Ms. Ag Fair

   Tonight I got to emcee the Ms. Louisa Agricultural Fair Beauty Pageant for the fifth time in five years.  It's a great pageant with entrants from around the rural county of Louisa.  But allow me to reflect on something very different from last year's pageant.

   As happens pretty often anymore, one of the judges was a former student.  I didn't teach her, but she was very active in extra-curricular activities at both the high school and middle schools in Louisa and later was a substitute I used often when I was an assistant principal at the middle school.

   The funny thing is, this entry isn't even about her, per se.  You see, I read bios of the judges each year, and when I read hers, she had gotten married and was living in Smythe County, Virginia, where my mom grew up.  As I continued reading, I learned that she was teaching at the high school Mom had attended and from which she had graduated.  In that moment, I was transported back to stories Mom had about her time at Marion High School.  

  Mom played basketball (was even a player-coach in college) and wrote in her never-to-be-published memoir My Thorns Have Roses about walking up the hill to the school (she lived with her Great Aunt and Uncle at the foot of a hill just under the high school) and using her little pocket knife to jimmy the lock on the door so she could go inside and practice foul shots in the gym.  As I read that in a beautiful leatherbound book my brother put together shortly after Mom's death, I remember thinking that, nowadays, I'd probably be one of the people after her for breaking and entering and having a knife on school property.  It caused me to reflect on many things.

    Mom was just a kid who wanted to practice free throws.  She wasn't looking to hurt anyone or destroy anything.  Now, if it had been her younger brother...maybe.  But, you've got to treat every kid the same way, right?  Yeah, that's the gist of it.  

   Here's the thing, though.  Remember, not every kid with a pocket knife is looking to make trouble; and, sometimes a kid with a basketball just wants to play basketball.

   This isn't a social commentary (God knows we've had enough of that lately and, as I sit here writing this I realize that's what people think I'm going for - I'm not, so don't make it that way).  It's more of a reminder for me.  It's easy to lose site of the fact that the people affected by rules are just that, people.  Somebody's daughter, son, sister, brother, or parent.  Maybe it's something worth remembering for me and for whomever has the Herculean task of enforcing the rules/laws where they are.

The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

Just Three Easy Payments

  I got to wondering...what would an infomercial day be like?  You know, a day when I used a menagerie of crap - sorry - stuff I could get online or by calling a number that I saw on TV.  PLEASE NOTE that I have no connection with any of these products; in fact, this is a work of fiction, I don't even OWN any of this stuff.

   So...my alarm clock went off (the one I got from Skymall, where the time is projected on the wall like some sort of red digital Bat Signal).  After silencing the angry tones of the alarm; I turned off my Dream Light, the LED pattern of stars fading from my ceiling.  I wrestle free of my covers and rise, my head lifting from my $90-some Perfect Pillow, which seems a high price to pay for a piece of foam, but it's science and who am I to argue with science?  I stretch and sit up on the side of my memory foam mattress on which I can place a glass of wine on one side and jump on the other without spilling the elixir of Dionysus (ugh, FINALLY).  Sure, buying that mattress made me miss a few car payments, but, come on - it's NASA-designed... 

  Still groggy, I slide my feet into my Stompies (I picked the ones that look like a cyclops whose eye opens everytime my heel depresses the air bladder inside) and stumble to the bathroom where...I squeeze toothpaste on my 30 Second Smile (which I got for only two payments of $59.95 - WITH a professional tongue-scraper, thank you) that brushes top-bottom-middle-sides all at once, thus cutting my normally 3 minute brushing time to a 30 second foam and froth assault on gingivitis-causing plaque.

   After rattling my teeth with my jackhammer of dental efficiency, I head for the shower.  I abandon my Stompies, the lidded eye of the cyclops allowing my pedestrial watchman a much-needed respite from its exhausting open-close-open-close-open-close routine.

   I turn on the water (silently cursing the info-tainment gods for not inventing a tool to judge shower water temperature) and step in, secure that my footing is solid thanks to the non-slip Hydro-Rug (it's like having a shower floor made of loofa!) which I purchased for the paltry sum of $19.95 and reached into my 8-pocket Meridian Point shower caddy (now only available on eBay, Craigslist, and yardsale sites) to retrieve my combination bodywash/shampoo/conditioner/shave gel (I got that at Walmart).   I wash my feet in the Easy feet foot scrubber ($14.95) I suctioned-cupped to the floor of tub with staying power worthy of Super-Polident.

   I shower, dry off, wrapping my head in a Turbie Twist, the culturally-insensitively-named head-Sham-Wow thingy that dries my close-cropped hair in about fourteen seconds.  I put my still-damp feet back into my Stompies, the single eye on each cyclops flying open in protest to the wet-foot colonic i just I gave it.  I dress as quickly as one can without the aid of the machinery George Jetson seemed to take for granted as he dressed for the day.  All the while I lamenting that the sweatpant jeans I saw on late night TV are only available in women's sizes.  Instead, I have on a pair of pants (that I'd once kept in a Space Bag) that had ripped, but I repaired them with Mighty Mend It!  Did you know it'll hold the seam of a parachute in use; or an American flag in a wind-tunnel?

   I choke down the pre-packaged mortar Nutri-System sent for breakfast (I don't know what all those celebrities are talking about - but I only have another 3 months of food in cardboard boxes on my steps until it's done) and stare resentfully at the Gazelle, Total Gym, NordicTrac, and Bowflex pushed into the corner of the den/breakfast nook/workout area/place where I hang clothes now.  It's near my collection of coins with scenes from the west, various wars, and historical moments along with state quarters.  The bigger coins are legal tender in Liberia, I think.

   Another swallow of milk gets the rest of my (breakfast?) morning sustenance down, grab my Aluma-Wallet ($9.95 and I got a second one free!  I'm still trying to decide how I'll use that second one...),  and I head out to my SUV.  I start it up, check the feed on the mirror with the back-up camera that I bought after an infomercial that showed a woman backing into what must have been a lawyer on a bike, and pull out of my driveway.  Inside my house, a chime emits from the Driveway Patrol remote driveway alarm that I got for free when I bought my kinectic-energy-powered Shake Light for just $13.95 (the Shake Light is not to be confused with the Shake Weight, my Shake Weight for Men is with my Perfect Push-Up over by the Gazelle) .  Sure, I have to replace the batteries on the Driveway Patrol every 2-3 weeks, and sure it chimes over-and-over-and-over when you mow the yard, but that's the price you pay for being able to set your receiver up to 400 feet away so you can know when someone is coming to your door...beats waiting for the doorbell, right?  (The chime makes my cat look up from the fried-egg-looking "Cat's Meow" cat toy that I got for $24.95 plus shipping and handling - and, yeah, I got two; I'm saving one for a gift, check your mail - which keeps my Stompies safe).

  I place my $9.95 Blue Blocker polarized aviator sunglasses on my face and head for work.  I have my phone set up so it'll broadcast through my stereo (what's a little feedback?) using a microphone/Bluetooth/FM transmitter that Billy Mayes (moment of silence please) endorsed.

   At work, I use Dragon 2 translate my words too text.  It works grate period itmakes my job so much easier exclamationpoint and it kame with a free copy of Family Tree Maker period guess watt eyem doing this weekend questionmark

  At work, lunch is more NutriSystem and a protest from my digestive tract.

  After work, I head home.  Back-up camera and cell-phone/transmitter thing work great.  Just once do it get an ear-shattering ring/feedback; but, I've got Quietus tinnitus treatment that I bought off TV for just $59.95 and I'll put some drops in when I get home.

   When I pull in the driveway, my Driveway Patrol chime alerts my cat to my presence and it quickly abandons my long-suffering Stompies for its Cat's Meow downstairs. When I come in, it's chasing the "mouse" under the yellow skirt of the cat toy and cursing me for a fool.  

   I toss my jacket on the Bowflex in the corner, use my phone hooked up to a Magic Jack converter to call for a pizza (in direct disdain of the NutriSystem boxes on my stairs) and decide to get wings, too.

  Later, a chime sounds, and I meet the pizza guy at the door, Stompies on my feet (though only one cyclops works now, the other eye remains forever closed; its air bladder punctured...I don't know how, but I swear my cat I laughing as I walk by in a sideways stutter-step).

  I strap-on my Contour Ab-Sculpting electro-stimulation belt (just three easy payments of $99.95...plus shipping) after downing the pizza and wings (on which I shook Sensa like it was parmesan cheese).  Thirty minutes later, I feel a tingling in my stomach area, and I can change the channel on my TV with no remote.

  I stumble up to bed, my now lonely stomps doing its best to guard against interlopers...from the left, anyway.  I again brush my teeth with the speed of a fireman hearing an alarm bell and fall into bed, though no glass of wine would know it.  Cuddling up with my Dreamlite, I drift of, a constellation above me, the time emblazoned on the wall next to me.  I set the time early on the alarm.  Tomorrow's Saturday, and I'm going to use my Ronco Pocket Fisherman ($29.95 plus shipping and handling) and my Banjo Minnow.

   Ah, how easy infomercials and Internet products have made our lives.

   Thatshow the wagon rolls period Thanks four riding shotgun period

Summer Camp: A Study in Guilt-Trips

   It wasn't until I was a freshman in high school that I found a summer camp worth going to.  It was a co-ed ranch in Michigan were we rode horses, showed horses, and not a discouraging word was accepted.  I enjoyed that place and, for two weeks a summer, it was home for five years.  Before that, though, oh, the misery...

   You think it's all canoe trips and looking for arrowheads?  Oh, you are so wrong...

   The first camp I went to (was abandoned at for six weeks?) was a two-hour bus ride from Richmond to a collection of cabins in the bucolic mountains of Virginia.  Beautiful mountains, a river meandering by, baseball diamond, open fields, outhouses.  Yeah - outhouses.  Not flushing toilets, no running water.  Showers, sinks, a kitchen at the mess hall, sure; but toilets that flush?  Nope.  And there were two hole outhouses, four hole outhouses, and one eight-holer that wasn't nearly as nostalgic as the one Thomas Jefferson had at Monticello - because he didn't have RUNNING FRIGGIN' WATER!  

   Imagine a porta-potty without the porta...  Then multiply it by two to eight guys however many times a day for six weeks.  Huzzah.

   I was sentenced to the second camp for five weeks.  It was near Kings Dominion, but do NOT let that fool you! It was no amusement park, boys and girls.  The first day I was there, the "veteran" campers grabbed the towels off the younger guys in line and ran away while the counselors just laughed and laughed.  Yes, nothing says humor like psyche-scarring games first thing when you get to camp.

   Speaking of scarred psyches, both places did the equivalent of the pre-teen death march, the all-male skinny dip.  What was THAT about?  Seriously?  And that was the replacement for a shower for the morning?  Who runs this railroad? When the PA system played reveille at one camp every morning I would wake in trepidation as I waited for the announcement of "DIP, SHOWER, or WASH-UP."  (A wash-up was running a wet washcloth over your face.  That's good hygiene for a pre-pubescent boy living outside for five weeks.)  And, seriously, skinny dipping as a bath?  There were leaches in that water.  I should have demanded to see a manager.

   And then the shooting ranges.  Bows and arrows, yeah, that was cool, no argument.  The rifle range was cool, except that some kid's gun jammed and he pulled it back to check it and fired into the wooden stage we were on.  Seriously?  Yes, seriously.

   The guy who owned the land next to the second camp would plant a couple rows of corn and then see how fast he could go on his dirt bike and pull ears off the stalks...I kid you not.  Every now and then, he'd ride the dirt bike into the camp and turn circles, making dirt rooster tails and bellowing obscenities at the top of his lungs.  Nobody thought to call the cops?  Seriously?  Yes, seriously.  

   Of course, our faith in law enforcement was shaky, at best.  See, while we were broiling under the summer sun, the Briley brothers (two of - at the time - Virginia's most notorious death-row inmates) escaped from a prison not terribly far from the camp and, certain they'd pick our little stretch of the 103 mile Mattaponi for a hideout, we were all sure we'd wake up with their murderous faces inches from our own.  Again, who's producing this gameshow?

   So, let's talk about guilt-tripping my parents.  Oh, did I ever.  Now, these were the days before cell phones or email (seriously, cordless landline phones were chimeras at the time) so I wrote letters.  Grand, guilt-ridden letters.  I painted murals of despair, wove tapestries of loneliness, cobbled together melancholy landscapes...but my parents left me to the care of counselors who were clearly taking cues from the journals of Spanish Inquisitors and the possibility that escaped murderers would be at the ever-so-secure screen door of our cabin.   Seriously?  Yes, seriously.  Well, probably not, in all actuality.

   I mean, I was at my most wretched in those letters!  Nicholas Sparks cries when HE reads them; Adele Reads them when she needs inspiration for a song; Rob Zombie did all showtunes before he read one.  The anguish gushed forth like water flowing from the heights of Bridal Veil falls...but I got bupkis as far as an early ride home.  

   So...I languished at those camps far in the mountains and along the Mattaponi River.  Did they make me a better person?  Probably.  Adversity makes us stronger...blah, blah, blah.  Tell that to a pre-teen.  I mean, when I got home, everybody was singing "Safety Dance" by Men Without Hats.  Sure, an ex-Green Beret who was a counselor showed us how to set up a pit to purify our urine into drinking water using just a paper cup, a black trash bag and a rock (I know, right?!?), but Gremlins had come out and I was out of that loop entirely.  That's all that mattered.

   Why'd I write about this today?  One of my best friends in the world has a son at camp who is lamenting his stay and begging to come home.  He's miserable, yes (though he'll never capture misery the way I did, I was an artist: my medium...guilt; didn't get me outta camp, though), but he's got a great a great mom who loves him!   He'll be fine and he'll benefit from the experience.  I hate to admit it, but I'm sure I did.  I mean, the nutjob on the dirt bike never killed me; I never got leeches anywhere, or Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever; no one ever violated me; and I came home safe and sound.  And, guess what?  I loved my parents every bit as much when I got home.  So will he.  Seriously?  Yes, seriously.

   And, he has a phone with iTunes and Spotify, so he won't miss anything.

   The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

Summer School and Frozen Yogurt

   So, if you had to pick, which would you? Yeah, so would most kids.  Here's the thing, though, as a teacher and a former summer school administrator, the time spent at school really can prove beneficial to students that are enrolled; but only if you do it right.

   Small group instruction is good.  1:1 instruction or 1:2 instruction is even better.  We put that in place at the elementary school where I was in charge of the summer curriculum.  The results were - pardon the teacher-hyperbole - incredible.  I say that because in so many ways the old results were, at best, lack-luster.  Seriously, you're going to suggest we can make up a year's time in the classroom in front of 30 kids in 4 or 5 weeks?  Even if you watched Mr. Holland's Opus every night to be re-inspired (or maybe the old Mark Harmon movie)

and wrote lesson plans worthy of inclusion in some text published by the ASCD itself, it's not happening, folks...

   Summer school is really not a kid's idea of a fun way to spend their break.  I get it.  It may not be what their parents are looking forward to; and even many education professionals may lament the resources spent thereon.  Sometimes, summer school may seem less exciting than vaccinations, and less beneficial.  But, in truth, when it's done right, the benefits can be enormous and can make for a subsequent year of successes; and isn't that what we're really here for?  And success means that kids, parents, teachers, and everybody else who commits resources and time to summer school has done something worthy and difference-making.

   And there's plenty of time for frozen yogurt after school.  In what world are those things mutually exclusive?

   The wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun!

Nobody Liked Johnny in the "Karate Kid."

I remember being in SAMs one day waiting with my dad as they were putting new tires on his Toyota Tacoma.  As we perused the offerings ranging from self-help books to a 5-Gallon jar (bucket?) of mayonnaise, I became aware of a disturbance.  Not like a disturbance in the Force, and not like when two Immortals from the Highlander franchise sense each other, no, this was the caterwauling of a child, a child who was used to getting his way and was clearly - at that moment - not.

The issue was over a drink that had been purchased at the snack bar there at SAMs.  Have you seen the snack bar?  It's strategically placed right at the end of the registers (because what parent doesn't want to deal with, "Mom/Dad, can I have a drink/hot dog/piece of pizza/pretzel, etc.?" as s/he is trying to make sure they have enough empty Budweiser and Green Giant Broccoli Florets in Cheese Sauce flat boxes to fit their purchases in for the trip home?).

Anyway, this little urchin, a five or six year-old with the lung capacity of an Olympic swimmer and the voice projection of an opera-quality mezzo-soprano is belting out his EXTREME dissatisfaction that his 32-ounce styrofoam cup with a plastic top - these details are important later - drink was a 7-Up and not a Mountain Dew (yeah, let's caffeine this little devil spawn up, that'll be good for everybody...maybe we can toss around some unexploded grenades later, too).  His mother (I can only assume that she was his mother, otherwise, she should have left him with his cup of 7-Up and bus fare) was seeking to gently explain to him the intricacies of waiting patiently while she conducted her transaction with the Nice Lady at the Register.  The Nice Lady at the Register was a high school-age student who, based on the look on her face, made the decision right then and there that having kids would be somebody else's responsibility from there on out, thank you.  The much-maligned mother (who, I was impressed to see was still well-groomed and was dressed for a day out with a top and skirt rather than ill-matching sweats and a rubber band holding back unruly hair) turned back to the Nice Lady to pay after interacting with the little hellion.  Said hellion now had the attention of everybody in line, people at the door, a few of us wandering near the front, and I'm sure the guy in the security booth.  Somehow, the kid actually turned purplish with rage.  Not Violet Bearueguard from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory purple, but a disturbing purple, nonetheless.

(At this point, I do wish it noted that this child showed only signs of being spoiled, not of any other condition, so leave the bleeding heart nonsense at the door.)

"Watch this..." I said to Dad.

I felt my father's hand grip my arm, "What's going to happen, Son?"

I shook my head, "I don't know, Dad, but it's going to be..."

That's as far as I got.  Without warning, the little ball of purple raised the cup above his head and smashed it to the ground.

Remember: styrofoam cup, plastic lid.

7-Up and ice splattered everywhere.  

His mother took the worst of it, her stockinged legs suddenly browning in spots where the sticky soda began soaking into nylon.  The Nice Lady at the Register was also victimized by the exploding beverage, taking spray in her face (thus confirming her recent commitment to childlessness), as were several shoppers-turned-innocent bystanders nearby including an elderly gentleman with a gray crewcut and an anchor tattoo whose look said, I'd handle that boy with my belt and a poorly lit room, by God!

It's rare that silence falls across a warehouse sales floor, but it did...oh, it did.  That silence descended like the fog on Frost's proverbial little cat's feet.  As ice melted on the concrete floor of SAMs Club, we all waited to see how this mother, this embodiment of soccer moms and luxury SUVs would handle...dare I speak the word?  Discipline.  We were all ready to see the offending drink-tosser taken across a knee and brought to his.  

But, what none of us were ready for, what none of us could have foreseen was...what...she...did...next...

She bought the little @#*% a new drink;  Mountain Dew this time.  We, the impromptu audience to this felt our mouths drying as we gaped in disbelief at this attempted placating of childish rage by the (adult?) parent who was clearly substituting the drink cup's straw for a binky.  This woman wasn't much-maligned; she was lying in the bed she'd made for herself (probably one that kid was busy pushing her out of whenever he felt like it).

As the cowed (and soggy) mother left with the Mountain Dew-suckling future reality TV star splashing through puddles of 7-Up and crunching ice underfoot, I felt my dad squeezing my arm again.  "Son, what if your daughter did that?"

My mind flashed to the raising of my child.  Her very few tantrums at ages 2 or 3 never ended with her getting her way.  Quite the opposite, actually.  Most honestly, her tantrums usually ended with her losing what she already had in hand and any hope of what was in her mind's eye.  Never had one ended with soggy shoppers and some poor sad-eyed schmuck wheeling out a mop bucket to clean up violently destroyed beverage.  And her tantrums stopped, allowing for us to interact as parent and child; you know, how God and nature intended.

I looked at my dad, "it never even would have crossed her mind, Dad.  It never even would have crossed her mind."  And, it wouldn't have.

Now, am I judging that parent?  Absolutely not; I'm judging her behavior - totally different.  I'm not fool enough to suggest that all I do as a parent is right (I mean, I appreciate a 90-minute cartoon movie as much as the next dad, and I'm guilty of the, "you better not be messing with that [insert item of your choice] because I'll come in there and check and you know I will!" shout as I watch the Gators beat Tennessee in the Swamp.  But giving in to a temper tantrum?  Why not give the kid your car keys and tie blocks to the kids shoes a-la Short Round in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom and send them on their merry way?  You're straight up that I'll judge that type of parenting.  That's not even spoiling a kid.  That's RUINING them.

Look, be a parent, not a chauffeur.  Be a parent, not a credit card.  Be a parent who meets needs, not satisfies every want.  You really want to know what your kid'll be like if you meet every want, if you get them a Mountain Dew after they tossed their 7-Up?  Remember, "Sweep the leg, Johnny!" from the Karate Kid?   That's going to be your kid.  And nobody liked Johnny in the Karate Kid.

The Wagon rolls on.  Thanks for riding shotgun.

A Little Respect...

There are few things I enjoy as much as fishing.  (Sure, fatherhood and such, but when it comes to shear diversionary pleasures, bass fishing is top on my list.)  Earlier today, my buddy Tim and I hit the James River.  We had limited success, but success, nonetheless.

At the same time, the was an FLW tournament putting out of Osbourne Landing.  Now, I am all for tournament fishing and have even gotten to do some myself through the VA-East Fishers of Men division.  What sets the sport apart is that - usually - anglers are careful not to encroach on the fishing spots of other anglers.  Today was different.  When I caught a nice fish (would have been a keeper if I'd been fishing the tournament), an FLW boater and his partner pulled up within 10 yards of us and started pitching lures into the grass.  Tim and I moved on, disappointed to see such behavior in one of our peers.  Later on, we were sitting off a point hurling Alabama Rigs (just to say we had) and a couple of FLW guys leap-frogged us to fish the point we were on before we could get close into it.  Again, our disappointment was palpable.

In neither case did the offenders catch any fish while we were in sight of their boat.  (I don't believe in karma, but there's an argument in it for you if you do.)

Look, I understand being competitive, and I understand wanting the check that comes with placing at the top of the list; but, when you sacrifice respectful behavior in the name of success, you sully our sport.  That's not just true in fishing, it's true in everything.  Don't believe me?  How many parents expect their kids to say, "please," and, "thank you?"  Why is that?  Because it's manners, and manners lead to respect, and respect leads to doing what's right, period; not because you owe it to the other person, but because you owe it to yourself.

The wagon rolls on, thanks for riding shotgun...