupil remained somewhat dilated.  This was a dead giveaway.

In no time, we were dating.  I can honestly say I do not remember asking her out, but I can remember having coffee with her.  The effect of the caffeine on her extra-ocular muscles was amusing.  Her saccades remained regular, with both eyes making quick, simultaneous movements, but her micro-saccades increased in rapidity and regularity.  It could be said that her eyes were dancing.  I must have been feeling romantic, because I remember having the distinct impression that her eyes were dancing merrily.  Her superior rectus muscles appeared to be particularly affected.

Dating led to an exclusive relationship, and the next logical step was engagement.  Traditionally, I went to one knee, and as I looked up awaiting a response, she hesitated, turning her head at the sound of the horn of a passing train.  For a brief moment, her vestibulo-ocular reflex initiated, keeping her eyes on me, then her eyes focused on the train, and her optokinetic reflex was a thing of beauty.  The smooth pursuit, followed by the flourish of the saccade took my breath away.  At last her gaze returned to me, and the convergence as she focused on me made my heart leap.  She said yes.

A short engagement lead to a small, private ceremony.  We stood before the justice of the peace and exchanged vows, our lenses in accommodation due to our proximity to one another.  At last, the ceremony over, we retired to my apartment to enjoy our honeymoon.

Alone and intimate as we had never before been, I hesitate to reveal what happened.  I will not go into detail.  I am a gentleman.  Suffice it to say, I soon became familiar with her vitreous body, and was pleased to discover she had a fine aqueous humor.

That has been many years ago now.  My wife is growing older, as am I.  Oh, there may be some presbyopia and a touch of arcus senilus.  I cannot complain, however, as I myself am somewhat subject to posterior vitreous detachment.  Still, we are together.  When I look at her, I still see those caruncula lacrimalis I fell in love with all those years ago.

Some Thoughts on Music

I like music.  That's probably a good way of putting it.  I'm no fanatic.  I have a good working knowledge of a broad range of music genres, but I definitely don't get in-depth in any of them.  I have a few favorites I come back to again and again, and once in a great while I find a new artist that I really enjoy, but when the conversation turns to music with a  true fan, I listen more than I talk.

I had a recent experience while substitute teaching.  During a class in which students were expected to work quietly all hour, I played some music.  I was on Pandora, and elected to play a playlist a friend of mine had put together.  It was alternative, and some pretty soft stuff.  Definitely what I would categorize as college alternative.  Heavy on The Shins, Django Django, Fjord Rowboat.  Yeah.  I never heard of them either.  But I was giving it a shot.  I'm open to listening to new music.

A student in the class raised his hand.  I asked him what he wanted.  He said, "Can we listen to some normal music?"  This was in a small town.  The same small town where I grew up, and also the person who put the playlist together.  I asked him what normal music was, and was surprised to hear all the artists that I expected.  Pop music.  Pop music today covers a pretty broad spectrum, but he named artists that I had heard of.  I had heard of all of them.  And that made me sad.

When I was growing up, we had limited exposure to music.  We had a few radio stations that played just a few songs.  We had MTV (they played music videos then).  Sometimes, someone would discover somebody we hadn't seen on MTV or heard on the radio, but not often.  We all listened to the same music because that's what we had, basically.  Buying a cassette tape or an album was a major investment, and taking a chance on someone we had never heard was not likely to happen.

Today, things can be different.  Sure, the radio stations all play the same bands over and over, but we have access to the internet.  We don't have to listen to Adele four times in one hour, to fun., to Maroon 5, to Lady Gaga, to Justin Bieber, and then back to Adele again unless we want to.  We have access to Pandora, to Grooveshark, to Rhapsody, and to a hundred other stations and free music venues.  Such a broad range of music. Music from the past and the present.  All for free.  Finding a new artist is so simple, and if someone else suggests a new artist, the whole album is usually available to stream.  If it really suits the listener's taste, it can be downloaded to an MP3 player.

So when the student wanted to listen to "normal" pop music, I was saddened.  He was still listening to what the music executives and radio programmers wanted him to listen to.  Such opportunity to broaden his musical taste, and it was wasted on him.  I can't say I wouldn't have been the same at that age.  Appreciation of new things, different things, is not necessarily encouraged in a small town.  A person has to carefully choose how to express individuality in a small town or risk ostracism.  But that shouldn't impact musical taste.  Not with the opportunities available.  Listen to everything with an open mind.  Give it a shot.

It's That Day

February 14th.

So many of these days in the last 45 years.  As a kid in school, I remember the boxes we made, the cards we filled out for ALL our classmates.

I was a romantic.

I picked the best card for the girl I had a crush on at the moment.

I always had a crush on someone.  I learned the word "unrequited" at an early age.

I rarely had a girlfriend on Valentine's Day in high school.  I just wasn't good at keeping a girlfriend.  Usually my fault.  I wasn't really good at keeping a girlfriend ever.

Then I met my wife, and it just seemed right.  I was 29.

Over the last sixteen years of Valentine's Days, we've never really had a very romantic one.  For fifteen of those years, she's worked as an accountant.  Eighty hour work weeks during tax season don't lend themselves to big Valentine's Day plans.  We've bought cards for each other and forgotten to give them to each other.

But that doesn't bother me or her.

We still kiss every time we say good-bye.  Every morning, and other times, too.  We hug a lot in passing.

Flowers will wilt.  Chocolate is eaten.  Gifts are nice, but even nicer are the nights when she comes home at nine or ten in the evening, eats the meal I've kept warm for her, sits at the table and tells me about her day.

Then she sits next to me on the couch and falls asleep with her legs across my lap.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Duck, eggs!

My father buys eggs for my family.

He's my egg connection.  Up until recently, we have always bought our eggs from the grocery store.  But then we started feeding my children boiled egg whites for breakfast, and our egg requirements increased.

By the way, the egg whites only thing for breakfast, while the healthier option, is not a choice my wife and I made.  I have picky children.  They won't eat the yolks.  But they will eat the whites, and that's okay with me.

So we boil five eggs for breakfast every morning:  one for each child, two for my wife, who has one for breakfast and one as a snack through the day, and one for me which I eat for lunch.

But all this is apart from the main point, which is that my dad buys our eggs. He buys ten dozen a week from a lady who raises chickens at her farm.  He's a good customer.  This lady also raises ducks, apparently, because she gave my father a dozen-and-a-half duck eggs gratis.  My family received nine of those eighteen eggs.

My reaction was simple:  free eggs.  Cool.  My family, strangely enough, also seemed to be okay with that.  Logically, duck eggs shouldn't be that different from chicken eggs.  Logic, however, doesn't always enter into our gustatory decisions.  This time, it did.

My wife boiled the duck eggs yesterday morning for our breakfast/lunch.  When she came upstairs, she told me that the duck eggs were floating.  I thought about it for a second, then said, "Makes sense."

If you laughed, smiled, smirked, or even were just mildly amused after reading that, thank you.  I like you.  You got it.  What I did there was set up a logical naturalistic fallacy.  What your mind did, or in my opinion, should have done there was follow through the naturalistic fallacy:  Ducks float, ducks have eggs, duck eggs should float.  And then you recognized the false logic behind that statement and were amused.  I hope.

I love my wife.  She got it.  I love my mother.  She got it as well.  And they both laughed.  Some of you may recognize a similar naturalistic fallacy from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, except being British, theirs was much more complex.  But it still involved a duck.

P.S.  You may be wondering how the duck eggs were.  I will be eating the remaining four.  They are not bad, but it is very difficult to separate the yolk from the white.  They are also slightly different in texture.  A little "tougher."  This doesn't bother me, but my family can be picky.  I'll eat just about anything.

Preparing Myself

Tomorrow, I have a job interview.  Today, I am preparing myself.  I am studying the Common Core State Standards, which is the coming thing in the world of education.  This may sound boring, but since I turned my life toward education, I've come to appreciate the effort put into this document, this set of standards.  There are many, many good things here.

I wish I had gotten a haircut last Saturday.

Of course, in my studying, I am distracted by thoughts on other topics.  I consider how I will say things, how I will refer to concepts and philosophies with which I agree.  I found myself brushing up on Kohlberg's stages of moral development, which in turn lead me to think about self-actualization, which brought me to Maslow's hierarchy of needs, which prompted me to consider how to assist students in progressing toward self-actualization through my actions in the classroom, which lead me to re-read some articles on motivation, and I hope a good portion of this sticks with me in a way I can call to mind when I'm sitting in the hot-seat tomorrow.

I should have bought a new pair of black slacks.

I think about ways to express my strong feelings about education.  I don't want to come across as arrogant (something that DOES happen to me), but I don't want to appear reticent, either.  I think I am a very good person for the job.  I want them to believe I am the best person for the job.  I want them to know that given the chance, five years from now they will be very happy they hired me. 

My shoes are scuffed.

I will be myself.  But I want to make sure I am the best self I am capable of being tomorrow morning.  So shouldn't I be studying and preparing more instead of blogging?  No, I think blogging is exactly what I need to be doing.  I am putting my plans and ideas down in writing.  This will help me remember my strategy, and make ME realize that despite my hair not being perfect, and my slacks a bit worn, and my shoes four years old, I am a good candidate.  Without knowing the competition, I could even come to believe I may be the best candidate.  And if I believe that, maybe they will, too.

A Day Gone Wrong...

This morning when I woke, it seemed like it could be a good day.  Morning routines went smoothly.  I knew I was substituting in upper level English classes, and the sun was shining.  I had a positive attitude.

As I drove to school, I was reflecting on the idea that each day, in little and not-so-little ways, we create the world around us.  I was considering that the attitude with which we greet the day colors the way we perceive the world.  I was considering all the ways we can positively affect our own lives just with our attitudes.  And then I realized I had forgotten my lunch.  Mm.

I had in my bag a resume that I planned to give the principal at the school where I was substituting. The teacher for whom I was substituting had announced her retirement.  There would be an opening.  Despite my forgotten lunch, this would be a good day. 

When I arrived at the school, I found out that my assignment had been changed to another teacher, a teacher I had subbed for before who had freshmen, not upper classmen.  This was not such bad news.  She had requested that I sub for her again.  She appreciated the job I had done.  Oh, well.  Despite the forgotten lunch and the changed plan, this would be a good day.

When I saw the principal I told him I had my resume and I would like to give it to him when he had a moment.  It was then he told me that the position I thought was open had been filled.  I was too slow.  He told me that it probably wouldn't have made much of a difference; the teacher he had hired had more experience.  This was something I could understand.  He had to do what was best for his students.  Despite the forgotten lunch, the changed plan, and loss of an opportunity...well, maybe it wouldn't be a good day.  But I was going to make it the best day I possibly could.

I subbed, and I taught.  We read "I Have a Dream" and Nelson Mandela's "Hope and Glory."  Two wonderful speeches by two men who made huge sacrifices following what they believed in.  I did a good job.  I try hard to be a good sub.  Especially in English, and especially when the teacher I'm subbing for leaves a note allowing me leeway in how the lesson is delivered.

I skipped lunch.  As the day went on, and my blood sugar got lower, I started to feel worse about my day. I drove home in something of a funk.  But I picked up my son from after-school care, and I knew that as soon as I ate something, and I would be okay.  Better, at least.

When I got home, I dished myself up some of the chicken and dumplings I had made the day before.  Comfort food.  Exactly what I needed.  I put them in the microwave.  The microwave didn't sound quite right, and when the timer sounded, the chicken and dumplings were still cold.  The 10 year old microwave had quit.

I was almost glad.  At last, a problem I could do something about.  I was going to fix the microwave situation.  I called to check on repairs.  Just as cheap to replace as repair.  So I went to Lowe's to price a new microwave. I found one on sale, so I bought it.   The microwave that had gone out was one of the range hood microwaves, mounted, with brackets.  The microwave that had gone out was a Whirlpool; I didn't think it unreasonable to hope for an identical mounting bracket.

I wasn't having that kind of day.  Not only was it a different bracket, but the microwave I had bought was 1" taller.  I had to chip off a small row of tile from the back-splash, take down the old mounting bracket, redrill holes in the upper cabinet.  Of course, I had left my drill down at the farm.  Borrowed my brother's (living on the same street has been very good for me when I need tools).

I dealt with every obstacle involved with replacing the microwave.  Every additional problem was an additional challenge.  This I could deal with.  This I could fix.  It wouldn't be easy.  But I could do this.  The mounting instructions said it was a two-man job.  No way, baby.  This was my deal.  This was everything that had gone wrong all day, this job became all the things I couldn't fix and had no control over, the problems that arose became all the recent frustrations in my life and I was going to deal with them one at a time no matter what it took, and I was going to have at least one success today.

The microwave is up.  The day is almost over for me.  Soon I'll go to bed, and tomorrow another day will start.  I'll have problems, and I'll have obstacles, and I will deal with them.  So will many people.  And one day, for each of us, there will be a day when the positives outweigh the negatives, and we'll have to remember the bad days, and have the good sense to be grateful for them.  If it weren't for the bad days, how would we know we were having a good one?

I, Sir, Am Not an Ottoman, a Sideboard, or a Chifferobe

The last couple of days I have been subbing for a speech and drama teacher.  She has a class doing monologues.  Part of the assignment is to fill out a biography for the character portrayed in their monologues.

I understood the assignment immediately.  She wanted them to consider their characters as people, not just as roles.  She wanted to give the characters depth by making the students aware of details in the characters' lives.  And I thought to myself that this wasn't just for this class.  These principles apply in every day life.

We all go through life constantly interacting with other people.  It is a fact, however, that we do not have the emotional depth or energy to consider the feelings and humanity of every single person we encounter.  That would be exhausting.  So to a certain extent, those people with whom we are not personally acquainted, who only fill brief roles in our lives, become just furniture.


I am familiar, through one reading or another, with the concept of different types of respect.  There is thin respect.  This is the respect we are taught that we owe to people on a daily basis, or in certain roles.  This is the respect which we employ when we call teachers Mr. or Ms., or when we hold open the elevator door for a stranger.  While some people may be woefully short of this, it is still a large factor in everyday interactions.  If someone operates on a daily basis with a high level of thin respect for the people around him or her, we consider this person to be "nice."

But they are still only aware of the people around them as furniture.  There is no meaningful interaction.

To reach a deeper level, to get to the point of thick respect, then the individual must become aware of another individual as a person.  This is usually achieved through disclosure.

To apply this practically, I'll give you a glimpse into my day as a substitute teacher.

When students see me for the first time, they do not see me.  They may observe details of my dress and behavior and arrive at conclusions, but they still do not see me beyond my role as a substitute teacher.  For those capable of thin respect, who have been taught by their parents to apply thin respect, this may actually mean that they treat me better than they treat their regular teacher.  I am an adult in a position of authority.  Others, unfortunately, see only an opportunity to get away with things.  In both cases, I am only a piece of furniture in their world.


So I tried an experiment today.  While I was reading the instructions for an assignment, a student short on thin respect was talking.  I stopped.  I walked up to her.  I held out my hand.  I introduced myself:  "Hi.  I'm Mr. Houser.  And  you are?"  She said, "I know your name.  It's on the board."  "Yes,"  I said.  "But I wasn't sure if you realized I am a person, not a television or background music to be ignored or talked over."  I smiled as I said this.  Disarmingly, I hope.  She smiled back.  "Sorry,"  she said.  The "sorry" was a sign of thin respect.  Progress.

I then explained to the class what I had done, and why.  I didn't use the terms thin and thick respect.  I tied it to the lesson.  Then I told them that the principle could be applied to their monologue characters.  I told them the more details they could provide in the characters' lives, the more real the characters became. I told them I could tell them a detail about me, and I would become more real as a person.  Then I told them one.

I told them that my father had lost his right hand as a young man in an industrial accident.  This grabbed their interest, and at the same time gave us common ground.  Most of them had fathers.  The fact that I had a father, too, made me more human.  They had questions.  I answered them.  I had subbed in the same class the day before, and had found them to be an outspoken, unfocused bunch, reluctant to get down to work.  I had asked them, as a substitute teacher, to work.  I received a half-hearted response at best.  Some had ignored the assignment entirely.

When I asked them to work again, the response was different.  I may have still been a substitute teacher, but I was also a person. 

A Family Walden

My family is fortunate enough to own some land.  I guess I should qualify that.  I have ancestors who worked hard and bought some land and we have been fortunate enough to hold on to that land for over a hundred years.  The land itself is beautiful.  Not grand, not awe-inspiring, but beautiful.  A year-round creek, a cave or two, small bluffs, open pastures, wooded lots.  A great place to be a kid, and not a bad place to be an adult.

There is peace to be found in the land.  Some people can reach that peace by simply being there.  In the evenings, there is a hoot owl that calls from a holler through the ridge opposite the old farmhouse.  In the summer, the air down by the creek is usually about ten degrees cooler, and the sound of the water over the rocks is soothing.  The wind rustles the leaves in the summer and fall, and in the winter will make a lonesome sound as it moves through the naked branches.  On the hill overlooking the farm there is a small stand of Osage orange trees which offers a shady viewpoint.  All of this is there, and all of it will work to ease a troubled mind.  But the troubled mind has to be in the right state first.

Sometimes there are too many things rushing through a troubled mind.  All the problems, the difficulties, and the trials of modern life can stand between the troubled mind and the peace the land has to offer.  The good news is that we as a family know the secret to achieving a state of mind that allows us to really appreciate what exists in our section of the valley.

When we arrive, we usually have a plan of action.  My older brother and his son seem to be currently obsessed with fences and gates.  Robert Frost understood the deal about fences, even though in New England they had walls instead of fences.  "Something there is in Nature that hates a wall"...and a fence.  Usually it isn't natural.  Cows aren't particularly fond of fences, but nature take its toll as well.  They work hard to put in new fences, new gates.

My  younger brother is determined to rid the farm of any unnecessary brush.  He clears the brush from the banks of the creek to allow better recreational access.  He does this by hand.  There are sections accessible to the brush hog for the small tractor we have, but some areas are not.  He clears the brush, stacks it, burns it.  When he is finished, the area is clear.  The cattle have more area to graze, and we have a clearer view of the trout that live in the stream.


My father mows.  People see the farm, and they think that there are still people living there.  The lawn never gets out of hand.  There is quite a bit to mow:  the immediate lawn around the house, then down past the garage to the vineyard, and the vineyard itself.  There is also a small area on the other side of the creek we maintain as a park area.

My area is the garage.  We have taken to gathering in the small, separated building once used as a garage.  It was built in the 70's. It was not built well, and since then, issues have arisen.  I try to find creative, inexpensive ways to improve the garage.  I'm currently insulating it and paneling it with old barn wood.  The wood I am currently working with is rough cut, different sizes.  It comes from a shed, but the shed was built from the remains of a barn that was torn down long before I was born. I think it is beautiful, but I have a long way to go.  I also need more barn wood.  But there is time.

We also often work together on projects.  After one hundred plus years of farming, there is a lot of outdated equipment, old fence, rusting metal scattered here and there.  We work together, gather the metal.  Take it to be recycled.  A good load will give us over a hundred dollars, sometimes close to two.  We use this money for supplies and equipment.  We also cut firewood together.

We get things done, but we know it is not about the product of our labor.  We compliment each others' accomplishments.  But in the end, we know that it is the labor itself that is of value.  It is an investment, not in the land, but in ourselves.  When we have worked to a certain state, we can better enjoy what we have there.  In the land.

Of the several generations who have worked this land, I think most of them understood innately what we have rediscovered.  They had fewer distractions than we have, and they had to work harder in order to keep the land.  We play where they worked.  So maybe we only get a taste of the feast they enjoyed.  But a taste can be enough.  It is for us.