Keeping My Mouth Shut

One of the hardest lessons I have learned is when to keep my mouth shut. After years of practice, I have become more skilled at it. It has taken a long, long time to apply those skills consistently, though, because I just naturally like to interact with people. But, there are benefits to keeping my mouth shut and not telling everything I know.

Don't misunderstand. gossip intrigues me as much as the next person. I just don't like to perpetuate it.

When I was a little girl, Mom used to say that she could tell me anything because I would never repeat it. I’ve pretty much remained that way.

However, as I grew older, there was a time when I would speculate about answers to questions when I really didn’t know the answer. I relied on my intuition to reply and that certainly proved unreliable. Only after my instincts demonstrated inaccuracy on numerous occasions, did I learn to not hypothesize.

Initially I felt compelled to defend a baseless rumor I had heard a while back. To do that would have meant alienating people and forcing them to choose sides. Instead, I decided to keep my mouth shut. Although it was very difficult, it turned out to be the best. That was a hard lesson, but one well worth practicing.

Grandmother Johnnie used to teach me that if I couldn’t say something nice not to say anything at all. I guess I took that lesson to heart.

Like everyone else, I have opinions, but I try not to express them unless I’m asked. But then, I give my frank views and just hope that no one is offended. After all, they sought my opinion and it is just that, my opinion.

I can also truthfully say that I don’t get in other people’s business either. I don’t want anyone interfering in my business, so I steer clear of theirs. Whenever people around me have differing viewpoints, I usually don’t take sides. I try to listen with an open mind. If necessary, I advise all parties involved where I stand so that there’s no misunderstanding.

Like we’re taught in the Bible, if I have a problem with someone (and if my relationship with them matters to me), I go directly to them to discuss it. We may go away from each other agreeing to disagree, but at least we have had a dialogue and we understand each other’s ideas and we’ve made our points.

I also believe in second chances. That’s the right thing to do. Once I’ve been wronged, I allow a second chance. But, when someone has blown the second chance, it’s like putting my hand into a box of rattlesnakes, I’ll not do that again.

Spite

Have you ever heard someone say, “I just did it out of spite?” I have. Why would anyone want to be spiteful? What purpose does it serve? Do they really feel better after being vindictive? Does getting even make them feel better about themselves? I doubt it. Why would someone possess malicious ill will prompting them to hurt or humiliate others? I don’t keep company with negative, spiteful people because I don’t understand spiteful people. Maybe if I were spiteful, I could understand their desire to harm others or to see others suffer, but I’m not a spiteful person so I don’t understand them.

Is it posturing like, “I’ll show you.”? Is it a control factor? I can only think that they choose to be spiteful because they feel powerless to control other people any other way. Is revenge really that sweet? To take revenge requires planning, tenacity and skill. All of which are learned traits. They don’t come about naturally. Some families come to mind as being especially spiteful because it is manifested over the generations.

I suppose I could ask a spiteful person these questions, but I doubt that they could answer them because they probably don’t recognize themselves as being spiteful. It’s hard to believe that some people actually revel in others’ personal anguish. I just can’t understand such unkindness and I never will. I wasn’t raised that way.

See the Light

This past summer as every summer, I had a lot of routine medical tests done just to keep a check on my health. Except for the Crohn’s and its symptoms, I don’t have a lot of other issues. My blood pressure is fine, as is my blood work. But, my doctor noticed something and ordered a sonogram to follow up. That test revealed that I needed a bit of corrective surgery. . . nothing life-threatening (or so I thought).

During the week prior to the surgery, I met with the surgeon, the anesthesiologist, had an EKG, blood work, chest x-ray and other tests in preparation for the big day.

On August 1, I went in for this little day surgery at 7:00 a.m. They had told us that it would take about an hour to an hour and a half. By 8:00 a.m. I had been prepped and given sedatives so that I was ready to go to the OR. Once in the OR, I greeted three familiar nurses who routinely give my Remicade infusions, the anesthesiologist, and the surgeon.

Soon, I went under (just like I had numerous times before). Of course, being “under”, I didn’t know anything that was going on in the OR around me. I do remember being awakened and the nurse saying to me, “Be really still. We’re giving you an epidural.” I vaguely remember thinking that this wasn’t the way it was supposed to go, but of course, I went right back out so that thought didn’t last very long.

Once in recovery, I grinned at my two ACS nurses partly because I knew them so well and partly because they were teasing me. I was glad that the operation was over. I wasn’t in any pain.

Before long, their moods changed and I noticed that their questioning was more serious. Soon, three other familiar nurses, the anesthesiologist and my family practitioner were all around me just kind of inspecting me. I was still too loopy to be concerned, just kind of impressed that I was so important.

Come to find out, there had been an incident in the operating room. I had stopped breathing. They couldn’t intubate me because the tube wouldn’t go down my windpipe. They tried several times in different ways, but to no avail. A nurse had to “bag” me and keep me breathing while they woke me up and gave me the spinal so that the surgeon could complete the surgery. Both the anesthesiologist and the nurses were alarmed. The surgery had taken almost three hours instead of the one or so they had anticipated.

As I began to come out from under the sedation, I noticed that my neck, shoulders, jaws, and yes, even tongue were quite swollen, bruised, and sore. My tongue rubbed against my front teeth and they felt like they were chipped even though the tip of my tongue was numb. I suspected I had been beaten from my shoulders upward.

By this time, numerous cell phone calls began to come in with people checking on me. The news spread like wildfire and even my school administrators called for news. Now, I’m thinking, “Dang, this is a really big deal, after all.”

Late in the afternoon, I was released to go home. It took me days and days to recuperate. My tongue didn’t return to normal for over a month.

I got a lot of teasing about my “near death experience.” Of course, I could joke about it because I didn’t even know it had happened so I had not been concerned at all.

Leave it to kids, though, to ask the most poignant questions. One asked me if I had seen the white light while I was near death.

My answer was “No, no I didn’t.” Finally, I began to worry and ponder the question, “Wonder why I didn’t?”

Pride

Like most everything else on earth, pride can be virtuous or it can be adverse.

To take pride in work, school, family, and faith, is a beneficial attribute. Taking the time to perfect work, to cultivate a rich tradition of excellence, to raise a strong, loving family, and to nurture faith, are all examples of pride as a positive asset.

On the other hand, pride can hinder the accomplishment of our goals. Being proud can make us high and mighty, selfish and spiteful. I’m sure you’ve heard the old adage, “Pride goeth before the fall.” It's true, spite gets us into trouble; pride keeps us there.

How we practice our pride dictates whether it is a virtue or a vice.

Suzy Q

J. P. is a tall tale-teller. Britney is naive. That background sets up the story she tells about when they were first dating. He had taken her to the ranch to show her around.

Going through the pastures, he pointed out each cow and told her a little story about each one. He knew them well because he had been alone on the ranch for about two years, so he was very familiar with the cattle.

He drove near one and said, “That’s old Suzy Q.”

She asked, “Why do you call her Suzy Q?”

“Aww, she’s real special to me. Why, she saved my life. Last spring whenever we had a lot of rain, I went down to the creek to check out the water gap. I slipped and got stuck down there. She came over to me and grabbed my britches leg with her teeth and pulled me up to the top of the bank.”

“Really? Well, I can see why she is so special to you.”

Hmmmmm.

Baby Cats

I admit it. Go ahead. Laugh. It’s okay. You won’t be the first nor the last to laugh at the fact that I am afraid of baby cats. I don’t know what the name of the phobia is, but I have it.

I react to baby cats the way that some people react to a snake or a spider. Oooohhh! Chill to the bone.

I am only afraid of a very few things: among those are mice, rats, and baby cats. I’m not afraid of bugs. . . not even spiders. I’m not all that afraid of snakes either.

So why am I afraid of baby cats? I don’t really know. I do remember the cat my grandmother had named Sam (the Siamese) that would jump on my back. He scared me, but he was a fully grown cat.

I remember a time many, many years ago, when I went shopping at the local Wall’s Outlet Store. I was alone and I was in our maroon Chevrolet. As I got out to enter the store, I noticed a little baby cat on the steps. I slipped back into my car and waited for him to walk away. He went on the south side of the steps and hid under some bushes.

I hurriedly went inside to make my purchases.

After completing my shopping, I approached the exit at the double glass doors only to find the skinny little kitty just outside. I observed him meandering down the south steps. I saw my chance to get out of the building. I quickly opened the door and rushed outside.

I thought I had escaped unscathed only to look down and see the skinny little kitty just beneath me. He looked up at me showing his little milk teeth and said “Meow”. My heart stopped. I had difficulty breathing. Terrified, I ran and jumped on the hood of my car. Hysterically, I began to scream.

The ladies who worked at Wall’s hurriedly came to the door to peer outside and see what was the matter. When they saw me on the hood and the little kitty looking up and meowing at me, they began to giggle—then chuckle—then laugh out loud. I know it looked so odd. . . a little baby cat treeing a grown woman. But, it’s the truth and I can’t help it. Maybe I need therapy.

Gator Grand Tour

Last Sunday afternoon brought a pleasant surprise. My son-in-law invited me to tour the new ranch with him on the John Deere Gator. It’s named the 6 x 4 All Terrain vehicle. It was, in fact, the almost-all terrain vehicle.

The weather was absolutely perfect for the outing. It was cool with an overcast sky and just enough breeze to keep us cool.

He drove down to the barn and shop to see the tractors, four-wheelers, shredders, feeders, plows, and other equipment. Beside the barn is a coastal field where there were numerous cow/calf pairs grazing. We spotted several deer near the creek. They stood and watched us a while before scampering into the woods. At least one was a small buck.

We checked out the tanks, the water gaps, and the watering troughs to be sure that they were up and full. He took the gator to places that would be difficult for us to walk. We went up and down hills, through brush and weeds, and we criss-crossed the creeks flowing with water no fewer than five times. The gator’s All-Terrain name was well deserved.

We toured some exceptionally scenic land that was covered in different varieties of Bermuda grass and fat, sassy cattle. Several fields of green winter grazing create a patchwork on the landscape.

On the other hand, we also weaved our way through some very rough land badly in need of attention. All in due time said J. P. He’s been working hard since the July move to enhance the appearance of the place. He’s made tremendous progress already.

There are three creeks on the ranch. He showed me one creek that had about a quarter of a mile of rock bed and several small waterfalls. It was simply breathtaking with the fall leaves coloring the tranquil countryside.

Another creek had a waterfall flowing across a dam onto a flat rock ledge. The rustling water was very soothing. It would be a perfect picnic spot. There were quite a few deep holes of clear water where big catfish swam. Good places to fish. One of those creeks runs directly behind their house. When we’re outside and all is quiet, we can hear the water rushing. The quite solitude is amazing.

Most of the land is highly improved with the cedars and mesquites removed and only oaks, elms, and pecan trees remaining. I didn’t know that the land in that part of the country could be as pretty as it is in God’s country of Lamkin, but it rivals it.

There are rolling hills with long vistas. Huge houses dot the hills on all sides. I assume those are occupied by weekenders.

Since J. P. often feeds the cattle range cubes from the gator, they were eager to check and see if we had any goodies for them. They came right up to us and put their heads over the gator as if to ask, “What did you bring us?”

I could tell that all the cattle knew him well because they willingly approached him while they were a somewhat leery of me.

Touring the new High Oaks Ranch was such a joy. Being outside on such a perfect day enjoying nature with my son-in-law is a pleasure not to be missed.

Infusion Day

Today is infusion day. I've been looking forward to it for a while now. I became symptomatic again about two weeks ago. That's a little earlier than normal. I usually don't have problems until a few days to a week before. After today, I will begin to feel like myself again and not this sickly, lethargic person I've been.

I compare the infusion to filling a gas tank. I've been running on fumes and my body needs to be refueled with liquid gold. I call it that because it is so expensive.

Today, I will see old friends at the hospital. There are five of them who rotate. For more than three years, every eight weeks like clockwork, I go in to the ACS for my infusion. The treatment setting has evolved over those years. The first time I went in, I sat in a straight back chair and watched a small tabletop television that only received 3 fuzzy channels. Over time, that situation has changed. Now, when I go in, both my husband and I have nice leather recliners to sit in. The nurses (my friends) have the wall-mounted remote controlled cable TV on and tuned in to HGTV because they know that's my favorite at that time of day.

They start the IV and after two hours of visiting and catching up, I get to go home. I schedule my next infusion for exactly eight weeks later and so the cycle begins again.

This afternoon I will be very tired and sleepy. Tomorrow, I will begin to regain some of my strength and most of the symptoms will begin to subside. By Wednesday, I should be good to go. Mostly, when it it is time for my infusions it's like a little bump in the road, but this time, I've had more symptoms earlier. Who knows why?

By Thanksgiving, I'll be refueled, recharged, rested and ready. Bring it on!

Gaining Respect

Ironically, yesterday's blog was about losing respect. After last night's football game, there is a new-found respect for the Hamilton High School Bulldog Football program.

As the 3rd place team out of District 21-AA, we played the #1 Defending State Champions, the Mart Panthers at Glen Rose ISD stadium. Probably no one gave our Bulldogs a chance. After all, we were the 3rd place team in our district. After all, they were the #1 team in the State. After all, they won the State Championship last year. After all, they presumably had the best quarterback in all 2-A football. However, they didn't have the winning score. We did, 43 to 21.

Mart had won 23 straight games entering the contest. With that being said, they probably had not been behind in many if any of those games. Our Bulldogs came out and scored hastily on a 65-yard touchdown run. We made the two point conversion. Quickly, we scored again and held a 15-0 lead. That may have been our saving grace.

Knowing that Mart had several big-play offensive weapons, we were uneasy. At halftime, the score was 29-13. We thought that after the intermission, adjustments would be made and we might be in trouble. That was not the case.

We just kept running up the gut gaining 4 or 5 yards per carry and wearing down their defense. We controlled the ball for 34:04 of the 48:00 minutes in the game. That is a coaching success.

Mart’s fans began leaving the stands at the beginning of the fourth quarter with the score 36-13. To me, that says a lot.

My hat is off to Chris Wilde, Sonny Galindo and the entire coaching staff for putting together such a wonderful game plan. Our Bulldogs executed well and only made one mistake (a fumble) which they quickly reversed just two or three plays later by intercepting the ball.

Our Bulldogs played with an intensity I’ve not seen this season. They WANTED this win. They didn’t leave anything on the sidelines. They played their hearts out on the field and it showed. We haven’t had the pass coverage in previous games that we had in this game. It was awesome. We intercepted 2 passes and hauled in catches that we might otherwise not have.

There were no injuries to our players and I am sothankful for that. Our boys ran for the locker room immediately after the school song not realizing that the Bi-District trophy was to be presented. They had to come back to the field to accept it. It was kinda cute. I guess that the excitement overtook them.

I know the heart that our Bulldogs showed reinforced my respect and I suspect much of the state of Texas, as well.

Good job, Dogs! Way to go, you’re number one!

We play Corrigan-Camden on Friday night at 7:30 at Sam Houston State University in Huntsville. I can’t wait!

The respect that our Hamilton Bulldogs have gained was totally earned—one play at a time.

Losing Respect

There is a sadness that accompanies losing respect for someone. I think it is because I’ve learned that the person does not possess the character that I thought they did. Maybe it’s the disappointment in acknowledging that my previous admiration was based on imperfection. Seeing the chink in the armor disheartens me.

Viewsonic

I have a little mischief in me. I get it from my Papa Johnnie. He had it, too.

I love to pick at people. Freshmen are really fun to trick. They haven’t already seen or heard my little pranks so they are easy targets.

A couple of years ago, I scooted a computer monitor and a little piece of the hard plastic stayed behind. It was slightly rounded on the front edge. It had little handles that protruded out much like ear pieces. For all the world, it looked like a little 3-D viewer that we used to have. It was emblazoned with “VIEWSONIC” across the front.

As one might expect, I picked it up and looked at it wondering what I could do with it. It was absolutely useless. It was just a piece of hard plastic and it didn't move or anything. Then, it struck me.

I held it up to my eyes pretending to look into it. I’d “Ooh” and “Ahh” and giggle while swaying back and forth. I sold the idea that I was looking at something inside.

The little freshmen would walk up and say “I want to see.” I’d hand it to them and immediately pretend that I had some other work to do so that my face was turned the other way. They’d turn it every which way and look it over really well. Then, invariably, they’d ask, “How does this thing work?”

I’d try to contain my laughter, but usually, I’d have to turn around and laugh my hardest. I had “gotten” them to fall for the hoax.

If I was really lucky, the other kids in the room would not be paying attention and later they’d ask to see it, too. I’d get to use it over and over during the class period and I’d get to laugh every time.

Ahhh... the mischief.

Tom Cat

In order to fully appreciate this story, you must have some background information. I am gullible, particularly when it comes to my older brother, Rick. I have always believed whatever he told me. This is also probably the time that I should tell you that he has a little mischief in him, too.

Another thing you have to know is that I don’t like cats and, therefore, I don’t know much about them. When I was a little girl, Mom told me I couldn’t have a cat because it would give me diphtheria. I didn’t know what diphtheria was, but I knew I didn’t want it.

Only one time was I ever around a cat as a child. My grandmother, in a weak moment, took in a Siamese cat named Sam. He was the meanest cat I have ever been around. He would lie in wait for me to walk through her living room and he would spring from the back of her blue rocker onto my back and hang there while I frantically tried to get him off. Not only did he scare me to death, but his claws also hurt when they dug into my skin. After much soul-searching, Grandmother gave the cat to a mean little neighbor boy and Sam was even too despicable for him. Right then and there, I began to loathe cats, especially little baby ones (but that’s another story).

You must also know that Rick and I rode the bus home from school every afternoon. We would get home at least a couple of hours before the rest of the family.

During those hours, we would have homework and a few chores to do, but then we could go outside and have fun. On this specific day, I caught my bay horse, Buck, and saddled him up. Rick went to the barn to groom Axtell, his show heifer.

As I began my afternoon ride, I spotted a big, brown fuzzy cat that didn’t have a tail. Because I was curious about cats, I immediately called it to Rick’s attention.

I asked him, “Hey, Rick, what kind of cat is that anyway?”

He replied that it was a barn cat. Usually those kinds of answers would shut me up and then he could go on about his business, but not this time. I wanted to know why that cat didn’t have a tail.

Rick said, “Well, he’s a cross between a Tom cat and a bobcat and the bobcat is the daddy. That’s why he has a short tail.”

“Hmmm. Okay. He looks funny, though.” I said.

That pretty much ended our exchange about the brown, fuzzy cat with no tail for that day.

The next day at school, I ate lunch next to Mrs. Willis, my fifth grade teacher. Of course, that was the preferential seat. Since she had taught Rick when he was in fifth grade, I thought I’d amuse her with my brown, fuzzy short-tail barn cat story. I retold it exactly as it occurred.

She smiled and sweetly asked, “Who told you that?”

I replied, “My brother, Rick.”

“I see,” she said. “I understand.”

That was the end of our conversation concerning the cat story.

That night at the supper table, I proudly told Mom and Dad the tale about the barn cat. They shot looks across the table to one another. At first they just snickered, but before long they began laughing profusely. I’d been snookered again.

They quickly explained what a Tom cat was and how it couldn’t be the barn cat’s mother. I was so embarrassed. I had told my teacher that story with a straight face.

Rick slapped his leg and laughed uncontrollably. One would have thought that I would never believe anything else he ever told me, but that was not the case. To this day, I have to look him right in the eye to detect any little gleam to see if he is telling me the truth or not. I just don’t repeat them anymore until I check them out.

Daylight Savings Time

Daylight Savings Time is the bomb. Central Standard Time stinks. As with most people, I just wish that we’d stay with one or the other. I enjoy the Daylight Savings Time best. As my body ages (no comments), the time change affects me more and more.

As a child, I never noticed. As a teen, I treasured the extra hour of sleep when we’d change the clock. As a young adult, I began to notice that I’d have a little blip when the time changed. As an older adult, I curse the day we roll back or spring our clocks forward because I know that weeks will have to go by before I recover.

I am in recovery mode right now. I was well-adjusted to my daily routine after school started. Now, I’m sleepy as soon as it gets dark and I don’t want to wake up in the morning. That makes for a miserable day.

Maybe I need to petition the time changers to make up their minds one way or the other and just leave it alone. Since I don’t even know who they are, though, it will be difficult, but worth the effort.

Aspen

The first time that we went to the Colorado Rockies, I fell in love with the Aspen trees. Their leaves quake like little silver dollars in the rustling wind. I would sit and watch them and they would mesmerize me. I even like the sound of their name—Aspen.

About three weeks ago, my husband and I decided to get a new vehicle. We have driven a quad cab pickup for nine years, but we felt it was time for a change. Because we no longer need a pickup, we determined that an SUV would better suit our needs.

We fell for the Chrysler version of the SUV. After making the deal, we drove it home. The ride is exceptionally smooth—nary a bump and absolutely no road noise. The Alpine sound system is amazing. Number 6 on the Sirius satellite radio plays 60’s hits.

It has dozens of little gadgets and settings to personalize it. Selecting the entertainment is hands-free because the controls are on the steering wheel.

The inside lights are amazing. They are soft blue and create a calm ambience. It seats eight passengers comfortably and has a bonus cargo space.

Traveling home in our new ride with the hits softly playing and the cool air blowing, my daughter said, “Mom riding in here is like a little vacation.”

It’s by far the nicest vehicle we have ever owned. We can’t believe our good fortune. When my daughter mentioned a vacation, it occurred to me. My new car is an Aspen. Just as the Aspen leaves fascinated me years ago, so does our new car now.

Rewards

In the teaching profession, there are many rewards. The salary is certainly not enough. However, the rapport I build with my students is.

Today, I received a college graduation invitation for the December commencement at Texas State University. The former student who sent it to me “chose” me early on. By that I mean that when he was a freshman in high school, he began his business track intending to complete it. He chose to take every course that I taught while he was in high school.

His mom told me one time how much he enjoyed my classes and how he loved me. Until then, I really hadn’t noticed, but I decided to take note from then on.

Every time he entered my classroom, his face would light up and he’d flash that toothy grin, then my face would reciprocate. He seemed so eager to please. He worked hard and made good grades.

During football season, he’d beg me to come to watch him play junior varsity football.

If you’ve ever been to a JV football game, you know just how exciting they are. . . not. However, remembering what his mother had told me, I’d unenthusiastically go to the home JV games just to watch him because it seemed to mean so much to him. He’d always know whether or not I was really there. I guess he looked up in the stands, but I never really noticed.

The day after he’d ask, “Did you see me tackle that guy?”

Of course, I’d say “Yeah. I did. Good job.”

The next year, he played varsity football. He played on offense every play and sometimes on defense. He was a good player, but he didn’t get a lot of recognition mostly because of his position.

At the end of every game, when we’d gather to sing the school song, he’d search through the crowd in the stands to make sure that I was there. Whenever he found me, he’d lift his helmet up and down by the face mask three or four times and grin widely as if to say, “Hi. I see you. I’m glad you’re here.”

I don’t really know why he “chose” me, but he did. At first, I was only somewhat honored, but as time passed and I saw how much my being present at his football games meant to him, I embraced the task.

By the time his junior and senior years rolled around, he insisted that I wear his photo button. Of course, I wore it proudly. He never passed me in the hallway without calling my name so I’d notice him. It was always followed quickly by a big hug and smile.

The night he graduated from high school, he sought me out of the crowd and gave me a big, long-lasting hug and told me how much he would miss me and how much he appreciated me supporting him. Even though he was a “big old boy”, he teared up. I have to add that I did, too, because although I had been bewildered by this bond, I could not deny that it existed.

Whenever he would return home from college, he’d look me up just to catch me up on what he was doing and how he was progressing. It has taken him almost five years to complete his college education, but he persevered. I know that he will succeed in whatever he undertakes because he sets and reaches his goals.

I’m so proud of him. He’s grown into a fine young man. I know his Mom is proud, too. Knowing and teaching him was one of my best rewards.

The A & D Class

Several years ago, I had my first A & D class. It was the middle of the three afternoon classes. This class consisted of thirteen students (that should have been my first clue that they were A & D). There were ten boys and three girls. All of the girls had the same first name (that should have been my next clue), but the girls were very docile.

The boys were freshmen and sophomores who came to my class following either freshman athletics or an Ag class (that was my third clue).

So that you can picture the atmosphere, know that all the students had eaten lunch, gone to their next class where they exerted their gross motor skills. Next they entered the typing class where they were expected to settle down and use their fine motor skills on the keyboard.

Back then, my class was a normal temperature, not the ice house it is today. So, like any small child, they had been fed, they were tired, the room was warm, and the sleep-bug had bitten.

If you will remember, I called them my A & D class which means they were Armed and Dangerous. I never turned my back on them. I never smiled. I was strict and rigid and demanded compliance.

That was the only way that all fourteen of us could survive that 50-minute class period.

On this one particular day, I introduced the formatting of business letters. I used an overhead to project the image of a sample letter onto the white screen. As the little soldiers that I demanded them to be were seated, they put their books on their stands and placed them to the right of their keyboard. They had paper in their typewriters. Most were sitting at attention.

I taught them how many times to press the return key to place the date at the top of the letter. I explained what the inside (or mailing) address was and stressed its importance. We talked about how to space the paragraphs in the body of the letter. The complimentary closing details went well, too. Then, I got to the writer’s name and initials.

The writer’s name and title on this specific letter was

Ms. Lorna K. Ryan, Principal. Below her name and title, the students were to place their initials as the typist. The closing lines would look something like this.

Sincerely yours,

Lorna K. Ryan

Principal

xx

I repeated the placement several times. “Type the Complimentary closing, return four times, type the writer’s name, Lorna K. Ryan, return, type Principal, return twice and put your initials.”

Now, I’ve related to you the class atmosphere and that they were a rowdy bunch. However, on this actual day, one male student was very, very sleepy. He had great big cow eyes and protruding front teeth. He would blink and blink to try to stay awake probably because he feared my wrath.

After I had made my presentation of the business letter, I asked if anyone had any questions. The boy slowly raised his hand. I’m sure that because he was sleepy and because he was a little nervous, he became tongue tangled. Instead of asking me where to put his initials, he asked, “Mrs. Andrews, where did you say to put your nipples?”

Just before exiting, I noticed a little freshman sitting in the middle row. His eyes were wide with panic. He looked side to side at the other kids. He suspected that I was about to “kill” that little boy.

Needless to say, I was aghast. I feigned anger. I slammed a book down on my desk. Huffed and quickly stomped from the room. Once outside, however, I slammed the door and immediately doubled over with laughter. I couldn’t help it. That was the funniest thing that a student had ever asked me.

Since I never had let them see me smile nor laugh, I couldn’t let my guard down now. I must maintain the façade. When I returned to the classroom, I called the offender’s name and asked him to see me after class.

He sheepishly approached my desk. Privately, I giggled and told him “Thank you.” Puzzled, he looked at me and said, “What for?” I replied that he had given me the very best student story ever. I said, “Just know that when you see me around town and I wave to you and smile that I am thinking about this incident. Also, if you see me talking to someone and you are around, then I’m telling them this story. I plan on telling everybody far and wide what you said. I’ll remember it for the rest of my life and every time I think of it, I will belly laugh. For that, I am truly grateful because I realize that laughter is the best medicine.”

My Daddy Loved Everything Fowl

Yes, it’s true. Dad loved all birds. His favorites were chickens. When he was a little boy, chickens were his playmates. He was an only child and his family lived way out in the sticks where the hoot owls die of the blues. So, his chickens entertained him.

I remember we had a big chicken calendar (probably 2’ x 3’ or larger) on our wall that he had gotten from a hatchery. There were pictures of all variety of chickens. Some were domestic and some were exotic. Over the years, I think he must have had a plan to collect one of each kind.

I can remember when he and my brother fixed up some pens for his assortment on the river place. He had regular pigeons, powder (pouter) puff pigeons, fan tail pigeons, pheasants, doves, peacocks, ducks, geese, guineas, quails, turkeys, and several species of chickens: Plymouth Rock, Rhode Island Red, Brahmas, Wyandotte, Leghorns, Bantams (known to us as banties), Domineckers, Silkies, Fighting Games, and Naked Necks, to name a few. Some had feathered legs, top knots, beards, crowns, and other had spurs. It was an amusing mix.

Whenever he gathered the eggs, it looked almost like an Easter basket. The eggs were white, brown, green, and beige. We were not allowed to touch them. He sorted through them and kept most to hatch out, but he also gave some to Mom to cook with.

We used to laugh and say that Dad loved his chickens more than he did his kids. He was very, very fussy about the birds. They were fed special feed and he checked them every day. The same cannot be said for his kids.

He would raise chickens for us to eat. I always hated the days when we had to dress the chickens at the big house. Dad, Mom, and the boys would wring their necks and they would flop all over the yard. They would make me pick one up by the feet and hold it upside down so that they could skin it. I won’t go into all of the gross details here, but suffice it to say that I was completely disgusted with my job.

In the lean years, we’d eat chicken for just about every meal (or at least it seemed like it). To this day, one brother and my mom can hardly stomach chicken. I remember the year that we had a bumper crop of potatoes. I was in third grade. From my grammar school photos, you can see the change in my face from one year to the next because we had fried chicken and mashed potatoes almost every day. Plump was an understatement.

There was the time that the boys had friends over to spend the night. I knew that they were up to something because of all the giggling they were doing. They had found some of Whitey and Ma’s moonshine up the road under a rock. Although they wanted to try it, none were brave enough. So, they got the idea to soak it in a piece of bread and feed it to one of Dad’s roosters.

That old rooster ran off all the hens and began to peck the saturated bread all by himself. He’d peck and peck and then raise his head and look around. He repeated this until all the bread was gone.

He stumbled from the yard to the top of our cellar. That rooster was drunk. He tried to crow and all he could manage was “Rrr……rrr….rr…r..eerrr”. It was a pitiful sound. He’d try to flap his wings, but they wouldn’t obey. His wings simply slapped instead of flapping.

Before too long, that rooster was dead. Oops! We knew that trouble lay ahead. The boys were embarrassed because they knew the ruckus that Dad would raise and that their friends would witness it.

Where we lived, we could hear Dad coming home about a mile away. He drove like a bat out of Hades and we’d hear the old car rattling up and down the hills hitting every bump and rock in the road. We heard the motor and then the rattling getting closer and closer. They panicked. What were they going to tell Dad happened to his rooster? So, they picked him up and quickly ran to the barn and threw him in.

Because we had lots of chickens, Dad didn’t miss that rooster at first. The boys stayed mum. Of course, I didn’t breathe a word either.

The next day, Dad found the dead rooster. He wondered what had happened to him since he didn’t have a mark on him. No animal had killed him. He was a young rooster. What could have caused his premature demise?

Not one of us kids speculated. We just kept our lips zipped.

It was Dad’s custom to dispose of the dead chickens by putting their limp (or crisp) bodies on the fender of the car or pickup and whizzing down the road really fast. When he got to just the right spot where he wanted to ditch the chicken, he’d slam on the brakes and the corpse would go flying off.

It wasn’t until Dad was on his death bed that my brothers finally confessed as to what had happened to that rooster. Dad forgave them, but I was surprised.

Profits

On Saturday, we held our garage sale. My daughter, my friend, and I purged our homes of unneeded items to offer others a chance to stock their closets with our castoffs. Funny, that’s exactly what we do whenever we shop at garage sales. This time, though, we made a large profit from our second-hand goods.

I made five times more at this garage sale than at my last one. Not a bad percentage rate, but still not necessarily enough to warrant the hard work it takes to hold one. If I kept up with the hours of preparation and restoration it most certainly wouldn’t be worth it. However, if I tally the pleasure I receive from visiting with customers, both friends and strangers, I find the reward much greater.

My daughter made more than three times what I did. She worked hard to earn it, but it really made a difference in her closet space and in her pocketbook.

Our friend’s goal was to make enough to buy her son a television for his room that he could play his video games on. She met her goal and cleaned out some of her things, as well.

What we didn’t sell, we donated to a local family down on their luck. They were very appreciative and it filled us with joy to see their faces as they graciously accepted our offerings.

In retrospect, although the garage sale was tiring, the profits outweighed the drawbacks.

New Computers and other stuff

I am so pumped. Today, the technology girls installed 24 brand new student workstations in my business lab. They are all Dell computers with flat screen monitors. They have laser mice and snazzy keyboards. They are small and black and look so sleek.

The kids and I can't wait until we get to use them tomorrow. Last week, I went through each program and made all the necessary selections for opening the initial programs and I customized the toolbars for easy navigation and editing. The tech crew also added some new programs and updated others to newer versions.

With my old computers being 4 and 1/2 years old, working with them was like driving a standard transmission Beetle. Now, the new computers, are like driving the information highway in a Cadillac!

Also today, our maintenance man installed new hand sanitizer dispensers. One student gave me some candy corn and another student gave me a sucker from her trick-or-treating stash. It just doesn't get any better than that!

It doesn't take much to make me happy, does it?