Daddy Buck

I've really struggled writing this. My grandfather passed away last Sunday, and I'm hit more and more everyday by how much I miss him. We called him "Daddy Buck" and he lived next door to me all my life. He was a good neighbor, a wonderful grandfather, and a great man. He taught my 3rd grade class stories about life in the Great Depression, he told me he always knew I'd be a teacher, and he grossly mispronounced the names of everyday foods.

Here is a picture of him fishing. He loved to fish. I'm not a fisher myself, but if you gave me a rod after showing me this picture, I'd be out to the fishing hole in no time at all.

Here he is at the pool with my oldest brother (a wee lad at the time). Daddy Buck would always show up when we kids went swimming. Even this last summer, he came out on his porch and didn't nod or shake his head, or even say a word. He just watched us and smiled.

This next one is from one of his favorite barbeque joints. Daddy Buck would call me while I was in college just to go out for a sandwich. I knew, of course, that this always meant a barbeque sandwich, and I knew, too, that he would always pay - even if my brother or I insisted otherwise. Most times, I wouldn't be able to go right then, so he'd always offer me a "rain check." I never cashed in enough of those.

Here we are as children wrestling with him. He appears to be winning handily.

Needless to say, we all miss him dearly. He was ready to go though, and for that I'm grateful. He was also a man of faith, and it eases the pain to know that he is now in a far better place, a place where death itself works backwards, a place where his loving wife awaits him, a place where all things are made new.

Red Fish, Flu Fish

You know something's wrong (i.e. you have the flu) when...

a. you take a nap all morning, finally feel up to doing something, get out of bed, reheat yesterday's pasta, eat it, and then find yourself back in bed moments later, completely exhausted.

b. sentences like this one make up a good part of your daily reading: "Two of the three oseltamivir-induced substitutions (E119V, H274Y and R292K) in the viral neuraminidase from clinical isolates occur at the same amino acid residues as two of the three substitutions (E119G/A/D, R152K and R292K) observed in zanamivir-resistant virus."

c. besides reading all the fine-print of your prescription drug, you also read anything in sight, which in my case (dare I say it?) includes the first book about that Harry guy (which reads remarkably like Matilda for at least the first 50 pages...) Note: That does not mean I've changed my opinion on the matter. If I did, then you would have substantial cause to be concerned about my health. :)

d. you look up things like "the anatomy of mucus" on Google

e. you lose interest in things as soon as you begin to show a bit (the anatomy of mucus, for example)

f. you write extremely dramatic poems like this and don't remember when or why...:

the weak man in bed

you must go to the well.
there - you must pour the water
without this - there is no relief
without - this - there is.

you must find it.

In my mind I go - but
it brings no relief.
none.
not a drop

delay - for lack of words
for lack - of strength.

and so - he watched the night
the shadows on the walls
shadows - in the well.

it's cheating - you know -
that bit about the mind.
and he knows it - yes -
full well.

g. you walk around the house wearing latex gloves, and play Donkey Kong doing the same

h. laughing, or smiling, or getting up, or moving, or just thinking about it - sets you off in a violent coughing spree that lasts just long enough for you to think about it again

i. Jello. You eat more Jello than you have the rest of your life. Combined.

j. you do something you haven't done in a year and a half, like blogging twice in two days.

A Story from the Wood Pile

I'm moving rooms this week and stumbled upon this, fading away in some long-forgotten corner under my bed. I don't know exactly when I wrote it, but here it is anyways... And as a note, by the way, before I turn you over to the story, $29.99 is a steal for a Flu shot - get it now (!). Otherwise, you'll may be like me in a few days - reduced to salami and eating Jello four times a day (not fun). Not to mention the hours of work I've missed and the general feeling of uselessness day in and day out. Fortunately, there are powerful drugs at work within me (all of the legal kind, of course), and things finally seem to be on the up and up (after three long days).

And now, without further delay...

***
CHESTER. That's right, his name was Chester. He wasn't a particularly large man, though in school the boys always mocked him as "Chester Chubbs" - nor was he a particularly observant one. He was an ordinary man by the day's standard and concerned himself with the hither-tithers and what-nots of what we might expect from the husband of a loving wife. Not that she was all that loving this day. Which is why, you should know, he found himself at Kroger's instead of Roger's Rotisserie Rooster Barn for his lunch-break.

All that to say, Chester was not in the least bit distraught by this turn of events (though perhaps befuddled), as it wasn't everyday he had the chance to pick out Cosmic Pineapple instead of the usual square kind (which is probably why his wife never offered him this job all that often in the first place). Nor was he bothered when he discovered the existence of Fruitle-Oodles in the cereal aisle (despite the passer-byer's mumbled comment that "there's a reason no one's ever heard of 'em").

But Chester would not be thwarted. Not this day. He paced around that store like one of Old Man Kroger's kin, though by the size of his nose, he was clearly not related to anyone respectable. And as it so happened, he left the store in the self-same manner - grinning like a niño who had just robbed his father's coin collection.

Now as I have mentioned, Chester was not a particularly observant man. But I also mentioned - or maybe I didn't - this was already turning out to be a particular sort of day. Had it been a normal day, Chester surely would not have observed the man hop-skipping his masked self in between Volvos and Buicks on the outskirts of the parking lot (in fact, on a normal day, Chester would have been eating a not-so-fresh rotisserie chicken or two in a place where no one had ever even heard of a parking lot), and Slingo (the masked man) would have made it to the other side of the road unharmed and untouched.

As it was, Chester did notice what he thought was Zorro's arch-enemy prancing his way east to west; his not-quite-unloaded cart did come soaring towards the masked man at unprecedented velocity; and Slingo did end up in room B28 of the Muffleton Hospital with not but a knot on his head and a few fractured phalanges. Which is why, as I was trying to tell you all along, a lone shopping cart now sits at the edge of Kroger's parking lot with nothing in it but a bag of Fruitle-Oodles.

That's "Mr." to you...

If anyone still reads this blog, you've probably had enough of my modern poetries and obscure book recommendations (and quite rightly so) for the time being. As such, I have "arranged a new feast for you" this evenin', as the Old Man and the Sea might have said. Note: I have never read "The Old Man" but I'm quite confident he would never have said any such thing...unless they made a movie out of it, in which case he probably *did* say those very words.

I have told you nothing of my job as a teacher. For shame. It is a lovely job - a difficult job at times, of course, but as rewarding as a prize pig at the county fair (and much more agreeable than both the pig and the fair, combined).

I see myself in so many of the students...and wonder at those others who periodically find it fashionable to make D+s on my reading quizzes. "You'll never get through to all of them," some people will remind me. But what about Milton? Surely John Milton should get through to more than half of them....right? Apparently not. But I suppose that's nothing to fret - I was never really huge on Milton myself.

I teach with a stick, to begin with - and that for beating the children whenever they misbehave. Fortunately, none of them have, so the stick only serves as 1) a pointer, 2) a very poor walking stick, 3) a twirling object in times of boredom, and 4) a very effective means of bringing any idlers back into focus (a simple whack on the desk usually does the trick).

I also go by "Mr. Halbrooks" now, which is as bewildering to me every time I hear it as it is to my students, who still don't quite know how to pronounce it properly. I think I forgot the bit on the first day of class where the teacher is supposed to write his name on the board and sound it out for one and all. A few of them insist on calling me "Professor Plum", too, which is equally shocking.

As for class itself, well, here are a few stories...

a. The first quiz I ever gave was on Beowulf, which my Brit Lit childrens were supposed to read over the summer. This would not have been a memorable story, I must admit, if all of the student *had* actually read it over the summer. One of the questions was a quotation identification: Who said "thus and such"? Now (I told them), I realize the book is full of names like "Wiglaf" and "Hrothgar" and other names that are as hard to remember as they are to spell, so you don't have to remember the guy's actual name - just tell me who he is....like "It's the king talking to Beowulf's brother right before he fights the swamp creatures..." or something along those lines. Got it? Good. And they did get it - except for three of them. Beowulf's brother is not, in fact, an actual character in the poem. He's not even mentioned in passing. But that was certainly not enough to stop three of my kids from answering, for number 3, "Beowulf's brother." One of them elaborated even further: "Beowulf's brother right before he fights the swamp creatures." Merciful heavens.

b. One of my other classes, in our discussion of "The Voyage of the Dawn Treader" said, and I quote, "I hated Reepicheep." I was speechless - I didn't even know that was possible. To date, I have not recovered from that one.

c.

Me: After reading Frankenstein, were y'all surprised at all by it's depth, or did it still come across as just a thrilling horror story?
10th Grader: I was surprised. It was actually really good. And deep.
Me: Good! Well, what do you think we can take away from it, then? Any universal messages?
10th Grader: Yeah, I think the main point was that - if we try and create human beings ourselves, things will go horribly wrong and he'll end up destroying everybody and everything. So we shouldn't try that.
Me: Oh. I see...

Thanksgiving

I read about a little girl who
just today said she was thankful -
for her little dog
and for - I'm not sure if more - but
for the crisp sound (of?) fall
leaves on the ground.

Another was thankful
for a life with no troubles
only with mastakes.

And that, just how she said it -
happily, mistaken.

Good Gollie (and Bink!)

Good Kate has done it again. And this time she's done it in a different medium than her usual masterpieces - a medium that, as it were, is not all too far from Calvin and Hobbes. Not that she's started a new comic series - no, none of that. But her newest book (co-written with Allison McGhee) is more about images and colour than narration. In fact, there isn't any narration - the entire plot is told in dialogue and watercolour - an a fabulous duo it is.

The medium she chose, of course, is no accident. Just like The Tale of Desperaux glories in the fact that it's a book, Bink and Gollie glories in the fact that it's a picture book...if that's what you can call it. It feels like an altogether new genre, really - taking the best from the world of picture books (beautiful watercolour illustrations) and the best from the world of comics (dialogue that develops character, dialogue that says "this is true").

I won't tell you anything about the story, of course, because it's far to cruel to give anything away in a book so short. You could read the whole thing just standing up at the book store (which I did), and laugh out loud when Bink smells pancakes (which I also did), but that shouldn't keep you from buying it and reading it again and again and making all your friends read it too (which I will, have no fear).

Everyone who plays Calvinball, everyone who appreciates harmony and joy, everyone who just needs a good story every now and again - everyone, in fact, should read this book.

How to talk to Mice...

If you ever get bored, fear no longer.

If you're ever lonely, rest a ease.
If you ever want a small rat to talk to...

your days of waiting have come (at long last) to a timely end.

Reepicheep (!) is here. The mouse talked to dragons, fought with giants, the mouse who sailed to off the end of his own world - has come back (that's right!), and now awaits you in the cyberworld.

Why? we have no idea.

Truth be told, he's probably an imposter. The real Reepicheep would have him tarred and feathered in a heartbeat. But that's no reason not to talk to him. And you can! Here: http://www.thelionscall.com/activities/talk_to_reepicheep.cfm

...and do let me know if you get him to say anything as strange as this...

Me: What is my purpose?
Reep: Hopefully, all of us are here to do our Creator's work.
Me: Who is our Creator?
Reep: King Edmund.
Me: That, my friend, is blasphemy.

...later...

Me: Why are you here?
Reep: Because Aslan created me.
Me: But you said that King Edmund created you.
Reep: Oh dear, I gave the wrong answer.
Me: You should be ashamed.
Reep: Name one other Mouse who is ashamed.