Canon Fodder

I read a disturbing article by Casey Cep in The New Yorker a few days ago.  It examined some of the history behind Harper Lee's father, the autobiographical inspiration for Atticus Finch.  A lot of articles about To Kill a Mockingbird have been published lately in reaction to the opening of the play on Broadway with Jeff Daniels in the Gregory Peck role.  This article, however, did not come to praise Atticus, but to bury him.  Wait.  That's an exaggeration.  The article, "Power of Attorney," showed that Lee's portrayal of her father was, to put it mildly, idealized.  Lee's father may have started out as a liberal Democrat, but he ended up applauding the prosecution of the Scottsboro Boys and even joining a thinly veiled chapter of the Klan as a reaction to Brown vs. Board of Education.

But that was not the most troubling part of the piece.  Cep suggested that Mockingbird "is now a kind of secular scripture, one of only a handful of texts most Americans have in common."  I find it incredibly depressing that Mockingbird would be the text most Americans have read.  I read it as a junior high kid and I taught it to freshmen.  It was readable, occasionally clever, filled with great speeches and as such, easy to teach.  But I didn't like the whole idea of a wise and wonderful white father figure helping a poor black guy.  My favorite line in Cep's article is when she suggests that the real tragedy for the white readers of the book isn't that a black man dies, but that a white man loses his case.

But that's enough about the book.  The other troubling thing is the whole idea of a literary Canon that Americans should share.  It used to be just accepted in department meetings and college classrooms that there are some books that simply should be read.  Of course, we couldn't agree on what those books might be, but it was fun to talk about.  Toward the end of my career, that changed.  I know I'm beginning to sound like an old curmudgeon, the kind of person I went into education to overthrow, but I noticed that in department meetings with baby teachers, the idea of a Canon was anathema.  Kids should be allowed to choose their books.  That's the only way to get them interested. Blah, blah, blah.

I argued for the value of reading assigned books as a class precisely because I believed in and continue to believe in the idea of a Canon.  Even if the idea is absurd, reading books in concert with others fosters critical thinking and that's what I was trying to teach.  As a literature teacher, I think a lot of the tribalization of our country is because we have lost sight of a Canon.  What follows is a list of books that are my nominees for inclusion in the Canon.

First, some rules.  I'm a literature teacher, so my choices will all be fiction.  Since this is a list of books we all should have under our belts, the reading level can never rise above the eighth grade (Most published books are at that level anyway.).  My choices may not have footnotes or bibliographies.  That pretty much eliminates David Foster Wallace and all works by Thomas Pynchon.  My choices will obviously be limited to American authors.  Most importantly, my choices are simply that.  My choices.  However, I think the world would be a better place if we all, like one giant book club, read them over coffee and cookies.

THE EGG AND I - Betty McDonald
-Both my mother and grandmother insisted I read this very funny little book.  I was only about nine or ten, so my memory is sketchy, but it is about the trials and tribulations a lady has running her chicken farm and her family.  It made me laugh and if I was being pompous I could say that it gave me a rudimentary understanding of life in rural America.

A TREE GROWS IN BROOKLYN - Betty Smith
-I read this about the same time I read McDonald's book and for the same reason:  Mother and grandmother twisting my arm.  To this day it is one of the funniest books I  have ever read.  It does for life in the big city what the first book does for the farm.

THE LORAX - Dr. Seuss
-This is just the most obvious choice to list, but I think all of Dr. Seuss should be included on the list. There is just no way that Donald Trump and the rest of the Republicans in Washington have read any of Dr. Seuss' work.  Instead of starting congressional sessions with the pledge, wouldn't we all be better off if they all did a choral reading of Green Eggs and Ham?  I would also include here the complete oeuvre of Pete the Cat.

THE SCARLET LETTER - Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN - Mark Twain
THE GREAT GATSBY - F. Scott Fitzgerald
-I list these together because they are the obvious choices on any Canon of American literature.  Furthermore, I don't need to say why.  I might want to include something by Sinclair Lewis here, or Hemingway.  The names are all familiar and, for canonical purposes, pretty much interchangeable.

MY LIFE AND HARD TIMES - James Thurber
-I think our drearily exceptional country is suffering from a lack of wit.  No one is better at wit than Thurber, plus his collection of pithy stories make great humor pieces to read if you ever find yourself in a forensics tournament.  As long as we are being witty, I would strongly suggest Phillip Roth.  I just didn't think it would be appropriate to put Portnoy's Complaint in a Canon.

THE BLUEST EYE - Toni Morrison
-Her most accessible and maybe most beautiful novel.  Morrison has to be on the list not only because she speaks so movingly and with such authority about race, but because she writes better sentences than anybody.

CIDERHOUSE RULES - John Irving
-Irving's best novel.  It, like everything he has written, is an epic that explores moral issues that need exploring.  We need to make our own rules rather than ignore the ones written by others.

CATCH-22 - Joseph Heller
-This is the most difficult book to read on my list.  It is also funny, violent, sexy, horrifying, and hopelessly confusing.  Just like life.

TRAVELS WITH CHARLEY - John Steinbeck
-The quintessential book about America.  It is also a great book to read by the fire.  I would add here that this book violates my all fiction rule.  So sue me.

INVISIBLE MAN - Ralph Ellison
-A monumental piece of writing that also happens to chronicle racial tensions in the mid-twentieth century.

Okay.  There could be more women on this list.  More black authors.  I don't have a single hispanic author!  I could always go back and add some, but that would be cheating.  The south is under represented, but most southern novels I know are above the reading ability of lots of folks.  I don't think Faulkner would be a good choice here.  You will notice that To Kill a Mockingbird is nowhere on my list.

This is Katherine so don't be confused.  Now and then I hijack Jim's place here and write something.  This is one of those days.

I've polished off another bunch of books and thought I'd do some quick reviews while I can still remember the books.  Nothing inspirational today.

1.  Thinking Fast and Slow, Daniel Kahneman, Non-fiction. The first half of the book covers the psychology of System 1 (intuitive and speedy) and System 2 (analytical and lazy). The last part of the book connects to economics.  People prefer to avoid losses more than they seek gains.  Kahneman's work suggests people are reasonable, but not rational because their thinking lacks consistency (go figure). Libertarians vote based on the idea that we all will behave reasonably and that economic "nudges" in policy will drive rational thought. The book uses things like seat belt laws and social security as examples of policy increasing rational thought.  I learned some things, but the second half about economics was tedious for me. There's a lot of conservative rationalization in how the author argues for policy to limit safety nets for struggling folks. The writer is a prize-winning economist so I'm thinking if conservative economics are your thing, go for it.  It's several years old so I bet you can find it on sale. One more note, this book is in stark contrast to the psychology book I'm reading now (Why Buddhism is True) which says people are driven by evolutionary needs and we prefer pleasure because it is so fleeting.  Two Stars.

2.  The Monk of Mokah, Dave Eggers, Non-fiction.  Jim read this one after I did, but got a review up first.  His is more thorough.  I loved this book about an American son of Yemeni immigrants who returns to his country to try and create a great coffee from his homeland. He wants to restore Yemeni coffee to its glory days. Moktar (our hero) goes from being a San Francisco doorman to a successful brewer of specialty coffee. I learned about Yemen (war torn, but lovely in the mountains), coffee (how to grow and sort and roast and taste it), and the determination of this child of immigrants. Loved the book.  Four Stars.

3.  The Possessed, Elif Shafik, Non-fiction (I think). This seems to be a non-fiction book about a graduate student studying Russian Literature. She explores the lives and books of the Russian greats while mastering the language. Like me, she believes in the power of literature to heal and to pull you into so much more than a story.  Her life moves between books, boyfriends, campuses, and Russian landscapes. Her insights into Russian Lit are intriguing and make the tragic nature of it all more real and understandable.  I learned stuff and she writes good sentences. Not sure this is for everyone and I only picked it up because I read Anna Karenina not too long ago. I was sad this book never really discussed Tolstoy. Three Stars.

4. Birding Without Borders, Noah Strycker, Non-Fiction. I bought this book more to review the geography of the world rather than to learn about birds.  I learned so much about both, but the true lessons were about how wonderful people are all over the world and how much they will try to help you.  It made me feel sad about all the travel fears our country promotes and our fears of being any place without the comforts of home.  Sträcker moves through the world at a breathtaking pace notching off bird sightings (always confirmed by another viewer for verification's sake).  In each flight from one dinky spot to the next, local guides showed up when and where Strycker needed them and created miniature friendships. The geography and birds were both wondrous and Strycker limits what he shares perfectly. I really liked this book.  Four Stars.

5.  Many Lives, Many Masters, Brian Weiss, Non-fiction. Another psychology book. Our lives have messages and we just might not really know or understand what those messages are.  Weiss, a psychiatrist, leads a troubled patient, Catherine, through about 12 of her 86 previous lives.  He learns our lives have lessons and debts and we return to other lives for learning and repaying debts. Paying a debt can take many forms--living the type of life you imposed on another, dying the way you killed someone, or helping to guide another through a life from a different dimension as some sort of guardian angel. Most lessons are about overcoming greed, lust, and violence and evolving to unselfishness, love, charity and hope.  There is nothing religious in the book, but it feels very Buddhist to me. I read it on the advice of Terry Connell, a friend and acupuncturist,  I'd felt a real presence in the room when he treated me once and he told me about the book.  There is more about that, but not now:)  Four Stars.

6. The Fortunate Ones, Ellen Unmansky. Fiction.  This one reminded me a bit of The Goldfinch because it explores the power of art and how owning a great piece of art can change you. In fact the book talks about how art and history (both personal and of the world) change you.  The story covers how two women of two different generations each owned a famous painting (a fictional painting credited to Chaim Soutine). Rose's mother owned and loved the painting and it was lost to the Nazi's along with most of her family in Vienna. Lizzie, a hip California lawyer, threw a teenage party in the 60's the night the same painting was stolen from her father's house. When the two women meet and discover their connection, a lovely friendship blooms.  A good book.  Three Stars.

7. Bring the War Home, Kathleen Belew, Non-Fiction.   This is a powerful account of the growth of the while supremacy movement from the Viet Nam War until the Oklahoma City Bombing by Timothy McVeigh. The data is overwhelming.  The book documents the outrage of some Viet Nam vets and the growth of single-cell organization that made all the violence seem to be lone wolf behavior. Anti-abortion is the preservation of the white race and many defense positions were based on "protecting white women" who were complicit in the violence.  The theft from military bases (weapons), the use of the internet, the ability to recruit evangelicals and skinheads, and the fury over Ruby Ridge and Waco drive the movement.  Now we have Donald Trump.  A powerful and important book.  Not happy. Also Kathleen was a former student. We both are so incredibly proud. Four Stars.

8.  The Disappeared. C. J. Box. Fiction.  Joe Pickett books (he's a Wyoming game ranger) are my guilty pleasures. There's one a year. They aren't great, but he's covered all of Wyoming and I love learning the nooks and crannies of that state.  This one sends Joe to Saratoga to look for a missing British lady who vanished after a stay at a guest ranch.  Nate Romanowski and his falcons come into play in the story and I always enjoy that. He' a vicious good guy:) I like this one until the end.  There was no end. Now I wait until May for the next book.  C. J. Box just lost a star for that.  Two Stars.

9.  Less, Andrew Sean Greer, Fiction. Cindy Fite recommended this one.  I liked it.  The book follows Arthur Less around the world as he nears his 50th birthday.  Less is feeling low and lost.  He lover (Freddy and the ultimate narrator) has left him and Less is traveling the world to heal his wounds. Less thinks about loss, writing, grief, love, and age. He learns everybody does really like him.  It's a nice book.  Three Stars.

10.  An Odyssey, Daniel Mendelsohn, Non-Fiction.  A classics professor invites his father to audit his seminar reading The Odyssey. The book combines thoughtful literary criticism of Homer's work.  I thought about the meaning of words, the nature of heroes, the importance of recognition, and marriage. There were lots of times the book made me think about Jim and I as we age. The later part of the book, Mendelsohn takes his father on a cruise that supposedly retraces the Odyssey and ends all too naturally with the father's death.  I loved this book.  I even briefly thought about re-reading the Odyssey.  Four Stars.

11.  The Escape Artist, Brad Meltzer, Fiction.  I don't know why I bought the book.  Then I read the whole book.  I know I read a review that indicated it was about the history of the artists who work for the army and draw battle scenes and that intrigued me.  A character does that, but this is a pulp fiction, government conspiracy, silly short chapter book that I'm ashamed I read even though it was a big best seller.  Sometimes I wish I knew how to just quit reading a book.  I just can't do it though.  One Star.

That's it.  I managed 21 books last year.  I count:)

Aesthetic Distance

This country has a problem with maintaining aesthetic distance.  Let me explain.  I'm a literaturist.  That is another way of saying I am a retired English teacher.  As an English teacher, I tried to teach my students that in order to evaluate and write about literature (Art) they must first manage to distance themselves from the work.  They must allow themselves to be arrested by the work.  That's what Beauty does; that's what Truth does.  They make the viewers of Art step back and look at the work as it is frozen in time and space.

One must shed all preconceptions, all history, all expectations in order to fully appreciate the work in question.  Without the aesthetic distance, the meaning of the work is informed by the viewer instead of the work itself.  You see examples of this all the time.  There was a woman at Jenny Lake once who was appalled to find me reading Cormac McCarthy's THE CROSSING because it was cruel to wolves and she happened to love wolves.  I've had a few female students and female friends who could not deal with CATCH-22 because Yossarian treated women like objects.  Some folks complain about HUCK FINN because it peppers its pages with the N word.

I can't abide the reader who has to stop half way through a book because it makes him uncomfortable.  You know, the attitude that says "I can't read OLD YELLER because I once had a dog who died."  "I can't watch SCHINDLER'S LIST because I lost my grandmother in The Holocaust."  "I can't watch MY COUSIN VINNIE because my cousin used to drive a Cadillac just like that before he got hit by a train."  "I can't watch SISTER ACT because the nuns at my  Catholic school were mean to me."

Sometimes we should look at moments of Beauty, Truth, and Clarity as exactly what they are: isolated moments that make us sit up and take notice, that make us say "Wow!  I wish I had created that."

Look at MADAME BOVARY for example.  There is that horrible scene where Emma's bumbling husband Charles is talked into making Homais' club foot all better.  The snapping of Homais' Achilles  Tendon is one of the most powerful scenes I've ever read.  I cringe.  I get angry.  I feel sorry for Homais.  I feel sorry for Charles.  I know this is not going to end well.  I feel all those things because that is exactly what Flaubert wants me to feel.  But mostly I feel elation.  Elation that a member of my species could create something that moving.  That is what I mean by aesthetic distance.  It was the way I felt when I saw my first opera (MIDSUMMER NIGHT DREAM - Benjamin Britton).  I didn't get offended because I used to dream about strange stuff.  I just got transfixed, arrested.

Maintaining aesthetic distance is also important in negotiating daily life, especially given the tribalism that characterizes so much of what we do lately.  For instance, we all learned the other day that Trump didn't go to Arlington on Memorial Day.  The reactions on social media and main stream media were immediate and completely informed by partisan rancor, revenge, vindication, and the entire history of presidential behavior.  "Obama went every year!"  "So what if it was raining, here is a picture of Kennedy standing in the rain."  "Our soldiers don't get to stay home if it is raining."  "Just another example of Trump thinking only of himself."  Etc.

Wouldn't it be better if we just treated that action, or inaction, like what it was, an isolated moment that really doesn't mean much?  Maybe he had a good reason.  Why should we care?

And the real problem with this dearth of aesthetic distancing is that humor depends on it.  If I watch a Three Stooges movie and end up worrying through the whole thing that Moe is being unfair to Curly, that Curly must really feel pain when Moe keeps slapping him, that one of them could get seriously hurt and put an eye out, I'm probably going to miss the humor of the whole thing.  It follows that if I look at the world through the filter of my causes, my certainties, my outrages, my VICTIMHOOD, I'm going to miss a nuance or two.

Remember the NEW YORKER cover when Obama first won the presidency?  Barack and Michelle, dressed in Muslim garb, are laughing and fist bumping each other.  I was up at Jenny when the magazine first came out and Michael, the assistant manager, came breathlessly up to me to show me the outrageous image.  My daughter, Obama's trip director, was similarly outraged.  But that's because they were not able to maintain an aesthetic distance from the issue.  I had not made the same investment into Obama that my daughter had and I was able to see it for the rather brilliant piece of satire it was.

I'm afraid that seeing things for the brilliant satire they present is no longer a wise move in today's America.  As a recipient of White Male Privilege, my opinions about a wealth of things no longer matter.  I can weigh in on #MeToo only at great risk.  Since I am not a woman, since I haven't been systematically put down and made to feel inferior, I have no right to an opinion.  It is just like the white artist who created a powerful image of Emmit Till until the museum was forced to take it down.  White artists have no right to comment on the travails of black people.

I truly believe it is possible to "walk a mile in another person's moccasins" through the pages of a book, through a lifetime of learning to be empathetic.  I almost think it is more possible.  Sometimes baggage just gets in the way.

Hey, Why The Long Face

I got into one of those dumb Facebook wars yesterday.  Katherine keeps telling me not to engage, but I am just too immature to resist.  The situation in a nutshell:  Katie Hoffman, one of my all time favorite people, posted that some strange man had told her to smile and it pissed her off.  I understand her reaction completely.  I hate to smile, always have.  I'm 70 years old and the years of smoking, drinking coffee and red wine, plus deteriorating 70 year old enamel, have made me ashamed of my smile.  Don't worry.  I'll cope.  Anyway, the strange man was being rather presumptuous to tell some stranger to smile.  Katie should have told  him to fuck off and gone about her business.

Katie's post gave me no problems, but the stream of reactions struck me as being all out of proportion to the actual event Katie described.  It was typical of a culture that systematically hurts women, a bunch of folks said.  It was just another indication that women have to make themselves look pretty for men.  It was a sexual assault.  The anger, outrage, and fury were evident throughout and I thought it was a little silly, so I made a typical, for me, smart ass comment.  I mentioned that strange women and men have asked me to smile from time to time during my seventy years and I never felt condescension; I just assumed they were coming on to me.  I also suggested that a possible solution to the problem would be to look happy while walking down the street.  Finally, I mentioned that Katherine and I used to give bonus F's to kids who didn't smile and look happy in class.

I was mostly trying to reduce the arguments on the stream to the absurdities they were, but all hell broke loose.  A few of the ladies on the stream were more than a little outraged that I gave F's to kids who didn't smile.  Let me explain.  Sophomore Language Arts offered speech and drama credit, so a big part of our curriculum was designed to meet speech objectives set by the county and the state.  It became a discussion class with an equal stress on  participation and active listening.  We would have one forced contribution discussion a week and the kids were given grades both as a group and as individuals.  If everyone in the group participated, added comments, encouraged others, and basically acted like adults having a discussion, everyone in the group got an A.  If even one person did not participate, did not encourage others, did not listen and have the kind of body language that proclaimed his/her eager cooperation, everyone in the group got an F.  We were labeled communists, terrorists, etc., but by the end of the first quarter a visitor could walk into any of our classrooms and see 25 kids sitting in a circle, maintaining eye contact, nodding, smiling, doing all those kinds of things.  Mostly, you could see 25 kids engaged and having fun.  Katherine and I were pragmatic teachers and we did whatever it took.  So sue me.

Of course, most of the outrage was directed at the fact that I was making fun of women for freaking out when someone asked them to smile.  I guess as a man, I'm not entitled to participate in a discussion centering on sexual predation.  I even had the temerity to suggest that some of the participants in the stream did not have a sense of humor.  I learned immediately that telling a woman she doesn't have a sense of  humor is the biggest sexual assault trope of all.

And then it was suggested that I did not have a sense of humor.  No sense of humor?  Moi?  Please!  So I ended my participation in the stream by offering my favorite joke as proof of my highly developed sense of humor.  You  will find it quite germane to the whole discussion:  A horse walks into a bar and the bartender says, "Hey, why the long face?"  You can easily see why my classroom was such a hotbed of jocularity.

My final reaction to all this is a question and I really wish someone would answer it without resorting to calling me names or telling me how disappointed they are in me.  One person on the stream, a former student, even said she was sad to see how sexist I had become.  Don't be sad, Bucko.  The Dems took the House.

My question:  If a man asking a woman he doesn't know to smile is sexual assault, what isn't?  In Willa's first year of preschool, I went to her school to watch her participate in a fun run.  I was standing by the course with my daughter Franny and another mother of one of Willa's classmates.  The mother was furious because on the playground the previous day some of the boys were trying to put rocks in the girls' mouths.  I suppose they were trying to get them to eat dirt.  The mother was planning to complain to the principal that Ms. Barb did not properly discipline the boys.  "It's just another example of rape culture at work," said the mother.  I'm sorry, but I think that reaction is absurd.

Okay, putting rocks in four year old mouths is tantamount to rape.  What else?  I am actually quite polite and always hold the door open for people of both genders.  When I hold the door open for a woman, is that just a way to show male condescension?  If I tell some lady, even some lady I have never seen before, that I love her hair, am I traumatizing her.  People of both genders tell Kathie they love her hair all the time.  Should she be offended by that?  Kathie was having a hard time putting our Kitchen Aid mixer together two days ago and I stepped in and did it for her without even asking.  Is that a particularly egregious example of Mansplaining?  I went with C. Fite to see Kathleen Belew's book talk at the Tattered Cover.  We had drinks and snacks in the little bar next door and I think I might have picked up the tab.  Isn't that the height of male dominance on display?

I suppose there are right ways to tell some stranger to smile.

"It's a beautiful day out there isn't it?  Doesn't it make you want to smile?"

"Smile!  It's another glorious day in Colorado!"

"Hi there.  It's a great day to be alive isn't it?  You just can't keep from smiling."

And there are wrong ways.

"Smile, goddammit.  You're depressing the hell out of everyone on the street."

"Stop being such a grouch and smile why don't you?"

"Hello!  Do you think you could smile a little instead of being such a sourpuss?"

And there are appropriate ways to respond.

"Why it is a beautiful day isn't it?"

"Thank you and let a smile be your umbrella."  (gag)

"Hey, let me show you where you can put your smile."

"Fuck you, asshole."

I'm truly sorry if I offended or disappointed anyone in that Facebook stream yesterday, but I just don't see how it is possible to conflate asking someone to smile with sexual assault.  Maybe the strange man who pissed Katie off was feeling like Dick Van Dyke and was encouraging everyone he met to "Put On A Happy Face."

Oklahoma

I played bass trombone in the pit orchestra for Loveland High School's production of OKLAHOMA.  It was in the spring of my junior year, my first year in Loveland after having grown up in Estes Park, and I was beginning to feel like I belonged.  Jack Barkley had the other trombone part primarily because our first chair trombonist was playing Will Parker.  And Will, as any lover of musicals knows, was clumsily courting Ado Annie, played by Claudia White.

Ah.  Claudia White.  She was a sophomore who was a french horn in band and a member of the NFL (National Forensics League) just like me.  Not only that, but she played Nora in A DOLL'S HOUSE in the fall and was, at least to my eyes, wonderful.  She belted out Annie's numbers and stole the show.

It was an impressive show to steal.  Laurie's soprano just soared over everything and everybody and even though Curly was shorter, his teenaged baritone was perfect for the part.  Jud was menacing.  Aunt Eller was strong and loving at the same time.  Even the dream ballet at the end of Act One was a hit.  The show ran for four nights and in that time I committed Rogers and Hammersteins' first musical to memory.

I've seen the musical a lot since then.  I've seen the movie with Gordon McCray (don't know how to spell that) and Shirley Jones several times.  I even went on a double--more like a quadruple--date with Heather McCray in attendance (She was decidedly not with me.).  I've reviewed dinner theater productions of it.

I've seen two Green Mountain productions of OKLAHOMA.  The first was with Darren Chilton (I'm almost positive) as Curly and Samone Wright as Laurie and, if I'm not mistaken, Steve Cogswell as Will.  All great kids.  Kathie and I saw Darren play FDR recently in a Lakewood Civic production of ANNIE.  I remembered his big voice.

Franny was in the chorus in the other GM production.  I remember Lisa Martin was a wonderfully feisty Ado Annie.  The only other thing I remember is Sara Monson dressing up as a cowboy and sneaking into one of the cowboys only songs.  She was such a little scamp.

Yesterday was my most recent encounter with the show.  We have begun a tradition where instead of buying a present, although we still do that, we take Sammi and Brooklyn to the theater on their birthdays and Christmas.  We've been to Boulder Dinner Theater twice to see ANNIE (different production) and THE LITTLE MERMAID.  Great times both.

It was Brooklyn's 12th birthday this time and we decided to take the girls to brunch at Bistro Vendomme and then to the Sunday matinee of OKLAHOMA.  It was going to be an uptown day with Granny and Gramps.

Over beignets and a pate de la maisson that was exceptional, Kathie and I tried to prepare the girls for what they were about to see.

Brief Interjection:  You need to remember that both of these girls have grown up in, to put it mildly, a theatrical family.  Brooklyn has more than one professional gig under her belt.  Sammi's voice would melt your heart.  So, Kathie and I try to expose them to musical theater whenever we can.  We watch old musicals together when they spend the night.  We go to all of their performances, etc.

We explained to them that this show was really the first musical where the songs were simply part of the story.  Previous musicals tended to slip songs in.  Like we're all going to stop now and sing and dance.  OKLAHOMA wasn't like that.

We let them know that where most musicals opened with a big chorus number, this one starts with one cowboy walking across the stage singing "There's a bright golden haze on the meadow . . ."  We explained that Laurie and Curly were in love and you could tell because they like to tease each other.

Prepping all done, we went back to our brunches.  Sammi and Brooklyn had cheeseburgers; Kathie had an omelet; I had the scallops.  It was a wonderful time where we spent an hour at the table talking about school and family and theater.

Afterwards, we walked to DCTC and entered The Stage.  I remember one of the first times we went to The Stage was to see a production of ANDROCLES AND THE LION when Chris and Nate were in grade school.  It was part of the Monday night educational series they used to put on and after the show finished, every one came back out on stage for a question and answer session.  Chris' hand shot up and he asked them how they managed to create such an amazing set with giant sculptures of lions that must have been thirty feet high.  "Styrofoam."  Chris had plenty more questions to keep them busy that night.  I was, and continue to be, so proud.

Our seats were stage right, three rows up.  We had a nifty view of the conductor and were close enough to see spittle fly out of the mouths of chorus members.

But enough of that.  It has been awhile since I've been to a production at DCTC, but I think this was the best musical production I've ever seen in Denver.

When they started promoting the show, the producers made a big deal of the fact that it was an all black cast.  The territory of Oklahoma did in fact have numbers of black only communities and there was even a chance that the whole state would be a haven for black people.  There are even a series of educational posters lining the halls explaining some of this history.

While interesting, I didn't see how having an all black cast (all except Ali Hakim, who was white) made much difference.  Let's face it.  It is hard to inject soul into "People Will Say We're In Love."

I'll tell you what I did notice.  The cast, black, white, whatever, was maybe the strongest I have ever seen.  Every voice was perfect.  Every dancer pulled his weight.  I was even able to forgive the contrived conflict between Curly and Jud and the stupid gizmo with the knife.  Don't ask me to explain.

The main thing about the show is the music.  I don't think there is another first scene in all of theater that has as many show stopping songs as OKLAHOMA.

The set was sparse and colorless just like the land.  Set changes were smooth and almost instantaneous.  And the entire play, including intermission, took two and a half hours.  In other words, a perfect thing to attend with two young theater buffs.

I kept looking over at Brooklyn and Sammi to see if they were having a good time.  Did they laugh at the right times?  Did they look worried at the appropriate moments?  Were they nodding off?  At the end of the show when Ali Hakim, a defeated man, comes back on stage led by his new wife Gertie, Brooklyn's laugh made my day.

Go to OKLAHOMA.  Take your grandchildren.  If you don't have any, rent some.

Life in a Catholic Boys' College

I was a freshman at Regis College, a Jesuit all boys' school, in 1966.  I suspect it felt a lot like Georgetown Prep where Kavanaugh attended high school.  Since it was college, I suppose our academics were more rigorous, but probably not that much.  I mean very few of my classmates turned down an acceptance at Yale to go to Regis.  On the other hand, there were a lot of privileged young men there.  I was not one of them.  Like at Yale, a goodly number of my classmates went on to become lawyers, doctors, politicians, business moguls, etc.  A few of us went on to be high school English teachers, but hey, I'm not complaining.

I've read a couple of op-eds the last two days suggesting that Kavanaugh's alleged behavior is typical of the all male clubs that comprise many of our elite schools.  The drinking culture.  The good old boy insinuations about females.  The bragging about sexual conquests, real and imagined.  The sitting around dorm rooms drinking beers, lighting farts, sharing information on what certain girls at Colorado Women's College or Loretto Heights would let you get away with, and just generally acting like assholes.  All of that behavior, the op-eds suggested, was typical of the kind of schools that groom our "leaders."  And that, the op-eds again suggested, explains all the problems we are having now with sexual politics.

I admit that kind of behavior went on.  I am not ready to admit that it is as typical as the op-ed writers suggest.

At Regis, there was a guy who lived just down the hall from me.  His only purpose for going to college was to bed as many girls from Loretto Heights and CWC as he could get his hands on and he was quite successful at it.  The guy was a lot like Stradlater (a rather evocative last name) in CATCHER IN THE RYE.  He took a long shower in the morning with the rest of us.  He took another one after his ten o'clock class.  Another one after lunch.  Another one mid-afternoon.  Another one prior to going out on an evening's conquest and another one when he got back to the dorm late in the night.  He was a psych major's dream come true.  Calling Dr. Freud!

Some of the guys on my floor pinned bras onto their bulletin boards as trophies.  I was thinking about borrowing one of my mom's bras so I could fit in, but I thought better of it.

There were plenty of bull sessions in other rooms where we compared notes on "famous" girls from one of the plethora of undergraduate schools in the area.

On weekends, we would all forget about our books and head up into the mountains for a woodsy.  We didn't call them keggers then.  And the goal of all those weekend beer brawls was to get drunk as quickly as possible, throw-up, and eventually pass out.  The guys did it.  The girls did it.  I suspect a lot of the Jesuit priests did it as well only they were using vast quantities of scotch.

When it was too cold for a woodsy, we would have motel parties at the round Holiday Inn by Mile-High Stadium, or the Center Motel on 6th and Federal.  We would stop by at North Denver Liquor on the way to the party and get our booze from George who happily kept the underaged drinkers at Regis supplied.  Most of us left the motel rooms by early morning.  But others spent the night and those that did spend the night probably forgot everything about the experience, either out of convenience or because they were too drunk to remember.

All that illicit behavior was the stuff of legends at Regis.  Those of us who didn't bed anything that moved, or who didn't pass out every Saturday, or who didn't use female undergarments as a bulletin board decoration, looked on the ones who did with a certain amused detachment.  The constant showerer and his cronies were in the minority.  There were only a few of them, but they made a lot of noise and just assumed that all the rest of us who still had trouble getting up the nerve to ask a girl for a date, were wildly jealous.

They were wrong.  We weren't wildly jealous; we were quietly offended.  I know.  I know.  We shouldn't have been quiet about our feelings, but we were just eighteen or so and just assumed that we were fundamentally lacking in social skills.

But you know what.  All my classmates who went on to be lawyers, politicians, and the like, the Tim Harts and Placido Herreras, and Tony Rottinos, were a lot like me.  We didn't prey on girls, even though we might have liked to give predation a try.  We didn't approve the behavior.  And when we got drunk on weekends, we almost always ended up getting sick by ourselves and spending the next day in misery.  We were good kids, but the operative word here is "kids."  I look back on those times and don't really regret any of it.  Well, that's not completely true.  I still wish I had that great Regis sweatshirt that I lost up at tunnel number one.

I don't know what to believe about Kavanaugh.  I tend to believe his accusers simply because they are willing to subject themselves to the recriminations of old Republican males (is there any other kind?).  I do know the kind of atmosphere Kavanaugh lived in when he was an undergraduate.  Temptation and peer pressure coming at him from all sides.  If he withstood all that, if his accusers are not telling the truth, then I can see him being a Supreme even if I don't like his positions on almost everything. On the other hand, if Kavanaugh was anything like the constant shower guy down the hall, the idea of him becoming anything more influential than a homeless person begging for scraps is unacceptable.

Flag Waving

I was on the Color Guard when I was a grade school kid in Estes Park, Colorado.  We had five different teams, one for each day of the week.  When it was my day, I had to wear dark slacks and a white shirt as a sign of respect.  It was okay in the mornings and afternoons before and after school, but wearing the dorky outfit the rest of the day was a constant source of embarrassment.

We Color Guardians had a training session before the school year where we learned to fold an American flag properly.  We were also made to feel terrified at the prospect of letting the flag touch the ground, or not acting promptly enough to bring the flag in out of the rain or snow.  I loved being at one end of the flag, stretching it tight, folding it into that little triangle configuration with the stars on the outside, and tucking it under my arm as I carried it into the main office.

I was also on the Safety Patrol, but standing on the corner with a white shoulder belt on while protecting my classmates from oncoming traffic (there was no oncoming traffic in Estes Park) paled in comparison to handling the flag.

My only regret was that I wasn't allowed to play the anthem on my trombone.  That job was left to Billy Checkas and his silver trumpet.  I will grudgingly admit that Billy, while a complete bust as an altar boy at Our Lady of the Mountains, killed on the trumpet.

Later, in marching band, I got to play the anthem at the beginning of all home football games.  In the pep band, I did the same thing before home basketball games.  Of course, by that time I was a junior and senior in high school and my rendition of the bass trombone part on the anthem was made smoother by the little sips of the vodka I had cleverly poured into my slide oil bottle.  Don't worry, I put the bottle in boiling water first.  The brass section of the pep band always left the games in good spirits, win or lose.

I was a full fledged hippy freak wannabe when I went to college.  There was a flag flying daily over the administration building (The Pink Palace) at Regis.  There were flags hanging on the walls in almost all of the classrooms.  And when civic unrest found its way to our pretty little campus at 50th and Lowell, the flags started finding their way onto clothing.  One guy had a ratty pair of jeans with the flag sewn over his ass.  Others wore flag headbands.  In a rebellious mood, I bought a green tee shirt with a green hued flag emblazoned on my chest.  I wore that shirt the day after the murders at Kent State when I alternated between weeping and shouting with clenched fist.

Later that year I heard the Woodstock recording of Jimi Hendrix' version of "The Star Spangled Banner."  I was thrilled by its irreverance, but more than that, I was inspired by its genius.  I guess my respect for the good old red, white, and blue was all but lost.

To tell you the truth, since my Color Guard days, I have always been skeptical of flag waving patriotism.  For some reason,  I immediately distrust anyone wearing an American flag lapel pin.  I always assume they think putting that little symbol on their lapels excuses all their people hating behavior the rest of the week, their votes against the welfare state, their conspiracy to protect what's theirs, and screw the rest of us.  I know that's an unfair characterization, but that's what I think.

The little lapel pin flag demeans the real flag.  It shrinks what it stands for.  On the other extreme, a giant flag flapping in the wind and rain in front of a mattress store is even more degrading.  It is taking the flag and monetizing it by using it to get around anti-billboard zoning regulations.  Of course, I suppose monetizing the flag is the most American thing of all.  How patriotic.

I have to admit here that I am something of a coward,  I was at the Bronco run Sunday morning hanging out with Bud while Kathie and Janet ran.  When some young lady started singing the anthem, Bud immediately stood, hand on heart.  I stood as well.  It was reflex, but mostly I didn't want to make Bud mad.  At baseball games, I will stand because I don't want to ruin the whole thing. But I always feel like a jerk.  The flag isn't what it once was.

Our flag flies over detention camps where families are systematically ripped apart.  Our flag flies over an Environmental Protection Agency that is systematically removing those protections.  Our flag flaps in the wind on presidential motorcades to tax payer funded campaign events where the President lies with every utterance.  Our flag flies over the killing fields that we call public schools because the elected representatives sitting under that same flag in Congress do nothing but rake in campaign contributions from the NRA, from Winchester, from Smith and Wesson, etc.  Our flag flies over botched wars in all parts of the world.  Our flag flies over the geo-political mess we have left behind in Central America and the Mid-East.

Of course, our flag also makes appearance in less fraught situations.  It flies over school assemblies, games, marching band contests, and the like.  It flies over baseball stadiums, boxing matches, horse races, and yes, football games.  And I see it flying over the Audi dealer across the street from the Y where I work out every morning (most every morning).  

And, once again, when I stand for a flag that does all that, I feel like a coward.

Eponymous Physicians

There is an advertisement on a bus stop bench I see every day on the way back from the Y.  Under the picture of a dentist it says Dr. Don Tooth, a dentist for children.  The sign has bothered me for years. I mean, there are so many questions.

Was this guy born with that surname?  Maybe he was originally named Don Dentifrice and he decided to change his name for professional reasons.

If Tooth is, in fact, his surname, did that compel him to choose a career in dentistry?  Does he come from a long line of dentists?  Do they have a scholarship in their name (The Tooth Scholarship) at some local school of dentistry?

Does the guy dress up as a tooth when he gets a new client in his chair.  I think it would have terrified Franny if Dr. Arendt had dressed up as a bicuspid.  It also would have made me think twice about walking into his office.

There are many things I refuse to do.  Ordering any sandwich called a Yumbo or a Whaler is one.  Going to a dentist named Dr.Tooth is another.

I'm also a little afraid that other physicians will see Dr. Tooth's ad and follow suit.  The possibilities are horrifying.

Dr. Rick Rectum coming from a long line of proctologists is ready to listen to you. He changed his last name from Anus for professional reasons.

Dr. Vance Vulva ready and willing to fill all your gynecological needs.  I can see the bus bench ad now, adorned with a Georgia O'Keefe-like drawing of a thinly disguised flower petal.

I would encourage everyone to avoid eponymously named doctors.  Their waiting rooms are bound to be just too damned cute.

We've Come Full Circle

Going to Regis in Northwest Denver did not put me in ideal position to be a political activist in the late '60s.  I started observing student unrest when I was in high school.  I continued to observe when I was in college.  The closest I got to actually doing something, other than the day I went out and bought a pair of tie-dyed jeans, was being instrumental in putting the first 3.2 bar on a college campus in Colorado.  We called the bar Beliel, after the devil in Paradise Lost in nominal charge of drunkenness, and put it where the pool hall used to be.  It wasn't as cutting edge as the students protesting outside of Sproul Hall, but for Regis it was tres avant garde.

Mostly, I did my observing from the confines of my English and Theology classrooms.  And during that time, I learned that if you want to get people to move nearer to your side of things, you should make your starting position so extreme that they'll have to get closer just to understand you.  Picture Langston Hughes, large, black, caped, imposing, standing on a stage in front of a largely white college audience hissing menacingly the last line of "A Dream Deferred."  "Or does it explode?"  Or Abbie Hoffman indulging in some street theater designed to blow minds.  Or James Baldwin in NOTES OF A NATIVE SON chanting,

"God gave Noah the rainbow sign.

No more water.

Fire next time."

The world did change and all that posturing helped speed up the inevitable.

But there was an underlying premise to all that activism, the idea that those holding different views were open to arguments, thus making it possible for minds and opinions to change.  And the premise seemed to hold true.  Opinions, if not outright changed, at least were modified.  The center held.

I don't see that happening again.  Outlandish positions, instead of forcing compromise, are the norm and are countered with equally outlandish opposing positions.  What is left of the center is quickly disintegrating.  

Here is kind of a nice case in point, nonetheless maddening.  At the gun control rally in downtown Denver yesterday, both sides of the issue were represented, but instead of getting into loud confrontations, everyone was encouraged to seek out someone from the other side and simply talk to one another, trying to find some common ground.  Kind of refreshing huh?  Of course, this rally was organized by high school kids, so it was bound to be more adult than anything organized by aging partisans.  At the end, folks from both sides were surprised at how much they had in common.  One lifelong NRA member actually discovered that the gun control movement was not really intent on taking ALL guns away from everyone.  Others were happy to learn that most NRA members would welcome longer waiting periods, stronger background checks, and keeping guns away from people with mental illness.

The problem is that those partisans holding the extreme-take-no-prisoners-positions are the ones making the most noise (read:  Hannity, Limbaugh, LaPierre, Fox and Friends).  Unless you are willing to do the work necessary to weed out fact from fiction, the extreme positions are the first ones you hear in the  morning and the last ones you hear at night.  

These messengers are not attempting to understand the other side.  Instead, they are attempting to paint the other side's position in the same extreme colors.  For example, since Republicans see no future in running on their tax giveaway to corporations, they have decided to make Nancy Pelosi a focus of their midterm campaigns.  In at least one swing state, their attacks on a young Democrat running for Congress center around a connection to Pelosi, who, the attack states, voted to cut 80 billion dollars from Medicaid/Medicare.  Of course they fail to mention that it is Pelosi's vote for Obamacare they are referencing.  That strikes me as fundamentally dishonest and polarizing, something that drives people away from the middle.  And for at least 45 percent of the population, it seems to work.

In my lifetime, we have gone from little girls in white pinafores and patent leather shoes being led to their classrooms by federal marshals while crowds of screaming, red-faced white racist stereotypes stood by with clenched fists, to a changing of attitudes that led to ground breaking civil rights legislation, to now, crowds of of screaming, red-faced white surpremacists seeking out immigrants to terrorize.  

We've come full circle in less than seventy years.

The Moving Finger

The Moving Finger writes and having writ
Moves on; nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

We went to a memorial get together for Gerry Oehm yesterday.  It was at Pinehurst, right across the street from Gerry and Pat's place.  I remember a clambake at Gerry's house twenty some years ago.  Gerry spent many a happy morning and lunchtime in the lounge planning this little party.  I know.  Kathie and I figured into the planning.  The Clambake Company (or something like that) was directly across Pearl Street from the Vogue Theater where Nate was performing with In Vogue (They were really good.).  We let Gerry know about the place and the party evolved from there.

Gerry and Pat (of course) were there.  Ken and Dana Weaver.  Dale and Carol  Bartkus.  Bud and Janet.  Barb and Mike.  Cindy and Jerry.  I even think Larry and Charlene, our nextdoor neighbors, were there.  I'm not sure if that list is complete or accurate, but it sounds about right.

We started with an oyster bar while the clambake folks put lobsters and clams and the works on the grill and we all gathered around a giant table and ate and drank and talked to our hearts' content.  Afterwards, we all moved on to Fiddler's Green where there was some kind of New Orleans festival going on.  Laissez bon temps roulez, or words to that effect.

I've been thinking a lot about good times like that lately.  It's been a big year for deaths in our Green Mountain family.  Ken Weaver died a little over a year ago and we all gathered together at his funeral and caught up on how we were all doing.  Dale Bartkus was next and we all gathered around at his memorial party and caught up on how we were all doing.  Ken Boerner also died quite recently, a fact that caught a lot of us unaware.  And now there's Gerry.  There we all were once again catching up on what we were all doing.

I'm not trying to be maudlin here, but the increasing frequency of these get togethers around a dear friend's death is hard to ignore.  Dale More was there at Pinehurst.  Cindy and Jerry.  Ruth Meyer and Glenda Adams.  Sue McNamee.  Sue and Gary Hurelle. Sara Nesmith.  Faith and Ellie and Fabian and Mick.  Denny Shepherd, who keeps looking thinner and healthier every time I see him.  Orval stood up to the microphone and paid Gerry a lovely tribute. Joe Latino always manages to emerge on these occasions and there he was again acting like an administrator and touching tables.  He even told me that I was a good teacher.  Kathie too.  Hey, thanks Joe.

I think Gerry would have liked the reception.  He loved parties and standing around and talking with a glass of cheap scotch in his hand.  I went over to the bar and ordered their cheapest scotch on the rocks as a kind of tribute.  The cheapest stuff they had was red label, but I ordered a double in honor of Gerry.

We didn't have a lot in common.  I mean he was a math whiz for god's sake; I barely know my times tables, but I could always write better controlling statements than he could.  Since he taught Calculus and I taught AP Literature, we had a lot of the same students.  They came into my classroom after Gerry with dazed looks on their faces.  I did my best to make sure they walked out of my classroom and into his with those same looks.  We put those kids through a heuristic mill and they were the better for it.  So were we.

We had a love of food and wine and drink in common.  We both had a lot of worthless trivia stored in our brains.  We both told good stories.  We became good enough friends that Katherine and I started getting invited to Math Department parties.  We always had a good time; of course, when they pulled out the flash cards and things started getting wild, we beat a fast retreat.

In high school, I discovered, Gerry had a kind of club loosely gathered together because they all loved Omar Khayyam.  Go figure.  It was the same with me.  My mother gave me a copy of The Rubaiyyat and I was hooked.  I didn't have a club of similar enthusiasts.  I guess I wasn't as charismatic as Gerry back in those days.  But Gerry and I could quote Omar back and forth to each other.  How many math and language arts teachers do you know who could do that?

The quatrain at the top of this piece is my second favorite poem in The Rubaiyyat.  It seems appropriate at this time and it is so much more articulate than simply saying "It is what it is."  When I think of all my friends whose funerals and receptions I have attended of late, I think of that poem.

I'm going to end this with my favorite quatrain.  It isn't some false bromide to make us all feel better.  No, it is simply a clever statement that makes you smile in spite of its message.  Gerry would have liked that.

'Tis all a chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with men for Pieces plays:
Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,
And one by one back in the closet lays.

Jenny Lake Sonnets

I only read one book at Jenny this year.  I usually read three.  Instead of reading by the fire each morning, I decided to write Elizabethan Sonnets.  I know that sounds a little strange, but I'm kind of frozen on a project and I thought the poetry would help me thaw.  One gentleman who got up as early as I did sat next to me by the fire and asked if I was keeping a journal.  "Nope.  Just writing Elizabethan Sonnets."  I can't quite describe the look on his face, but he did move shortly thereafter.  I can't say I blame him.  Anyway, here are my sonnets.  I know it looks pretentious, but I have numbered them.  One of these days when I am discovered, my first poem will not be called "Mountain Ranges," but Sonnet 1.

(1)
MOUNTAIN RANGES

An inconvenient clump of lodgepole pines
Sits between my cabin and my view.
These trees are straight and tall and fine.
I've seen them grow for twenty years plus two.

At first they reached just barely to my knees.
Mount Rockchuck rose majestically above.
Later they rose up to my chest, all three,
Rockchuck still on display to see and love.

And now they must be twenty feet in height.
The saddle to Saint John's is all I see
And if I really crane, I almost might
Spot a peak behind the middle tree.

I love to look at mountain ranges
Because the view it always changes.

5 July 2018


(2)
BEAR SIGHTINGS

The path from Bluebell zig zags to the lodge,
A trail of asphalt lined with buckwheat blooms.
And bears are there you sometimes have to dodge
At night when guests walk to their rooms.

We had a bear who walked up to our place.
He nosed around our kayak and lumbered by.
"Get my drink," to Katherine I explained.
"My gin and tonic is something he might try."

There've been others, but that one was the best.
Like every sighting, it took my breath away.
All they really want to do is rest
And munch on nuts and berries every day.

A bear just makes our trip complete,
Another one of Nature's treats.

6 July 2018


(3)
JENNY

A hearth of stone sits on the southern wall
While banks of windows to the right look west.
Through them Mount Owen and The Grand stand tall.
There've been years when both in snow are dressed.

A dusty moose head sits above the fire,
His antlers graced by fourteen jagged tips.
Those glassy eyes stare out; they never tire.
They grant approval to all the hiking trips.

A giant tree stump standing three feet high
Looks like it's been there since the place first started.
I prop my feet and sit back with a sigh,
The center of this circle so full hearted.

A roaring fire completes the picture.
The whole room makes a perfect mixture.

6 July 2018


(4)
TREE SCIENCE

I think I've heard that aspen groves are one.
One thing, I mean, the roots all twined of course.
And as one thing this tree is never done
Spreading itself in streams from one core source.

I'd like to say that families work like groves
And grow as one just like those aspen trees,
Clinging to those roots, yet on the move.
Most families are not similar to these.

The aspen in this place are all connected
And among the oldest things on earth,
So even if my science gets corrected,
My clumsy simile stands on solid turf.

These aspen trees are always there
With life that's spreading out to share.

7 July 2018


(5)
THE GIFT TREE

Sixteen years ago we got a tree,
A gift from management to new arrivals.
One of those few things we got for free,
We were to plant it for some green revival.

The planting of the tree wasn't really green.
Sure, it fulfilled eco-sureties
And all those liberal voices in between
To pacify those people who hug trees.

In sixteen years it's barely three feet tall.
Every day I water it with care
And still it struggles to rise up strong and tall.
It's clear the other guests don't do their share.

The tree will rise above my head,
But by then I'll be long dead.

7 July 2018


(6)
JENNY MORNINGS

The guests walk to the fire and warm their hands.
Some grab a cup of coffee or some tea
And talk together sharing this day's plans:
A drive, a ride, a hike among the trees.

They lead us to our tables one by one
While servers greet each party with a smile.
Outside, each morn The Grand reflects the sun.
The pinkish light will linger there awhile.

The waiters always serve the food with pride
And always bring you anything you want.
One suggests a hike you haven't tried
And offers warnings of ones that you should shun.

It's time to clear the breakfast dishes;
This day's already filled our wishes.

8 July 2018


(7)
THE CAMPUS DEER

There are two deer that root among our aspen.
Ruminants must like that kind of fare,
The skinny one with ribs almost misshapen
And the other one, well fed with shaggy hair.

They each appear again when lunch time nears.
It's almost like they're trained to nibble thus.
Because there are few predators to fear,
They munch around our porch with placid trust.

Sometimes they smell a bear and then they freeze,
Their heads jerk up, they sniff the air and run.
They go and hide among the quaking trees
Then re-emerge to bask in morning sun.

Those deer are like the lodge's own
And for the place they set the tone.

9 July 2018


(8)
THUNDER BEINGS

The clouds in Santa Fe are thunder beings;
The ones above The Tetons not so much.
They build up in the north all filled with meanings.
There's always one that looks like such and such.

But then they nestle up into the mountains.
From there there's only two ways they can go:
They can gather up and spew down rain in fountains,
Or peter out to let the blue skies show.

The clouds are born in higher elevations
And you can see them as you're hiking through.
They coalesce the day's precipitation
Into wispy bits that form as something new.

Still, I miss the thunder beings.
They give weight to wispy feelings.

9 July 2018


(9)
THE FLY

Our bug repellant doesn't work on flies
And once those deer flies latch onto your skin,
They stick like glue no matter how you try
To swat them off; they stay through thick and thin.

We killed a fly and left him to the bugs,
Big and black and smashed with yellow oozing.
The ants they dragged him off with mighty tugs
And hid him in a place of their own choosing.

That was the end of that fly's occupation
To flit around and fly into your face.
That is, of course, a fly's most natural situation.
All those genetic strands you can't erase.

The fly he tries to do his best,
But still at heart he's just a pest.

9 July 2018


(10)
A DOSE OF NATURE

Mount Rockchuck sits majestically above
And then Saint John's fills up the western sky.
It's a view I see each day and dearly love.
The wonder is that such a scene's nearby.

The slopes are filled with little mountain streams
And near the top Lake Solitude appears.
It's a happy vision in my dreams;
In the flesh it makes me come to tears.

We paddled up a little mountain stream one day.
In less than twenty yards we changed our minds.
Our boat was flipped; our gear was washed away.
Nature's awesome power is seldom kind.

We gathered up our soggy stuff.
For that day, we said "Enough."

10 July 2018


(11)
WYOMING HORSES

There are two rides a day at Jenny Lake.
The first one goes promptly off by ten o'clock.
It often takes the trail to Hidden Falls
Which at the end requires a little walk.

The best part of the ride is coming home.
You have to ford the rapid String Lake drainage.
Sometimes your ride will balk and start to roam,
But if you show the horse who's boss, you'll manage.

Once past the creek, the horses sense the end.
They shake the reins and break into a trot
And then the whinnies come from all their friends.
If they could, they all would fairly shout.

You know, in this state's western way
Horses have the right of way.

10 July 2018


(12)
THE EMBRACE

A hawk swooped down one shining summer day.
He flew between the posts on Bluebell's awning,
Deftly grabbed a squirrel, and flew away.
The spectacle was something more than stunning.

And once we saw an eagle on the shore.
He had a fish that he was calmly stripping.
In terms of eagle sightings, we've had more.
Skip a line, you'll find one rather gripping.

On Leigh Lake once two eagles they played tag.
We stopped and watched as to the sky they raced
And then at once their talons seemed to snag.
They twirled to the ground in that embrace.

We never thought we'd be so lucky
As to see two eagles fucking.

10 July 2018


(13)
HIKE'S END

Emma Matilda Lake's our hike this morning.
The southern side is wet and full of weeds.
Bears might appear with hardly any warning.
No need to fear, it's berries that they need.

Then at the tip the world opens wide
And wild flowers fill the southern shore,
Delphiniums and lupine side by side,
Purple flax, tall buckwheat, and there's more.

There's Mount Moran filling up the west
And it's all framed by stately lodgepole pines.
At last the one track trail winds to our rest.
The bar at Jackson Lake is on our minds.

All hikes should end with Margaritas.
Sometimes you'll find there's nothing sweeter.

11 July 2018


(14)
CABIN SHOPPING

Yesterday, two girls were cabin shopping.
That happens all the time at Jenny Lake.
They stood outside our cabin truly hoping
Ours could be the one that they would take.

We told them they should hope for something other.
Through summer months Bluebell's booked up solid.
For primo cabins you need not even bother.
Our indifference to your wish is fairly stolid.

Try for Harebell, even Wild Daisy.
Huckleberry is another choice.
But Fireweed and Lupine, that's just crazy.
The long time guests would rise up in one voice.

The cabins here are all quite fine.
Just keep your hands off one that's mine.

11 July 2018


(15)
A FAREWELL OPUS

Opus One was absent on the menu,
So we bought one down at Dornan's yesterday.
We'll use it for our last night's fond adieu,
A heartfelt toast before we go away.

We'll uncork the thing and gladly pass out sips
And slurp the wine and give out knowing looks.
At the end we'll give out massive tips,
Not just to waiters but to the team of cooks.

On that night we'll sit at number thirteen.
We'll have that perfect table to ourselves
And drink that gorgeous wine like it was routine,
As if there's more at home upon our shelves.

When everything is said and done
I'd like to drink an Opus One.

12 July 2018


(16)
SPAULDING BAY

Today we're going down to Spaulding Bay
To launch our kayak there on Jackson Lake.
It's where all the locals go to play.
The four wheel road provides a test for brakes.

We paddle up the shore toward Mount Moran
Past Dead Man's Island and stands of lodgepole pines.
We love to stop at Bear Paw and just stand.
To stretch our legs is all we have in mind.

We sling around a rock in Moran Bay
And follow in the wake of where we came.
We'll save the eagles for some other day.
Trips on Jackson Lake are not the same.

And then we drive to Jenny Lake;
It's a trip we love to take.

13 July 2018


(17)
ICE WOMAN

When Katherine carries ice back to our cabin,
I like to watch her progress down the path.
She's dressed in shorts and has her yellow hat on
And sports a cut off tee she got at Katz.

She's more than happy striding through the woods.
Her head is either on a wary swivel,
Or focused on that day's should nots and shoulds.
She isn't one to waste her time on drivel.

The folks she passes get a cheerful greeting.
She stops to watch a yarrow grazing deer
As if it's just another lucky meeting.
In Katherine's wake she always leaves good cheer.

Life with her has been a joy;
I surely am one lucky boy.

14 July 2018


(18)
A JENNY DAY

Our back pack bladders hang from trees like balls.
That's how I dry them out after a hike.
I stash the sticks against some random wall.
As for the rest?  I put it where I like.

And then we sit down on the porch at last
To rid ourselves of dusty socks and boots.
With two drinks we end our hiking fast.
As for my diet, I just don't give two hoots.

In a while we trade off in the shower
And think of what we'll wear for that night's fare.
The second seating starts in just an hour.
We wander in the lodge with time to spare.

Another day at Jenny's done.
I hope tomorrow's just as fun.

14 July 2018


(19)
LOOKING TOWARD THE END

There's three days left, our trip is almost done.
It's the time in every stay to decompress.
Hanging at the lodge can still be fun.
We've hiked and kayaked; it's time to take a rest.

We have to go to Dornan's for some gifts
For all those who made our weeks so fine.
Like Tony for the morning logs he hefts
And Rachel too, they both deserve some wine.

For Mr. Friend, another fifth of gin.
Add fifty bucks for Andrew's fire dance.
And since Maria cleans our place, we win.
She'll get some cash when e'er we get the chance.

When Wednesday morning rolls around,
We'll sadly head back to our town,

15 July 2018


(20)
PETUNIA POTTINGS

A bunch of flowers hangs outside our door.
They're in a papered pot with built-in hook.
You'll find them all on sale in grocery stores
In the aisle right next to where they sell the books.

Petunias!  Are you really being serious?
Do you really think that they're indigenous?
The reason why you chose them's not mysterious.
Pretty, but in The Tetons not contiguous.

The pot gets watered two times every day
And after that the thirsty flowers brighten.
Out of place, but pretty anyway,
The flowers chase the sun and surely lighten.

Petunias next to aspen trees!
The only word that fits is "Please!"

15 July 2018


(21)
BEETLE KILL

We drove the tree lined road up Signal Mountain.
The last time we were there the trees looked sick,
But now the sickly trees are stacked like fountains
In pyramids of beetle-ravaged sticks.

Now in their place are healthy looking trees.
The ugly beetle blight has disappeared.
A healthy forest rustles in the breeze.
The mountainside's not brown as we had feared.

They cull the dying trees and stack them all,
Then douse them with obnoxious sounding potions
Which help them start to decompose in Fall.
The folks in my state need to learn this notion.

The beetle kill is on the run;
There's still more work that must be done.

16 July 2018


(22)
CRITTERS

The squirrel that has been ravaging our ceiling
Refuses to give way to normal measures.
The building engineers are simply reeling.
As for the squirrel, it's only nuts he treasures.

It could be worse; instead of squirrels there's bats.
They seem to congregate near Lupine every night.
That's why at nights we like to wear our hats.
Bats nibbling at my ears gives me a fright.

The mitigation team has come and gone.
They say the squirrel shouldn't be an issue.
Those cheeps and scratches are just his harmless song.
But squirrel, when you're gone we will not miss you.

In a forest you'll have such critters.
I have heard they're born in litters.

17 July 2018


(23)
GOING HOME

The trip back home is always bitter sweet.
The car's all packed and one more meal's in store.
We'll eat our breakfast and sadly hit the street.
It's time to go; we can't do any more.

Like always, Jim has made our bloody marys.
The folks behind the desk have done our bill.
To look at it is always rather scary,
But still, of fun and joy we've had our fill.

Tomorrow morning we'll wake up at our home.
We'll jump into our own familiar shower.
Then we'll call the kids up on the phone
And spend a quiet day in our sweet bower.

Our Teton trip is at an end.
The next poem from my home I'll send.

18 July 2018

FINIS

HIKING THE TETONS

Our trip to Jackson Hole is nearly here
In just three weeks, some twenty days from now.
I feel the same each time the date grows near,
Convinced I'll plod up all those trails somehow.

It's time to stack up all our clothes to take
And check our gear for any last repairs.
We'll test our paddles just for safety's sake
And fill our water packs to check for tears.

On hikes the main concern is my old age.
There's nineteen switchbacks on just one hike alone!
Once at the top, my tired legs will rage.
Lately, I have lost all muscle tone.

We walked one hundred miles one year,
But that was long ago, I fear.

11 June 2018

GARBAGE

The garbage truck comes by at 6 a.m.
But not each day, just on Tuesday mornings.
It has one driver and on the ground a man.
The sound it makes provides an ample warning.

So on those days, I jump right out of bed
To push the garbage barrel out on the street,
Then scan the paper for things I haven't read
And look around the kitchen for a treat.

If you eliminate the garbage rush,
The other days all have the same routine.
I'm up at 5 a.m., the house is hushed.
There's nothing in the place I haven't seen.

I love those quiet weekday dawns
When all I smell is dewy lawns.

22 May 2018

A SLEEPLESS PRAYER

I wonder how much better off you'd be
If I had shown up at some other school.
You might have married someone else, not me,
And life would be smooth sailing as a rule.

You'd sit back, settled, and watch your cash amass.
With jaunts to Europe and exotic ports,
The pace of life wouldn't have to be so fast.
Beside a pool, you'd bask in some resort.

There'd be no worry whenever I did mope.
Instead, the guy you picked would have no cares,
No new expense would throw him for a loop.
With him a life of leisure you would share.

I think these things when I can't sleep
And pray your life is one you'll keep.

20 May 2018

White Power, Coffee, and Birds

I read Kathleen Belew's monumental book, BRING THE WAR HOME, on the plane to Belize and I finished it the next day at the pool.  You know how when you buy a new car, you start seeing your model everywhere?  Kathleen's' book was like that.  After I finished, it seemed that there was a new example of paranoid white people calling the cops on "suspicious" people of color.  Starbucks, Waffle House, even the dorms at Yale, were all scenes of outrage.  I looked at each of those incidents in open mouthed amazement.  How could such people exist in the America of 2018?  Haven't we learned anything?

I looked at a lot of Kathleen's book in open mouthed amazement as well.  First, my amazement sprung from the quality of her work.  She traces the white power movement in America from the end of the Vietnam War up to the 1995 bombing in Oklahoma City.  She uses nine chapters, each able to stand alone as a separate story, to build on her thesis that the white power movement as currently at work in America got much of its fuel from returning disgruntled Vietnam combatants who were disillusioned by America's handling of the war, disillusioned by what they saw as America's first "lost" war, disillusioned by not being welcomed home like WWII vets.  And to add insult to injury, they came home to a country in the process of changing its complexion as refugees started flooding into their homeland and as people of color began to noisily demand their rights.

Each chapter focuses in on a different player, or group of players, who incrementally ramped up white power and white paranoia.  The book explains the unlikely partnership of Ku Klux Klanners, Evangelical Christians, and Skinheads all rallying around a perceived need to save their erstwhile white privilege in the face of a tidal wave of people who didn't look like them, or who practiced different faiths, people who were changing the face of America, trying to take away their guns, trying to share in the American Dream.

It explains so much of what is happening today.  White populism.  Group identity. Isolationism.  Tax cuts to the wealthy.  A war on anything that smacks of welfare.  Donald Trump's name calling.  Kathleen's book was incredibly disturbing; I think everyone should read it.

I don't read as much fiction as I used to;  I prefer reading closely written examples of scholarship.  I have read a lot of that brand of scholarship since I left the classroom, and I can say without reservation that Kathleen Belew's achievement ranks with the best of what I have read.  Her research is staggering (100 pages of footnotes), but more impressive is the clarity of her voice.  She never loses her tone.  The book marches majestically through the years under consideration.  I can't wait for her next work.

Don't read BRING THE WAR HOME because Kathleen graduated from good old GMHS.  Read it because it is so damn good.


After I finished Kathleen's book, I moved onto THE MONK OF MOKHA by Dave Eggers.  Eggers is a New Yorker and New York Review kind of writer who I always delight in reading.  THE MONK OF MOKHA is the true story of Mokhtar Alkhanshali, a Yemeni American who decides to restore Yemeni coffee to its historical place as the first producer of coffee.  It is a fascinating travelogue of Mokhtar trying to negotiate the Yemen of 2015, dodging bullets and bombs and terrifying border patrols as he takes his coffee to market.  I learned a lot about the politics of Yemen and other "shithole" countries and I learned a lot about coffee.  If I ever go into a coffee shop again (not likely), I will surely order a cup of Yemeni brew.

I started BIRDING WITHOUT BORDERS by Noah Strycker on the plane on the way back to Denver.  I finished it yesterday while waiting to pick up Willa from school.  It is another delightful read about Strycker's world wide big year.  He travels well over 100,000 miles, visits the best birding terrain in every continent, and blows through $60,000 on his quest to see as many bird species as he can.  He ends up with 6000!  That is supposedly over half the known species in the world.  The book is not a dreary catalog of every bird he sees; it is mostly a story about geography and people.  My bird taxonomy can best be described by two terms that Kathie and I always use when we're hiking or kayaking:  BBBs, and LBBs.  Big Brown Birds and Little Brown Birds.  That about covers it, but I would have loved joining Stryker on his trip, minus some of the swamps and war zones he has to negotiate.

These are not what you would call classic poolside books, but they did manage to keep my mind off the heat and humidity of Belize.

CRAYON WATCHING

When the grandgirls open brand new crayons,
Their eyes grow wide and start to scan for paper.
There's ninety-six in all, straight up they stand,
Four multi-colored rows all sharp and tapered.

Jaydee's favorite colors are purple shades,
Plum, blue violet, glycene, and razzmatazz.
A bear, an ape, her passion never fades.
They're colored purple, everything she has.

Willa's color sense is much more varied.
Her main concern is drawing graphic scenes
Peopled with the folks she loves and needs
All gathered round as friends and all that means.

So great to see them play with art.
I love to do this watching part.

THE STRING LAKE BRIDGE

The String Lake bridge is where most hikes commence.
A photo of it hangs upon our kitchen wall.
The stream's so deep a crossing there is tense,
Still, horses ford right there from Spring through Fall.

Above the bridge, three mountains are in view.
The Grand sits high above the Teton range.
Mount Owen with its glaciers sits there too,
And Teewinot, it's jutting spires so strange.

Below the range, a forest of Lodge Pole Pine
And a leafy carpet flecked with sun
With Glacier Lilies and Fireweeds so fine
You want to break into a joyous run.

Nine miles up the Cascade trail,
We're up there yearly without fail.

STREET FOOD

Stands of Tacos sit on old town streets
With birria pots and crisp carnitas too,
And butcher shops, their counters filled with meats.
Locals stand in lines--more than a few.

One deals with money; make sure that's all he does.
He shouldn't touch the food plus your cold cash.
Hygiene issues do give some a pause,
But me it never bothered.  I'm sort of rash.

At times this food scene makes me want to live here,
But then I'd have to cook and clean and more.
So much to eat, so little time, I fear.
In fact, it's time to eat again; it's four.

The food down here is just so good,
I'd be here every day--I would!

MORNINGS AT THE Y

I walk two miles around the track each day
And then I row four thousand meters more.
To keep my weight I've found the Y's the way.
You'd think by now my bod would not be sore.

And then I go downstairs to lift some weights.
On day one I focus in on arms.
If I can lift them all, the workout's great,
But if I can't, I figure what's the harm.

When I'm done, I jump into the shower,
And used the spa before they ripped it out.
For me, the whole thing takes a couple hours.
Another morning's done I'd like to shout.

This workout keeps me young and fit
And then I go right home and sit.

TWO BLUE SPRUCE

The two blue spruce reside in our front yard.
A nursery planted them when we moved here.
They flank our door and stand a stately guard,
As if to say there's nothing here to fear.

They're filled with cones all gathered at the top
And with each gust they hurtle to the ground.
Jaydee picks them up and never stops
As new winds come and start another round.

These trees have grown most of our married life.
From little sprouts they now reach to the sky.
They feed the wonder with which grandgirls are rife
And like those trees, their reach is never shy.

When we're long gone the spruce will stay
And sow more wonder on the way.

HOMELAND SECURITY

I have a baseball bat beneath my bed.
It's there to ward off unexpected guests.
Close by to grab and club them in the head,
At night it gives us both a carefree rest.

This whole idea, of course,  is more than laughable,
The thought of me with club in hand--then what?
To hit someone?  I'm just too affable.
That's why I keep the bedroom windows shut.

My well-armed friends will doubtless roll their eyes
And worry for my welfare late at night,
But every morning when I safely rise,
I have to think they're wrong and I am right.

There's danger lurking everywhere.
That's all right; I just don't care.

SAN PEDRO

The cushions at the pool in Banyon Bay
Are laid out every morning when I rise.
Waiters take drink orders through the day,
And I hang out and watch the cloudless skies.

A dock juts out into the morning mist
Where boats line up with bait and rods and reels.
They trawl for snapper and for other fish
To grill up on the beach for midday meals.

Estel's for breakfast always starts our day,
A walk along the beach with the whole group.
And don't forget the chicken drop on Wednesday,
When gamblers bet on where a rooster poops.

Palapas bars line every beach.
We ride our bikes from each to each.

BACKYARD SPRING

I love the backyard when things turn to Spring.
The ash have just begun to get their leaves
And mountain winds blow in with all they bring,
While cold night chill gives way to gentle breeze.

Lilac bushes line the cedar fences,
Old benches here and there for decoration,
Honeysuckle blossoms fill my senses,
And a garden for grandgirls' excavation.

I built a deck back there for get togethers.
We all gather there for family dinners
That last all day depending on the weather.
One thing for sure, no one's getting thinner.

The snow is gone; the sky is blue.
Another winter we've just gone through.

READING HABITS

I used to read The Post to F. each day.
Strapped in her chair down in the breakfast nook,
Gurgles and coos were all she had to say,
While I read ledes and pointed out each hook.

I read to her from other texts as well.
For instance, Dr. Seuss, L. Frank Baum,
And Maurice Sendak all had tales to tell.
There were others--too--that surely did no harm.

The Sanguin girls, although, have different tastes.
They want the reader to put on a show.
Without some random sounds, the book's a waste.
Sometimes, you have to be a clown, y'know?

My reading habits haven't changed,
But they have been rearranged.

FEELING PROUD AT THE TATTERED COVER

To give you an idea of how important it was for me to see Kathleen Belew read from her book (BRING THE WAR HOME) at The Tattered Cover last night, you need to realize that I chose not to go to a whiskey tasting paired with food at Butcher's Bistro scheduled for the same night.  When I first heard about the whiskey tasting, I immediately called my son-in-law Ken, a fellow whiskey lover, to see if he wanted to go.  He did.  When I started to call to make my reservations, I noticed it was scheduled for April 5, Kathleen's big night at the bookstore.  As it happened, that was the only night in the entire month of April that I had something scheduled.  I called Ken and told him to forget the whiskey night.  I had more important things to do.

After dinner with C. Fite (Kathie was too sick to join us.), we went into The Tattered Cover a little early so I could buy a copy of Kathleen's book and find where we were supposed to go for the reading.  There were maybe thirty or more chairs set up in front of a table and lectern on the bottom level and it was quickly filling with folks.  Nicole Gonzales (I forget her married name.) was there.  Jean-Luc Davis was there, fresh from a jazz tour of Australia.  Kathleen's folks were there and so were a bunch of other people, all armed with questions to ask after Kathleen finished her reading.

I just sat there next to Cindy basking in Kathleen's accomplishment.  I mean the book is a scholarly exploration into the development of the white power movement between Vietnam and the Oklahoma City bombing.  It has one hundred pages of footnotes!  The scholarly blurbs on the back cover of the dust jacket are expansive in their praise of Kathleen's scholarship.  And I'll bet the folks at Fox are apoplectic at Ms. Belew's scholarly indictment of white supremacy.  After all, white supremacy is what Fox is all about.

It was a terrific evening and I drove home happy that I was a teacher and able to work with young people like Kathleen, who in addition to being an author published by Harvard University Press, is an assistant professor of History at the University of Chicago.

The bottom level of The Tattered Cover on Colfax is devoted to young adult literature, middle school literature, and travel books.  As Cindy and I were browsing around waiting for the festivities to begin, I wandered around and found Mike Merschel's book (REVENGE OF THE STAR SURVIVORS)in the stacks.  It was an interesting position for a retired English teacher.  Here I was in The Tattered Cover of all places and two of my students had books on display.  I, of course, attributed all of their success to the fine tutelage they got at good old GMHS and wanted to go over to all those people sitting and waiting for Kathleen to approach the podium and let them know that I was the one who taught Kathleen how to master the Controlling Statement, content in the knowledge that the first thing she did when she finished her research was to reduce the entire thing into that one sentence formula.  I resisted the temptation and sat quietly down.  I even grudgingly admitted that Kathleen and Mike were at least partially responsible for their successes.

When I was driving home, I came to the rather thrilling realization that, yes, I was most proud of these impressive adults, but I remember feeling just as much pride, just as much satisfaction, when they were high school kids bringing down the buddy buzzer bullshit in the library and writing opinion pieces that caused waves among the powers that be.  It was with the same sense of accomplishment that I read Kathleen's succession of one page poem analyses in Advanced Placement.  It was with the same sense of pride that I saw hundreds of kids walk across the stage at Red Rocks.

I never thought I was responsible for all those successful graduates, just like it wasn't my responsibility for the ones that failed, or ended up in jail, or on drugs, or just held down by mediocrity.  Mostly, I just loved being part of it all.

In THE THROWBACK SPECIAL, one of the characters maintains that the biggest part of love is just the willingness to watch your loved one go about his or her daily life.  There are, of course, other things about love, but watching is key.  That's what happens when you are a teacher.  You get to watch scores of young people negotiate their ways through their teens and into adulthood.  That's what I'm really proud of, all that watching.

GRANDGIRLS

It's nice to wait outside the grandgirls' school.
I stop and crack the window just a bit,
A magazine beside me as a rule,
With cars lined up behind me as I sit.

Jaydee's first and looks around for treats,
A sippy cup of juice, a bag of chips.
Sitting like she owns the place, she eats.
And then in half an hour we end our trip.

Later in the day it's Willa's turn,
Her face all smiles, she bounces out the door.
And in the car with energy to burn,
She laughs, she floats, she absolutely soars.

These grand girls, they make my day;
I hope our lives will stay that way.

GEOMETRY

That lonely highway running through the plains
Bisected all those verdant fields of corn.
And in our car so dwarfed by all the grain
I cuddled up for warmth against the morn.

I watched it all go blurring past the window,
The geometrics of the golden fields.
Straight and diagonal, the endless rows
Seemed to crosshatch fertile nature's yield.

One winter weekend we drove back that way.
The geometrics covered up with snow,
There was stubble where the rows of corn held sway
And in the field atop some hay, a crow.

My mother's brother died in bed.
The sky above looked just like lead.

A CoupleThings

The Blue Mountain School District in Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania has seen to it that students be provided with rocks to hurl in case a shooter comes barging into their classroom.  One principal, in an effort to make the new policy even more effective, has provided each classroom with a bucket, not just filled with rocks which, depending on their size and mass, might have variable effectiveness, but with river rocks!  You know, the kind we see around the necks of weekend weather girls on local television.

While I think that arming kids with river rocks makes a lot more sense than arming teachers with AR-15s (for one thing, there are fewer moving parts), I can't help but see some logistical problems.  Will these buckets be locked up in a book cabinet when not in use?  If they are locked up, will the teacher have time to find the right key to the cabinet (Wait!  Is that a double A or a single A key?) and distribute the lethal projectiles to his or her students before the shooter, presumably armed with assault rocks, comes barging into the room?  Or, and this certainly gives me pause, will the bucket of rocks be sitting by the classroom door under the bulletin board as the students walk in?  Will the kids, then, just pick a rock and put it in his or her pocket (Is that a rock in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?) to have handy in case of an armed intruder?

What if all those kids are armed with lethal river rocks and no intruder shows up?  I had a few sixth hour classes where the thought of 30 kids armed with rocks would certainly have made me work extra hard to create interesting lesson plans.  An idea like that might even take the place of pay for performance contracts as a way to motivate all those lazy non-rock carrying teachers out there.  

I guess the idea behind the river rocks is that when the shooter breaks into the classroom, all the kids will stand up, start screaming "stone him, stone him, stone him" and he will end up like some biblical adulterer, dead under a pile of granite.  Of course, a handful of kids would end up dead as well, but that is the price we pay to guarantee the freedom of the NRA and the profit margin of gun manufacturers.

There is another rather large problem with the whole rock throwing scenario.  Kids today have rotten arms.  Have you seen them trying to play softball in the park?  Of course not.  They're too busy bullying each other on social media, arranging play dates, flash mobs, sharing gossip, and feeling ennui to work on their arms.  And what about primary grade kids?  Having a bucket of rocks at Sandy Hook probably would not have changed the outcome of that particular tragedy.  And that is not to mention the fact that most teachers, since we don't have driver's ed and shop anymore, are women.  At the risk of sounding like a sexist creep, women with rocks are no match for white supremacist nut cases with AR-15s.

*                  *             *                 *               *               *                *                  *                     *

Today is Palm Sunday, the first day of Holy Week in the Catholic calendar.  When I was an altar boy in Estes Park, this was my favorite time of year.  It was my chance to be a star.  Why was it my chance to be a star, you ask.  Because I was the head altar boy at Our Lady of the Mountains.  I worked my way up from Acolyte, to Thurifer, to Master of Ceremonies, that's what Father Sanger called the altar boy who got to stand next to him during high mass and see to it that all the candles were correctly lit, all the things needing incense were properly addressed, all the cruets and patens and bells were there at the ready.  

First, there was Palm Sunday.  My mom dropped me off at church at six in the morning and I served every mass.  Then came Holy Thursday, a high mass and the liturgy a reenactment of the Last Supper.  Good Friday wasn't a mass; it was just a solemn service commemorating Christ's passion, kind of like something Mel Gibson tried to do, but without the gore.  Then, my favorite, Holy Saturday, another high mass.  And the best part was by this time all the parishioners couldn't help but notice that I was a prominent figure at all these services.  When I walked out of the sacristy after it was over, it felt like my granddaughter Brooklyn must have felt when she emerged from the dressing room after "Seussical."  Easter Sunday was another day where I served every mass and had breakfast (lunch) with Father Sanger and his two sisters, Margaret and Bess, after the noon mass finished.  Then, after breakfast, Father Sanger would give me a ride home and I would go eat Easter candy and colored eggs with my family.

Holy Week isn't like that for me anymore, but I have to be careful.  I make it a point to steer clear of churches emptying out their well-dressed congregations because I can't help but get a little emotional and nostalgic for not only the theater of that week, but also for what used to be my faith.  

Have a blessed week.