Christmas Traditions

All year long I dream about certain Christmas traditions my family does to help with Christmas spirit. The month leading up to Christmas is full of traditions, but Christmas Eve is ever-so-special. Here's what we're doing today on Christmas Eve.

1. Wake up and take the chocolate out of the 24th pouch on our Christmas calendar.
2. Watch Polar Express for the thirty-second time this season.
3. String popcorn and cranberries for the Christmas tree.
4. Bring out the Christmas village and put it on the table.
5. Lunch: pigs in blankets
6. Mix oats and sprinkles for Santa's reindeer.
7. Watch the snow fly!
8. More food! Assorted cheeses, summer sausage, fudge, little smokies, olives, more pigs in blankets, fudge, etc. Snack all afternoon.
9. Watch A Christmas Carol.
10. Go out and look at lights, provided the snow doesn't hamper this. Take a tour of the Angel Festival out at the lake.
11. Read How the Grinch Stole Christmas and The Night Before Christmas.
12. Put kids to bed so that they can dream about sugar plums.
13. Watch the best Christmas movie ever, It's a Wonderful Life.
14. Take a nap.
15. Go to Midnight Mass. Usher in the first hour of Christmas the right way.

Whatever your Christmas traditions are, I hope you enjoy them and that God blesses you and your family!

Trans-Siberian Orchestra

I was shocked the first time I heard the Trans-Siberian Orchestra, and my brother Chris told me that it was Christmas music. To me Christmas music consisted of church songs, Peanuts Christmas Special, and for those more adventurous, the Grinch. But when I heard "Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24" for the first time, there was something there that lured me in. From then on it wasn't as if I were disrespecting Christmas by listening to them, but enhancing it. It's like enjoying fruit like bananas oranges and apples, then discovering mangoes.

A few opinions. Their CD Chrismas Eve and Other Stories is by far their best work, and it was their first. That's not to say that their work hasn't dropped off. Each CD has songs that I just love. And to dispel a myth, they aren't just hard rock, though they are often portrayed as such. Their accoustic stuff is good enough to listen to on Christmas Eve while staring enchantedly at a lit Christmas tree or on the way to Midnight Mass.

I am breaking this list down into three different lists: Electric (hard) Accoustic, and Narrative (telling a story.) So as always, feel free to debate, and have a Merry Christmas!

Electric Category:
1. "Wizards in Winter" (the one on the commercial with the blinking house lights- just awesome!)
2. "Christmas Eve/ Sarajevo 12/24"
3. "Ornament"
4. "A Mad Russian's Chrstmas"
5. "Midnight Christmas Eve"

Accoustic:
1. "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" (very beautiful)
2. "Dream Child"
3. "Christmas Jazz"
4. "The First Noel"
5. "The Silent Nutcracker"

Narrative:
1. "Old City Bar" (maybe a bit cheesy, but a good story of giving)
2. "The Snow Came Down"

Christmas Songs

Christmas break starts for me today, so instead of listening to Christmas songs in the car on the way to school, the radio in the kitchen is sure to be blaring the local Christian radio station all day long for the next week. What a special time of year! Really, is there such excitement at any other time of year? Well, that will probably be the topic for a future post. My last post covered my favorite a cappella Christmas songs, so as hard as it is, I will not repeat any of them... maybe. Below are my favorite Christmas songs played with a musical accompaniment... accompanyment... accompanement... er... played with instruments in the background. Sorry, too busy baking cookies to grab a dictionary. As always, feel free to debate. Hope your Christmas seaeson is full of the sounds of joy!

P.S. There are too many Trans-Siberian Orchestra songs to include on this list, so look for them in a future post between now and Christmas.

Descending order from really great to the greatest:
10. "White Christmas" -the Louis Armstrong version
9. "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy"-the Boston Pops Orchestra
8. "Tennessee Christmas"-Alabama
7. "I'll Be Home for Christmas"-Elvis
6. "Home for the Holidays"- Perry Como
5. "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year"-Andy Williams
4. "Blue Christmas"- Elvis
3. "The Christmas Song"-Nat King Cole (the 1961 version with strings)
2. "Christmastime Is Here"-The Charlie Brown Version
1. "Ave Maria"-Luciano Pavarotti

A Cappella

Most years from sometime late in October to the start of the new year, I listen to nothing but Christmas music. Of all the tunes and styles, I really enjoy A Cappella carols. It reminds me of all that's holy about Christmas Eve. So I would like to share with you my favorite A Capella Christmas songs in descending order to the greatest. If there is a song that you feel I left out or that should be on the list, feel free to comment. God bless you this Christmas season!

5. "Silent Night" (especially the German Version "Stille Nacht"
4. "The Holly and the Ivy"
3. "Rejoice, Rejoice, Emmanuel"
2. "Pit a Pan"
1. "Carol of the Bells"

Christmas Story '09

"Hunger for the Holidays"

Venison Shoulder Roast with Wild Mushrooms, Apples and Turnips. Venison Osso Buco with Israeli Couscous. Venison Backstrap with Pears, Red Wine, and Pickled Golden Raisins. These are the recipes that greeted me when the December issue of Field and Stream arrived at my house just before the start of the Oklahoma Deer Gun season, and I salivated at the possibilities for the dinner table on Christmas day. "America's Meat" was the title of the article and the variety of styles and the geographical location of each chef only backed up the title's claim. From the experts of the Cajun kitchens of New Orleans to the pretentiousness of ritzy five-star restaurants in New York, venison is a delicacy that those who don't hunt can only appreciate for its taste. Around here, well, that's another story.

Anyone who has ever eaten venison prepared correctly knows that there is nothing that even comes close in taste. The tenderness and flavor of a medium-rare backstrap over the grill is enough to make one wish for warmer grilling weather. A lean roast in the crockpot, "camp" chili, even deer jerky: these simple recipes had always been the fruits of the hard work when dragging a 200 pound deer out of the trees. When my shoulder would feel about ready to give, the thought of a freezer full of meat for the coming year was more than enough motivation to get the job done. So when I read these recipes and the taste buds started to water, the excitement of the hunt peaked. I pictured not just these staples on my plate, but all that came with the terroir of our red soil mixed with vast American cultures.

So on the opening morning of Oklahoma’s deer gun season, all the proper arrangements had been made Carrying my new rifle that my wife and her family bought me for my previous birthday, 6:30 found me in the exact same spot that I had been in three years before when I had taken my first doe on my wife's family land in Northwest Oklahoma. I recalled the joys of that hunt. I reminisced on the unseasonably-warm weather, the little forkhorn that trotted right up to my Dad and me, and its social awkwardness when we both smiled at it. And I gave great contemplation to the harvest later that week, of the doe who presented herself just a few moments before legal shooting light gave way to night. It fed me on cold winter days with warm bowls of chili. It fed five hungry fishermen after a long day of fly fishing in Colorado. Hamburgers in May, steaks in July, roasts in September, and none of it went to waste. Its sustenance was a special bond between a nostalgic hunter with only a doe tag on him and a giving God.

I peered southwest through the semi-darkness to the exact spot where my bullet had found its mark and I noted to my dismay that the vegetation and the growth of the tree branches of the little creek that traversed the property would impede any attempt at the same shot this year. I then glanced north at the open pasture where two years prior, with my brother sitting in the same spot my father had the year before, I created one of my biggest gaffs to date. With only a buck tag in my wallet, a decent eight-pointer came running to Chris' calling and did an about-face at ten yards when he caught wind of us. Though having girls on the mind, he stopped twenty-five yards away and gave me a clear shot. Someone once said that the two loudest sounds a hunter will ever hear is a boom when you expected a click, and a click when you expected a boom. Well, I got the latter.

It wasn't in the cards that year, unless one considers the deer. God mercifully gave life that day. The firing pin only nicked the surface of the primer and when he also heard the click, he took to his hooves. Though being girl crazy, he paused broadside once again at 100 yards and I apparently shot for 450 with my next round, all of which now makes my brother and me laugh at the remembering.

In the few years I had been able to hunt this little slice of heaven, I had already gathered many memories which always make for great conversation at reunions, or anytime for that matter. And despite not having any of my loved ones beside me to share the day's experience, I fully expected to make some new memories to share around the Christmas table or to rehash over a campfire in the Rockies with the guys. I suppose that is why I wasn't surprised when not fifteen minutes into shooting light, a nice doe appeared just to the west of my blind, browsing in the only clearing in the trees that afforded me a shot. As with most glorious moments, I found myself outside my body, watching with intense interest the scene unfolding before me. Time slowed to highlight-reel speed as the hunter raised his Remington 700 Magnum to his shoulders and made an impossible shot. At least that's how I would prefer to remember it (and undoubtedly that's how it will be told in Colorado with even more fantastic details to be made up by then,) but the truth of the matter is that all I had time to do was assess the deer and fire. Mercifully, it was over in five seconds or less. Despite the lack of drama, I was again thankful that God had provided, but interestingly He hadn't provided for me this time.

To play it safe, I had bought both a doe and a buck tag. I had planned on donating the first deer I harvested to Hunters Against Hunger for some family in need, but in speaking to my wife, I found out about a nearby family in need. When my father-in-law and I hauled the doe to their farm, they were thankful in receiving and answered yes when asked if they would take another one. To that point I had been wavering back and forth about the right thing to do. Venison Tenderloin with Sage, Pumpkin, and Prunes sounded awfully delicious, but the fact was that God had provided well for my family and any venison in my freezer, while certainly not going to waste, would be in excess to my needs. It's not coincidental that God made it to where the harvest season directly precedes the season for giving.

That next morning in the half-light of dawn and under almost the exact same circumstances as the morning before, an eight-pointer served as a second Christmas gift for that family. So on Christmas day when I am enjoying ham or turkey with my family, I will smile knowing that God has provided. Pan Roasted Venison with Jalapeno Sauce can wait until next Christmas.

Bye, Bye Beard (AKA The Miracles Behind Giving Thanks)

No Shave November? Not exactly. At the beginning of November I started a spiritual journey of transformation from one who relies on society to one who relies on the land for sustenance. As described in a previous blog (The Dear Beard, Nov. 8) man's natural rhythms which parallel nature's are mostly forgotten or blocked in an effort to merely survive the life that society dictates. It's only in changing one's frame of mind or immersing onself in nature that the primitive man can again regain his natural rhythm (and priorties for that matter.) Since immersion reqires on-site failure, I opted to change my frame of mind. Making an abstract concept tangible, I decided that a symbolic statement like growing out a November beard would prime my natural instincts. Well, tonight I shaved it all off in the wake of a miracle.

This was opening weekend of Oklahoma's deer gun season. Feeling lucky, or perhaps wanting to hedge my bets on selecting the sex of the deer that was to pass my stand, I opted to buy both a buck and a doe tag. My original intention was to butcher the first deer myself, something I have never done but have longed to do, so that we could have meat in the freezer for this winter. Being so fortuitous as to harvest the first deer, my intention then would focus on the philantrophic nature of the holiday season which is engrained in every red-blooded American, and not just during the holidays. Using the popular program Hunters against Hunger, I would then donate my second deer (again if I were lucky enough to get this far) to a processor who would then give the meat to needy families. Naturally, this entire plan was contingent on my harvesting two deer in two weeks. A few days before the start of the season, and at my wife's urging for she doesn't care much for venison, I decided that I would donate both deer. After all our needs are already provided for.

So Saturday morning I rose at five o'clock, made all preparations, rubbed my beard for good luck, and found myself sitting in my ground blind at 6:30. Legal shooting light officially began at 6:42 A.M. and eighteen minutes later my doe was on the ground. I had planned on one shooting lane and hoped for luck to bring my deer into that perfect position a mere forty yards from where I crouched behind some farm machinery. Thankfully God provided: the doe stopped in the right place and my bullet found its mark. In the process of field dressing the animal, my wife called and informed me of a family in need. It wasn't a large animal, weighing ninety pounds dressed, and of that ninety pounds, an estimated thirty-five percent of it was meat, but that meant that the family would eat through the holidays and part-way through the winter. And when I dropped off the deer at their doorstep to be butchered, a family of six with very little income was there with smiles of thanks that couldn't be substituted for a thousand words of the same. I felt a little like Ebeneezer Scrooge when he has the poulter deliver the prized turkey to Bob Cratchet's family. It was a lot more personal than putting change in the offering plate.

So it really surprised them this morning, the Sunday morning prior to Thanksgiving, when the offering plate went around twice. A buck this time, fifteen minutes later than the doe the day before, stood in the exact same spot and again the bullet ran straight. Being much larger than the doe, this animal will surely feed them through the winter and well into 2010. Again the smiles on the "Cratchet" children did my soul well for God always provides. Going to church on Sunday is important, but doing God's work is like putting your money where your mouth is. Never have I had a deer hunt run this smoothly nor have I had success come so easily. And lightning never strikes twice in the same place. So to have two deer on the ground twenty-four hours and fifteen minutes apart under these circumstances is nothing short of miraculous. That's how I see it through my human eyes, but I know that it's just part of a day's work for the Big Man.

And so on my way home this afternoon, I recalled writing that I would have to find a reason to keep my beard after deer season, but for one of the only times in my life (and the first time in many years) I felt a strange sense of completion. Mission accomplished. There was now no reason to keep the fuzz. Going into this Thanksgiving week, I thank God for all the little "miracles" that sustain those in need.

Pre Mature Christmas Spirit Disorder (PMCSD)

"PMCSD Pandemic Strikes America"

Public service announcement from the Centers for Disease Control

Ponca City, Oklahoma (AP)

It's late at night. You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. There's the crackling of firewood in the fireplace. The smell of a cinamon candle, long-ago extinguished, still scents up the house. In the fridge, clear in back on the bottom shelf where nobody else dares to look, resides a pint of November egg nog that seems to be calling your name. From up in the attic the fake branches of the Christmas tree seem to be scratching at its cardboard box, itching to be released. From the roof you hear a thump and what appears to be a slight jingling of bells. Could it be real, or could your ears be playing tricks on you?

You turn on the television and the first thing that appears is a commercial for a popular clothing store. Not a big deal until you see ten dancing actors decked in Christmas sweaters, scarves, and wintery boots, jitterbugging to an upbeat version of "Rocking Around the Christmas Tree." You find yourself bopping to the beat. The egg nog calls your name. There's a pecan log roll hidden in the "what-not" drawer, whispering sweet nothings to you. You have a wrapped present hidden in a place nobody else would dare to look- the crawl space under the house. Insomnia leads you to your movie collection where A Christmas Story jumps into your hand. The clock on the wall announces that a new day has just begun. The calendar on the wall by the DVD player proclaims that Thanksgiving is still a few weeks away. You hold the DVD out, the DVD player's open mouth begs you to put it in and press play. And then you stop in your tracks. A cold, sober thought strikes you. You vocalize it:

"I have a problem!"

What you have just read is a true story. It's happening every day. If this sounds familiar, you or someone you know could be suffering from Pre Mature Christmas Spirit (PMCSD) a medical condition that affects the centers of the brain which sense tidings of comfort and joy. PMCSD is not a joke, nor should it be taken lightly. The CDC has classified it as an pandemic that is sweeping the nation. The onset of PMCSD tends to coincide in timing with the flu bug, only its symptoms differ greatly. Such symptoms include but are not limited to the following.

1) Frequent trips to the Wal Mart seasonal department to contemplate buying a new Christmas tree or a CD such as A Chipmonk Christmas.

2) Staring enchantedly at fantasy Chrstmas villages in little mall giftshops.

3) Hallucinations of talking snowmen.

4) Shouting out popular lines from Christmas movies such as, "You'll shoot your eye out!" while walking through Cabelas, or "Behold! The Griswald family Christmas tree!" while deer gather around your tree stand during hunting season.

5) Overwhelming desires for roasted chestnuts, cold noses, and choirs singing around fires.

Treatments vary on a case-by-case basis but popular remedies include the following:

1) Classifying the annual White House Christmas tree as a "Holiday Tree."

2) Illegalizing nativity scenes.

3) Allowing school districts to call the Christmas break a "Winter Break."

There is no cure for PMCSD. Any symptom needs to run its course. If you observe anyone exhibiting any of these characteristics, stand back and either let the episide pass or alert any trained medical personnel on the site. Symptoms tend to wear off in January, though in some tougher cases it takes the coming of the Easter bunny to get the patient to take down the Christmas tree.

Boy How I Love Fantasy Football

It's Monday night. The Steelers are playing the Broncos and are leading by a score of 21-10 with less than a minute to go. The Broncos are out of timeouts and Pittsburgh has the ball on the Broncos three yard line on a third down. There's very little tension in the air because the contest has already been decided. It would be near impossible for the Broncos to come back and win.

Option #1- In reality, all Pittsburgh has to do is get into victory formation, take the snap, kneel down on the ball, and let the clock run down to a few piddly seconds before taking the last snap. At best the Broncos would get the ball back within their own five yard line with ten seconds left, still down eleven points. Game over. Before I write down what actually happened, allow me give some other options for Pittsburgh on that third down and goal.

Option #2- Pittsburgh runs the ball up the middle with their best running back, Rashard Mendenhall, who bangs down to the one yard line, setting up fourth and goal where they run the same play. Score or not, Pittsburgh still wins the game.

Option #3- Ben Roethlisburger, the Steeler's QB fakes the handoff and runs a bootleg around the end for the score (or not.) Pittsburgh wins.

Option #4- Play action pass to the tight end in the back of the end zone for a score. If it's not open, QB takes the sack and the clock continues to run. Pittsburgh wins.

Option #5- The running back takes the direct snap from the center in a "Wildcat" formation and runs the ball into the end zone or gets stopped short. Time runs out. Pittsburgh wins.

Now I could go on and on with scenerios like this that are more likely than the one that played out, but here's what actually happened. Despite not needing to score again to secure the win, Roethlisburger takes the snap and throws a quick screen to veteran (euphemism for over the hill) receiver Hines Ward. Ward catches the ball on the three yard line, turns around to see a defender come at him to stop him short. This man at the end of his career (and more than a step slower than when he was in his prime) does his best high-hurdler imitation, jumping right over the tackler like a deer jumping a five-strand barbed-wire fence, and trotted into the end zone for the unnecessary score. I am a big Pittsburgh Steelers fan. Have been since 1978 when I was three, just old enough to start enjoying football. Steelers fans across the nation cheered wildly at the unexpected pass and score.

I screamed at the tv, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Why? Simple: I play fantasy football, and my opponent had Hines Ward in his starting line up. Before that fateful play, I was winning my fantasy football game by a score of 70-64. Every time a fantasy football owner's player scores a touchdown, it counts as six points toward the FF owner's team score that week. When Hines Ward scored on that play, one of the last of the game, and decidedly unneeded, I went from a sure win to a tie. One seemingly inconsequential play in a seemingly inconsequential football game turned my night, and season around. Instead of my record moving from 5-3 to 6-3, my record now stands at 5-3-1. Instead of being one game out of first place (which is an automatic spot in the playoffs) and playing the team directly ahead of me in the standings for the lead in the division the next week, I now stand at one and one-half games behind the leader, and with only a few weeks left in the season, my playoff chances have taken a serious hit. Big deal, right? Not when you consider that the payout for first place is $150, which would be really nice going into the holiday season. Grrrrr.

The exact opposite fate befell me a few years back. Needing a touchdown from my running back Brian Westbrook to win my fantasy football playoff game for a spot in the finals (with a payout of $300 no less!) Westbrook took the handoff from the opponent's fifteen yard line, broke free and headed untouched for the end zone. I raised my hands and cheered "YES!" from the tops of my lungs, UNTIL...

I screamed at the tv "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

See, there were only a few minutes left in the game for the Eagles. If they were to score, it would give their opponent an opportunity to get the ball back and try for the win. Westbrook knew all he needed was a first down so the Eagles could run out the clock. In what has been hailed as one of the smartest plays in NFL history, Westbrook slowed down and purposfully fell to his knees on the one yard line, one yard short of the touchdown. He was called down, the Eagles ran out the clock and won the game. And if he had been selfish like so many in the NFL and focused on his stats, he would have scored the touchdown, given me the six points, and I would have cruised into the championship game, much, much richer.

My buddy Kirk (who happens to be the one directly ahead of me in the standings) and I have a long-standing argument. He thinks that fantasy football is more about skill than luck. It is my contention that luck plays just as much a role in winning a fantasy football game as skill does. No matter who is right (I am) fate can sometimes have a cruel sense of humor. Boy how I love fantasy football.

The Deer Beard

"It's a deer beard."

That was my response to my wife this morning when she asked me why I wasn't shaving for church. I had managed to get away with a week's worth of growth before she noticed it, or at least commented on it. It's no secret in the Shelton household that my wife prefers me clean shaven. And it's no secret that at certain times of the year, for reasons that I can't explain, I must grow out facial hair. It's that simple. For ten years now I have had an unexplainable urge to sport a beard around November and through December. Now psychologists could have a heyday with this kind of primal thinking, but having just read the book Wild at Heart I got my answer, or at least the answer that I always felt was now put into words. But before I go into that, let me chronicle my excuses of the past.

In 1997 I took a fly-fishing trip to the San Juan River in NW New Mexico with a college buddy of mine a week before Christmas. Knowing that the mountains are a cold place, especially in December, I reasoned that I needed warmth for my cheeks. After all I would have on a coat, gloves, and a stocking cap. The lower half of my body would be in waders, so that left my face, and the beard was born. It felt almost as if I were breaking the law. A gentleman must be clean shaven and presentable, but that's a societal rule (long-forgotten anyway) and I was heading out to the wilderness. It was a wilderness complete with paved roads and parking lots right on the river, but it's the romantic premise of westward expansion, the exploring of a new territory that hooked me.

After all, Indiana Jones never went on any adventure without his hat.

So the next year and in years since, when I have had the same opportunity in what has turned out to be a yearly tradition, the winter expedition has always been accompanied by a beard. Each city has a heartbeat and one must attune himself to its rhythms, unnatural as they may be. Patience isn't a virtue of city life. It's stop and go traffic, cursing while in line five minutes at McDonalds for food it would have taken twenty minutes to prepare while at home, if one even had the ingredients to begin with. Bell schedules at school, time cards at work, alarm clocks in the morning. All of these annoyances are very unnatural to a man with a wild heart.

A standard fishing trip may start with a twelve-hour drive through New Mexico (a state that my brother affectionately refers to as "The Way to Colorado") at seventy-five miles per hour. The driver is hopped up on convenience store coffee, Red Bull, and gut bomb burritos. He just left the impatient rhythms of the city, exchanged them for the impatient rhythms of the highway, and is headed for the trout stream where the fish work at their own rhythm. If a fisherman were to fish to the trout with the same impatient rhythm he has used in city and highway life, he's apt to get frustrated at the lack of "luck."

And so every fishing trip, the first two or three hours are usually spent fishless, trying to figure out what "the fish are biting on." In reality the fisherman just isn't on the same page with the fish. So once he gets his city casting out of the way and heads for a new hole, he in-turn gets a new lease on life. This is where "Natural Ryan" is reborn.

So my thinking was that in growing out the beard, I would be preparing myself weeks in advance for slowing down to the rhythms of the natural world. It's sort of the "working up an appetite" theory, kind of like how we listen to Christmas music weeks before Christmas, or in my case, November, if I can hold out that long.

And so every year when the weather turned cooler, instinct would kick in. The geese start to fly south, the squirrels load up on acorns, and I forget my razor. And according to Wild at Heart this is perfectly natural. Man was never meant to be strapped down by society's softening rules. Before you get the wrong idea, let me make this statement: I don't mean that Man can just go do anything he wants to like murder. That's not the natural state of Man I am referring to. It just means that Man by nature must proove himself to feel worthy, seek out adventure, smile in the face of danger, overcome obstacles. It is imbedded in a man's soul to fly in order to be a man and the hindering of a man's sense of adventure is emasculating at best. It's this sense of adventure that is tied into the natural rhythms of life outside of a societal governing body. It is this sense of adventure that makes a man feel like a man in a world where it's illegal, at least according to tv. I don't need to grow out a beard to feel like a man, but when I sigh in the morning as I get out of bed and face another day at work, it sure helps.

Hunt, fish, gather, provide, build, create, live. Those are man's natural rhythms. So when it gets cold out, one must use what God gave him. Jeremiah Johnson wouldn't have dared live in the mounatins without a beard. Heck, Chuck Norris. Need I say more?

But trying to put this into words when put on the spot is nearly impossible. It's just as impossible to try to explain this manly need to a woman, just as it's impossible for a woman to explain the womanly needs that a man doesn't understand. It's not wrong. It's just our natural rhythms and we are as subject to their laws as we are to the law of gravity.

So this December is the first time since 1997 that I won't be heading out to trout water. It just didn't work out in the scheduling. I can see this far enough in advance to be already be grieving the loss of Natural Ryan, but never to fear, deer season is only a few weeks away and with it an opportunity to get back to nature, if only for a weekend. And so in preparation for my wife's question this morning, I knew I couldn't be caught off guard and give some cheap answer like "Holiday Beard" or "because it looks better with a sweater," both answers I have given in the past. The problem is that deer season will be over when December gets here and Natural Ryan will not have migrated back to society just yet.

I still have a few weeks to come up with my next excuse.

Acorns

A few weeks ago I pulled onto our street at twilight to see three deer browsing in our neighbor's yard. Our street is lined with pin oaks that drop their tiny acorns about the time the street lights up with brilliant reds, oranges, and yellows. Of course it's not wise to park one's car in the street during the Autumn season for fear of what appears to be hail dents, but the local wildlife sure enjoy the bumper crop. So I guess it should come as no surprise to me what I ran into tonight.

I have a street course I run to stay in shape. It winds around our horseshoe, up a hill, and onto a beautiful brick street full of doctors and retirees. At the end of the street around a bend is a public garden with every flower, plant, and tree conceivable. Oaks, maples, willows and the like traverse its landscape. Directly across the street are a few houses and a church with, you guessed it, more oak trees. Tonight as I ran beneath the full moon, I heard a crash off to my right along with the sound of crunching leaves. Twenty yards in front of me trotted four does crossing the street, white flags waving back and forth with each step. Three of them high tailed it for the cover of a line of trees while one, a yearling, stopped right underneath a street light so that I could get a better look at her. If I were to look long enough, I could probably see the last fading spots of childhood.

Quickening the pace to the beat of my heart, I ran straight for her, if only for the reason that I was already heading that way. The fawn quickly found that it was alone, and when her mother snorted from a distance, she too raised her white tail and ran for cover. My breath was short and my lungs burned from the cool air, but I kept my pace anyway, my energy renewed. A deer's beauty and grace is something that never fails to excite me.

Faith, Hope, and Love

I just found out tonight that a dear friend, Jeanie Peay, passed away after a long battle with cancer. I am in shock right now, and what words I type for the sorrow I am feeling cannot come close to describing what is on my heart. But I know God is speaking to my heart right now, comforting when all that can be found are tears wrought with anguish. For I know that there are many reasons to be joyful at her homecoming, and as a Christian I must find solace and smile through the pain. I pray that my words come close to doing justice for the memory of a woman who helped plant her seeds of faith in my heart.

When I was a child, our families were friends with each other. My dad worked with Jeanie's husband, Jeanie and my mom were friends, and their three children were friends with my brother, sister, and me. I have many fond memories of going to their farm to hang out with them, play tag in the barnyard and such games boys play with girls as children. When they moved away, it was difficult to remain close, and it wasn't until tragedy struck that I was led back to their family.

In 1997 the middle daughter, Amie, was murdered in a robbery as she worked in a sandwich shop in Wichita. She was in college at the time, and when I received the news, it hit me like a punch to the stomach. Though I hadn't talked to her in six months, it still felt like a part of me was taken away. That night I sat in bed in my dormitory, unable to sleep, unable to think, unable to forgive. God was number one on my list of enemies. Over and over I questioned how God could allow this to happen to a wonderful Christian woman, someone who dedicated her life to the Lord and His ministries with her various missions. It just wasn't fair. And the longer I thought about it, the madder I got until I knew that my soul was in danger. I knew I needed to pray, knew I needed to ask for forgiveness for such thoughts, but I couldn't. I just couldn't.

About three in the morning I called a friend on the phone, and to her credit, she asked no questions, but just listened to me. After I had demonstrated my lost faith, she cradled me in her prayer, loving me when I couldn't love anything. After I hung up, I fell asleep, but I didn't feel much better. That was until I went to the funeral.

The whole city of Wichita was up in arms over the senseless murder. The pews were packed, television crews lined the back wall, and from my vantage point towards the rear, I couldn't really see much.

But it was what I heard that changed my life forever.

It was mentioned that Amie had somehow known that her time on earth was quickly coming to a close. So in preparation, she had asked not for sorrow at her funeral, but rejoicing. So we stood and sang praise and worship songs, cheerful ones. I say "we" but at first it was "they" because I was shocked. All the hatred I had inside me was being tossed like a salad and I didn't know what was happening inside of me. And lost somewhere in the joyful music, I started crying and I found my words, words of joy that I sang at the top of my voice. I knew then that God had a master plan and as tough as it was (and still is) I knew Amie's death wasn't for nothing. She had died so that I could live. I immediately accepted Jesus into my heart and felt the love that Amie had felt all along.

Both of Amie's parents were models for me also. They spent many hours and days comforting Amie's friends with a covering of prayer. Her father told a newspaper reporter, "They would become enveloped by that prayer covering and go out to minister to other heartbroken friends. At this point I believe the scales began to literally fall from our eyes, and we now began to see with spiritual eyes, the plan unfolding that God had set in motion when He sent the gift of Amie to this world."

From that day on I have felt the mission of sharing Jesus.

That Fall I went hunting with Amie's dad, who told me that he and Jeanie had to forgive the men who murdered Amie. They sat with the murderers' parents and wept together. I hadn't forgiven those evil men as of yet, but there I sat at a table in a small diner, clad in hunter orange, listening to a life lesson from a man who had more right than me to harbor a grudge. I was ashamed of myself. I think of that conversation from time to time and I still am amazed at what love Amie's parents had.

Jeanie was diagnosed with cancer some five or so years back, though it seems longer. She was not given a very promising outlook, but if there was a person in the world who could lick this, it was her! Upbeat, positive, and full of faith, hope, and love, she fought it head on. Last Fall, the last time I was to speak to her, she called me on the phone for a hotel listing in Ponca City, the town I live in, because, I found out, she was taking flights out of Ponca to go to Houston for treatments. Of course it wasn't just a five minute conversation. We got to talking about everything important about life. We talked about Amie, how she affected so many lives, and I couldn't help but think that the same was true of the Godly woman I was talking to. She said that every time she talked to the doctor, the doctor would give her the same prognosis: essentially that she had a very short time left. Of course the doctor had been giving her the same news for years! How she had the strength to keep fighting, keep proving the doctors wrong, I'll never know.

She confided to me that she missed Amie a lot, and I agreed. She said that she was so ready for God to bring her and Amie back together, but God has other plans, and as a servant to Him, she would go on living life and loving until it was time for Him to call her home. When we said our good byes, I didn't think it would be the last time. If there was anyone who could have the strength to keep fighting, it was Jeanie. I knew she would continue to struggle, but I prayed for God to bless her and those with whom she came into contact.

So tonight I found out that she had lost her battle with cancer back in March. Just like twelve years ago, the news took my breath away. I just knew that she was still going strong. She had to be. In my own cowardice, I lived through her to find strength, just as I had when Amie died. I somehow thought that I too might be strong just by knowing her, just by being a small part of her life. And it hurts. It aches inside because it reminds me of the pain I felt when Amie died, but it is somehow different now. Amie did her work with me. She placed me on my feet, and many people since have showed me how to walk. In Jeanie's case she showed me how to keep walking, even when I feel I can't. Through my selfish tears right now, I can't help but smile, knowing that Jeanie and Amie have been reunited. Oh! To feel that love! What it must be like!

"My ears had heard of you
but now my eyes have seen you."
Job 42: 5

Saved by the Bell

I love Saved by the Bell. There, I said it. Notice the present tense. I didn't use the word "loved" nor did I qualify the statement with some sort of deflecting argument. It was great back in the late eighties and early nineties when I was the same age as the kids at Bayside, and it's still great now. And much to my wife's chagrin, I am no longer in the closet about this topic.

Every morning I get up and turn the television to Sports Center while eating breakfast. It's a masculine move that satisfies the masculine front that I have acquired over the years, which is all very good. My wife does her best to oblige my need for sports in the morning, making casual conversation about the Viking's 5-0 start and how much of that can be attributed to Brett Favre's leadership. But as soon as she leaves the room and the sports coverage turns to racing or something equally boring, I turn it to TBS to catch a re-run of the best teen show ever.

Now this was a secret I managed to keep from her for quite some time, years in fact, but somewhere along the way I got sloppy. Maybe I left it on while putting a dish away in the kitchen. Maybe I was tending to my kids' breakfasts. But when she would enter the room and see what was on, I could only deny it for so long. "Honestly honey, I was channel surfing. I was looking for Dirty Harry on AMC. Channel 46 and Channel 48 are almost the same! I must have hit the 8 on accident. It's an honest mistake!"

But somewhere along the way, she stopped believing me and I stopped trying to hide it. I'm sure that she enjoyed the show when she was a kid also, but her tv viewing has matured to Fox News in the morning. Me? I'm just trying to take a trip down memory lane.

In high school I idolized Zack Morris. I had my hair cut like his, wore preppy clothes, and even my best friends like Bobby called me "Preppy." I always longed for Zack and Kelly to work things out, for A.C. Slater to dump that nut job Jessie Spanno, and for Lisa Turtle to be civil to Screech. I grew bold with Zack's antics and ploys to win over Kelly and fool Mr. Belding. I lifted weights to look like Slater (that didn't work out very well.) And when I was a freshman in college, the Bayside Boys also experienced their first year of dorm life. So when the show started to fail with nighttime audiences, I was overjoyed that they brought back Kelly's character and wondered why Barton County C.C. couldn't also have coed dorms! How cool would that have been? It would have been like a compromise between real life and Ally McBeal's coed bathroom (which, for the record, I was against and still am.) When Saved by the Bell, The College Years was canceled, I became depressed, so depressed that the cheesy movies the group did like the one in Hawaii and Zack and Kelly's Vegas wedding didn't do anything to give me closure. All I had left was 90210.

And so I became a closet Bell head. I grew older, started losing my hair and gaining table muscle, but Saved by the Bell kept me young, and keeps me young today. As a teacher, I see that kids have changed since 1993 and it makes me sad, much the way any generation is saddened by its youthful passing and all that goes with it. I look back at old pictures of myself and what my wife calls funny, I call home (girls' big hair, fuchsia pink and lime green shirts, Z Cavarichi's, and high top basketball shoes.) When the Saved by the Bell Reunion edition of People Magazine came out in August, I quickly coveted it, reading the article before even picking up my Field and Stream. The era never dies because every morning at 6:00 I can turn on the tube and know that this art has transcended time, as most art does. And every time Mr. Belding sends Zack Morris to detention, I can secretly live my past vicariously through him.

By the way, what's up with Screech nowadays? What a moron!

Smiling

Yesterday I came home from work, my shins aching, knees creaking, and temples pounding. My lectures were met with blank stares and the proverbial rolling of the eyes. One class challenged my every word with arrogance, flippancy, and the general hostility that is usually reserved for parents who "unfairly" ground them because they didn't do what they were supposed to do, like make the grade. Frankly, they were hoping for this part-Irish man to blow his stack (a general occurrence nowadays with the pressure I put on myself to make all my students pass,) so that their attitudes would be justified. Sternly, I let them know that my job is to force them to pass this class and that I would use all means necessary to "steer" them to the same conclusion, including calling their parents. Of course this meant groundings which made me target number one for their anger.

So falling back on my more patient English side, I kept my cool, informed them that their poor attitudes only feuled my desire to make them succeed, and that I would win in the end. I then informed them that I was expecting thank you letters in the year 2020 when they would be twenty-five and mature enough to understand why I was being so tough on them. Struggle diffused, we finished the lecture notes, learning may or may not have occurred and the kids went their own separate ways which brings us full circle now, which is oh so interesting.

At 3:11 when my last student vacated my room, I wasn't smiling.

But difficulty brings out two sides of me: the philosophical side and the cynical side, but not necessarily in that order. Okay, not in that order at all. While fuming I remarked to a collegue that one of the toughest parts to teaching is not getting to see the finished product. I've been teaching for ten years now, which is more than enough time to start receiving said letters from former students to justify my headaches, but such have been few and far between.

But I have to remind myself that God works in his own time and that His time is perfect. So to speak generally about His perfect timing, I received an e-mail today from two former students who had moved away. Students such as they are mature beyond their years and constitute the minority that I should focus on in times of hardship in the trenches of my classroom. I won't break the confidentialities of these two cherished students (and I do cherish and love all my students, tough love included,) but I will say their vote of confidence was encouraging. It's nice to hear that I made a difference and I will use this on Monday when I bring my blue collar attitude, pick axe, and lunch box back to my trench and try again to make a difference in a student's life.

P.S. Thank you, you two!!!

The Irony of Getting What You Want, Part II

In high school in the early nineties, my biggesgt goal was not to do well academically, but to make it to State in any sport. Well, I stunk at wrestling, so that was never going to happen. Our football team my senior year, fell just short of knocking off Scott City, the four-time undefeated defending state champions, in a game that would have sent us to the state playoffs. That next spring in the tennis match to determine who would make the state tournament, the team my doubles partner and I played against cheated on ten line calls and we lost a close third set. I had done everything I could to win the match, but it wasn't to be. I remember the feeling of rejection as I climbed a hill overlooking the tennis courts in a park in Pratt, Kansas, thinking, "That's it. Three strikes. There are no more chances. IT'S OVER." Doom. Impending doom.

I was given a second chance my Sophomore year in college in 1995. Playing the number six spot for a good junior college team, I had match point to go to Nationals! All I had to do was win ONE POINT! I served a huge kick serve down the middle to the deuce court, a strategy that had successfully gotten me to that point, and my opponent, some surfer punk from California, returned the ball right at me. As I came up to volley, I had an easy shot to put the ball away. I had hit that very shot thousands of times for winners. There was no way I was going to screw it up. Then fate reared its ugly head. As it came at me, the ball, instead of hitting the net or crossing over it cleanly to connect with my racket, instead clipped the net cord, jumped up into the air and over my head, landing in the court behind me. Guaranteed victory turned into the agony of defeat five minutes later and after the match, I sat down on my rump besides that stinking net and let the tears flow. There were no two ways about it. I was destined to be a loser. That was as close as I ever made it to Nationals.

Let's turn the clock back a bit now. In 1985 the Kansas City Royals won the World Series and we rejoiced. In ’88 Danny and the Miracles made their surprise run from the number 6 seed to the NCAA championship at Kemper, and we rejoiced again. Rooting for winning teams was easy when championships came so readily. We the fans found confidence in our own abilities because our heroes showed us how it was done. In '88 I was only eight years removed from the Steelers’ last Super Bowl title, so I just knew they would be coming around soon also. Law of averages, right? But then the drought hit and none of my teams won their respective championships. The Royals just plain stunk (and still do,) the Jayhawks came close a time or two but never made it over the hump, and the Steelers failed to put that fifth ring on their owner's thumb.

It was rumored that Fenway Park would be closing its doors, so in 2001 my friend Tad and I took a trip to New England to catch a Boston Red Sox game and pay tribute to one of three truly historic ball MLB ball parks. I wasn't particularly a Sox fan, but I rooted for them because they were about the only team that had a shot at beating the Yankees. By this time, the Royals had become nothing more than a farm club for the Yankees. The Royals would groom their players to maturity and the Yankees would welcome them with open arms and an open check book. Needless to say, I was shopping around for a team to root for. And on that trip I fell in love with the Sox.

So three years later when the Sox were down to the Yankees three games to zero in the ALCS, I had given them up for dead. The Sox were the American League version of the Cubs: lovable losers. But then something miraculous happened. Base hit, pinch runner, stolen base, rbi, Sox win. That little string of events took less than ten minutes to occur, but it started a turn around that hasn't seen an end yet. The Sox became the only team to come back from three games down in a best of seven series, and eventually took out the Cardinals in the World Series for their first championship since 1918. Sixteen years without without one of my teams winning a championship, and I just knew all the weight of losing would be off my shoulders. But what I felt wasn't relief. It was... nothing.

At first I thought I was just in shock, but a few days later, I still didnt' feel fulfilled like I thought I would be. My grandmother had passed away a few weeks before, so I thought it might just be residual depression, which would be totally understandable, but as time went on, I felt no great insights into what it meant to be a winner again. So I justified it. I hadn't really put in my dues to fully consider myself a member of Red Sox Nation, so I couldn't really share in their joy. Yes, that had to be it.

But the next year, my beloved Steelers won Super Bowl XL. Afterward, as I waited again for the feeling of relief, nothing came. Just as no happiness entered my soul when the Sox won the World Series again in 2007. Just as I wasn't fulfilled when my Jayhawks won the NCAA basketball championship in 2008, or when my Steelers added a sixth ring to Mr. Rooney's other hand just last February. Don't get me wrong. These were great moments, and five championships in six years is bordering on gluttony, but none of them filled the hole I had carved out in my heart for just such an occasion.

Maybe as a kid I would have appreciated these five championships more. Maybe I had grown up and I now saw sports as entertainment, not life or death (then why do I still yell at the TV?) But maybe if childhood dreams aren't fulfilled at a certain age, then they won't ever be. Maybe it's not merely enough to take pride in rooting for the winning team. I'm too old to be much of a competative player at any sport. I was down for a week this summer after playing in a tennis tournament in Wichita (in which I took 5th out of 8.) So if winning isn't important in life, what is? I guess that if I learned anything from all my near misses in high school and college, it was to accept losing as a part of life? To hold my head up high and know I gave it my all when my entire being knew that if I only had had a little more to give, then elation would replace the feeling of agony?

Holding oneself up to such lofty standards as champion is dangerous. Only the top one percent of one percent can claim that prize. But I think back to the RC car I mentioned in Part I of this post. I had simply yearned for it with not the slightest hope of ever receiving it, and once it was mine, it simply ceased to be special. It held flaws that lessened its value, not attaining the bar that my imagination had raised. If we had gone down the field and scored on Scott City instead of throwing an interception that was returned for a touchdown in the last minute, would I have felt complete? If those jerks had called a fair match my senior year, would I have been at peace with myself? If my serve had been returned by the beach boy one-half inch higher or lower, would it have atoned for all the agony of the past? At the time, and just a few years ago I would have said, "YES! A RESOUNDING YES!" But now... now I think it would have just been an empty feeling.

It would have been nice to find out though.

The Irony of Getting What You Want, Part I

When I was eight, I fell in love.

It was Christmas season and the family ran up to Great Bend one Saturday to do our Chrstmas shopping. I remember Mom needed to go to Sears to pick up a package she had ordered, and when we got up to the desk, right there in full sight of all kids who visited the store was a remote-controlled race car! Now it wasn't one of those expensive gas-powered ones that real RC owners used, but for twenty-five or thirty dollars, it was all but out of reach. Remember that this was 1983 and we weren't exactly rolling in the dough. Santa Clause would visit our house every year, but to even suggest that Saint Nick might find me good enough to warrant such an expensive gift was a bit wishfull. Be that as it may, I didn't care. I was drunk with the passion of the spirit of receiving and only came back down to earth after Mom took one look at the price tag.

Still for the next few weeks, all I could think of was the car. Teal with a silver racing stripe on the hood and a fierce looking lobo on the side, I could just picture myself at the controls, weaving through a slalom course littered with such obstacles as Lincoln logs and G.I. Joes. I envisioned myself as James Bond (the Sean Connery version, of course) saving the free world from imminent danger. In fact, I wasn't just behind the controls, my imagination put me behind the wheel and the green shag carpet of our living room became a jungle I had to traverse in order to steal some secret Soviet documents. So even though I got a bad vibe in the store, I just knew Santa would come through, especially since I had been so nice to Ms. Strauss, my second grade teacher who I swore must have spent most of her time sucking on lemons to achieve the look on her face when I raised my hand to ask a question. Never mind that I day-dreamed in her class all that month about the car.

On Christmas morning, my brother Chris and I snuck downstairs at 5:00 A.M. to snare our stockings, an annual tradition that I still keep, and I couldn't help but peer under the tree for any new developments. Sure enough, in the dim light of the colored bulbs on the tree, I could make out Santa's face on the wrapping paper of a few new presents. And about an hour later, high on the sugar content of pecan logs and heightened expectations, we woke up our parents (who probably hadn't gotten much sleep while taking care of our nine-month-old baby sister.) Like a ticker-tape parade I tore the wrapping paper into confetti and screeched with delight to see the teal RC car that I had dreamed about and just knew was out of reach. Mom made me wait until after breakfast (and sunrise) before I took my dream present out for a spin.

The first course I decided on was our front-yard sidewalk, not exactly an obstacle course, but a hands-on lesson in plate tectonics. With controls in hand and excitement pounding through my veins, I pushed the accelerator button with my thumb and unleashed fury. The wheels didn't spin out like I had expected, and the car took a few seconds to get up any speed at all. Of course before it could reach its terminal velocity of two mph, the allignment forced the car to the left and it flipped upside down in the yellow grass by the big elm in front of our house. Undeterred, I righted the ship and gave it another try, ten feet to be exact until the front bumper came to a rather abrupt stop at one of the aforementioned tectonic plates that had risen from the sidewalk like a mountain range. I was only starting to get discouraged.

It took a few tries, but I finally managed to keep it going in a straight line, save for the cracks in the sidewalk, but my imagination wasn't spurred like I had expected. I couldn't see myself behind the wheel like before. It felt more like having a glorified match box car, but even the match box cars I had allowed for more imagination than this. After fifteen minutes the batteries went dead and I walked in the house dejected. I'm sure I replaced the batteries and raced it more than that one Christmas morning, but no other memories stick out. The toy was put in the toy box and my imagination took over any time a Saturday-morning commercial would show me the newest toy on the market. What went wrong?

I had built it up in my head to be better than it was. Even if the car would have been a gas-powered beast, it probably wouldn't have lived up to my daydreams. That's the problem with imagination. Is this how we view life too?

tweet, tweet, tweedle-dee-deet

This past July I was fly fishing a particularly beautiful stretch of the Conejos River in South Central Colorado. Up above 10,000 feet elevation, the canyon water, mostly melted snow from the towering peaks all around me, rushed hard and fast downhill, crashing into one bend and then crossing over itself and slamming into the next like a stir-crazy kid stuck in his bedroom. Breaking the pace from time-to-time, it would slow down enough to speed-walk through a short meadow until it eventually lagged and loitered into what is Platoro Reservoir just a few hundred yards below where I was stationed. Up in the canyon all civilization ceases to exist. The smells and sounds of city life are replaced with the fragrance of fresh mountain rain and the whisper of innocence.

Just looking up at the remains of snow-capped peaks, you could just swear that you could touch the last spindly trees that made up the tree line if you reached far enough. Just out of reach, that romantic idealism makes you swear it would be but the work of a few minutes trek uphill to be the king of the world. As it is, at 10,000 you are at least a prince. That lack of oxygen that affects the trees also has a profound effect on the lungs of this man used to fishing muddy water 9,000 feet closer to the elevation of the ocean. So casting away my romantic feelings toward altitude sickness, I settled instead for a lesson in hard-nosed brown trout and what turned into a great lesson in life.



I was working a fascinating bend. The water, in its crash course, ran hard against a ledge rock that stretched straight up into the sky for forty feet, a beautiful ambush spot for any cougar with a taste for ignorant flatlanders. The water that rushed past the ledge couldn't have come up past my knees, yet it held a few selective brown trout that had, to that point, passed up my offerings. Despite swearing that I was matching the hatch of mayflies that presently buzzed the water (and many of which became trout food for the eager fish swirling around the run) my imitations possessed a quality that these educated fish deemed unacceptable.



Now it's during these moments where fish are eating, just not what you are feeding them, that a fly fisherman's mind goes to work. All thoughts of the job back home, bills, affairs of the heart, or anything else which causes tension in the shoulders seems to leak out of the fly fisherman's brain, out his ears, and disperses into thin air. To fill the empty vacuum, primal thoughts filter in. Mathematical equations subconsciously manipulate statistics present to the situation: air temperature, water temperature, sunlight or shade, dew point, air pressure and the like. These, the brain quickly cuts and pastes into a Pythagorean Theorm which will not tell of the length of the third side of a triangle, but more importantly, why in the heck a fish isn't biting down on your hook.



So as automatically as I am breathing right now, I casted, picked up my line, and re-casted, all the while, going over the inventory of my fly box in the hopes that I might have a more suitable offering, knowing that it wasn't in the stars for me to catch the monster brown who glided through the run, taunting me. It is also during these primal moments that the brain begins to wander from the water up the cliffs to the mountain tops like one singing and dancing through a musical with high-mountain meadows which are full of the sound of music. And it was in the motion of looking up that I noticed what was blatently staring me in the face: the aforementioned life-long lesson.



Not five feet above the water, nestled in a crack in the rock monolith, sat a nest of twigs, dried grass, and three chirping baby birds whose music could wake the dead. For all my concentration I hadn't noticed them in the twenty minutes I had been pounding the water, but there they were, sticking their heads out of the crack and incessantly crying like a group of boys on a playground when a bully takes away their ball. Now at first I thought that I was the cause of such commotion and as a fisherman first, I considered that they might have been doing this for quite some time, alerting the fish to an intruder much the way the cawing of a damned old crow interlopes between a stalking hunter and his massive whitetail. But in the matter of a second between nano thoughts, my theory was blown up and the resolution of my lack of fly-fishing prowess returned; they couldn't care about me because they had seen their mother come flying in with lunch.



I call it lunch, but it was more of a tiny snack than anything. She opened her mouth and the three little mouths were silenced for the better part of a thought before she flew away again. It struck me as an opportune time to sit down and eat my own little snack, a package of cheese crackers. Back on solid ground at the edge of the water, I watched the nest with particular interest. The three chicks kept their heads poked out of the crack in anticipation, and after no more than two crackers of my own, she returned to the cheers of her little ones.

I tried to refocus on the task at hand, possibly waiting for the dirtied water to "re-virginize" in my absence, but no matter how long I looked up into the sky at the fluttering of mayflies and back down into my box for their proper imitation, my attention was always returned to the crack in the wall and the joyous cheers of three little ones as the mother returned every two minutes with more food. This went on for thirty minutes, the mother never tiring, never sitting down, never ceasing. When I did pick up my tired old bones, I walked upstream to a new hole, a new hope, and a new beginning, but my primal thoughts didn't return the science and math of tricking a wise old brown trout. All I could think of was the connection between this tireless mother and to my own life, and to the lives of children and parents everywhere.

What if human parenthood were spent in the same ratio of service to our children as opposed to the service of our own selfish pursuits as this mother bird's had?

The September Blues

To be honest, I had plans on going to bed early tonight. Stress at work is taking its toll on me. When I first started teaching, I told myself that I could reach every student, make every student find a love of our language. Later when my professional priorities became more clear, I changed my thinking. I wasn't trying to make every student love the language, but make every student find success. What was that success? Well, my professional development has brought to my attention many glaring statistics, and has caused a load of stress.

*In 2006 30% of all jobs required a college education.

*It is estimated that in 2020, 90% of all jobs will require a college education.

George W. Bush, while in office, put even more pressure on educators. With the No Child Left Behind mandates, educators were now responsible for making sure ALL students graduated. Even though I have tried to tell myself in the years since I started teaching that reaching every student is an impossible attainment, it hasn't lessened my desire. That said, I have never had a year where all of my students have passed my class. In fact my classes have an average pass rate of 55%. Add to this the fact that I have basically dropped all my convictions about homework (I don't assign any anymore because that bottom 45% don't care enough to do it) and late work (I now allow my students to get their work in late, many times after having to chase down the student, put the assignment in his or her hand, sit the student down at a table I keep next to my desk, then stand over his or her shoulder until he or she does the work.) Add to this the fact that English 1, the class I teach, is usually an indicator as to whether or not a student will eventually graduate or drop out. I have to closely monitor a significant portion of my students because they don't value education enough to do this on their own.

I try to tell myself that I can't reach every student, but I just can't accept that. I tell myself that I have to care about them even if they don't care enough about themselves to try. And still I am a failure because my students fail. It doesn't matter how hard I try.

So every year I try a little bit harder, put a little more stress on myself to get through to the ones who need it the most, be a little more patient, pray a little more, nourish a little more, pull out all the stops, inspire, raise my voice, sigh, and weap.

And many days when the final bell rings, I ask myself what the hell it is that I am trying to do.

I had teachers that didn't care a lick if I passed or failed, and Mom and Dad weren't about to let me fail, so they sat me down at the dining room table and made me work through my algebra homework, made me study for the test in U.S. history. And I disliked them for making me do this, but deep down inside I knew that they were looking out for me. And when I would make a D or an F on a test, my teachers didn't have private chats with me. They didn't encourage me when I got down, didn't offer free tutoring if only I would come in early. Back then a student was in charge of his own studies. The teachers' jobs were to present information and grade the results. I even had teachers tell me I was stupid!

Well, when I departed college and landed in the real world, I swore I would take all those hard lessons I learned along the way and use them to help students pull themselves off the scrap heap. So a student isn't doing well in his studies: neither did I which means I can associate with him. So a student's home life isn't conducive to doing well in school: I could make up the difference and show them that an adult really cares about their welfare. I reasoned that if I made class fun enough while providing the proper classroom atmosphere, the students would respond in turn and learning would magically happen. When I was young all I had to worry about was my own grades. I had to make sure I passed all my classes, which was a stretch from time to time. Now I had the awesome responsibility of seeing to it that all 120 of my students were passing. And surprise, surprise, not all wanted to pass. In fact, about 45% of them would rather not pass for whatever reason. Still I expect 100% success or it's a failure.

Honestly, teaching in it's purest form is fun. It's a blast to present a short story that has an ironical twist and watch their faces light up. To know that the students will be on the edge of their seats until the last line because I don't make them read boring crap like my high school teachers made me. But instead, I have to stop in the middle of a sentence once a paragraph to stare at two students who are in a conversation because at fifteen, students believe that when I am talking, I am incapable of hearing them talk too. So then I show the students a way to do something much easier than how it was taught to me twenty years ago, and they complain that they have to do anything at all. Some will not even bring a pencil or paper to class, prompting me to play Santa Claus every day. And when I put the paper and pencil on their desks, some will passively aggressively refuse to do the work. Even if I tell them that it's a participation grade, the paper gets crumbled into a paper wad and thrown into the trash if I am lucky. And the worst part is that my students never really get to know me and have fun with me because they are not mature enough to reap the rewards of a fun education.

So to combat all this, to save the students from themselves, we incessantly go to meetings, creating individual plans of attack for each student, which if you count, 45% of 120 is 54 individual modifications I try to make and implement in the hopes that a student will be tricked into learning. And if all else fails, teachers in common have intervention sessions with the individual students. But every student is different, each has different home lives, with different issues and being a victim of the issue is more important than buckling up his boot straps and overcoming. Now of course I am looking at this from the perspective of a long-ago tenured 34 year-old teacher who is now out of touch with youth. Or so I've been told.

So my failure to attain perfection overshadows my successes because I don't take time to rejoice knowing there's always more work to be done.

Can you hear this Mr. Bush? Are you paying attention Mr. Obama?

So as of late, to cope or merely survive, I have had to look upon myself as a missionary. I pray for God's guidance and direction in my life, wondering if I am in the right place doing His work. Did I miss the boat? Is there something else I should be doing? Though I have a passion for helping others achieve their dreams and goals, I can't help but think that I once had some dreams and goals of my own. And as I talked with my wife tonight, old passions burned and a thought entered my mind: instead of trying to teach my students about other authors' works, they should be reading mine. But as for my personal failures as an unknown, unpublished novelist, must I just assume that God has me right where He needs me? I know that He will never give me more than I can handle, but sometimes, like right now, I have to wonder.

So, no. I'm not going to give up. I'm not going to slow down. I'm going to go back tomorrow and give it another try and expect perfection. And I will just have to trust.

The Revenge of the Nerds

The nerds got it. For those who read my last post, I have decided to go with LAMBDA, LAMBDA, LAMBDA for my fantasy football team name. I have always been an underdog in this league, making the playoffs only once in the last five years, so the underdog name fits well. Three days till the pro football season starts. At times I thought it would never get here. Same goes for college and friday night lights. There's nothing more depressing about going to school in August than to have to survive four weeks of school until football starts.

What's in a (Fantasy Football) Name?

"That which we would call a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet."

I'm not sure Billy Bob Shakespeare had in mind all the ramifications of his transcendent words when he penned Romeo and Juliet, but here we sit over 400 years later still quoting him and for such silly reasons as fantasy football.

Regardless of one's motives or hobbies, Shakespeare's words just don't hold water, especially in the context in which I am about to use them. You see, when it comes to fantasy football, wins and losses aren't what really matters most. It's not about selecting the best running back (probably Adrian Peterson) or making crucial mid-season trades (Peterson's backup when he gets injured) to bolster one's playoff run. The most important aspect of fantasy football, and that which will garner the most respect out of your peers is the name you select for your team. Not all team names smell like roses.

First, a team name has to be well thought out. We're talking about the perfect blend of poetry, creativity, and originality. It must either induce fear in the hearts of your opponent, or make them pee their pants from laughing so hard. Truthfully I have spent just as much time thinking about what I will call my ffl teams as I have studying up for the draft. That said, there are a few directions one can take to create the perfect fantasy football team name and gain the respect of his or her peers. On the flip side, a bad team name could mean incessant ridicule from opening week in September all the way through the holidays. The following paragraphs will present both sides of the coin.

As I see it, there are four general categories of fantasy football team names: 1) player references 2) football references 3) pop culture references and 4) intimidation.

Let's start with player references. Other than Michael Vick, no other football player has been in the news more than Brett Favre. With his flip-flopping decisions ("Should I re-retire? Should I re-un-retire?) he has been an easy target for ridicule. Favre puns are almost too easy and slightly cliche, but there's no mistaking the comical possibilities:
A) Favre Dollar Footlongs
B) It's Favre O'Clock Somewhere
Both of these possibilities, while clever and comical, also make use of two of the four general categories: player and pop culture references.
C) Drew Brees' Facial Mole
D) Michael Vick's Dog Grooming Service
Both of these possibilities, while some would consider funny, cross the line from funny to cruel and insensitive (and there are some who believe killing dogs isn't funny. Wow, go figure.)

A classical football reference can make for a great ffl team name:
A) The Steel Curtain (this was mine for years. Jack Lambert was a beast!)
B) The Purple People Eaters
Both of these reference classical defenses from the 1970's which avid football fans would easily identify, and respect.
C) The Dallas Cowboys
D) The New Jersey Generals
Now exhibit C is just sad. Despite how one feels about his or her favorite pro franchise, the unoriginality is unforgivible. This wouldn't receive ridicle, but worse, silence. Now exhibit D is a little better because it is a franchise from the long-ago-defunct USFL, but again, one must dig a little deeper and go for originality.

Pop culture references are my personal favorite. There's a world of posibilities out there between music, movies and the long string of mishaps in Hollywood, just to corner a small area of this market:
A) The Truffle Shufflers (one of mine from two years ago)
B) A Team Named Sue (last year's playoff contender in my local league)
These two names reference classics. The first one, a poor fat kid's belly-jiggling dance from The Goonies may be the funniest team name I have ever heard of. The second one plays off of Shel Silverstein's Poem (later made famous in song by the great Johnny Cash) "A Boy Named Sue." One of my students from last year came up with that one. Classic.
C) Evander Holyfield's Ear
D) anything poking fun at Michael Jackson
Yes, Mike Tyson bit off Holyfield's ear. It happened more than a decade ago. It was gross back then, it's still gross now. As for Jacko, let the man rest in peace. That goes for anyone who has died.

The final category is intimidation. While this is my least favorite, there are some good ones out there that will strike fear in the hearts of one's competition. But for each great intimidating name, there are a hundred pathetic ones.
A) The Children of the Corn
B) The Emasculators
First, was there a scarier, weirder, make-you-sick-to-your-stomach movie than Corn? Okay, The Blair Witch Project, Poltergeist, and The Exorcist along with a handful of others, but the intimidation factor is certainly there ("Malachi, he wants you too Malachi!" Classic.) As for The Emasculators, it gets points for being both funny and not funny at all.
C) The Ferocious Mountain Lions
D) The Maimers
Cue the crickets. "chirp, chirp. chirp, chirp."

All things considered, I would like to win both of my ffl leagues this year, if only for the payouts, but I would settle for having the best team name. One of my drafts is tomorrow, and I have my list limited down to four possibilities. Feel free to weigh in on my semi-finalists, and for that matter on any of today's rant.

A) The Name... Is Dalton - Classic line from an ultimate '80's "man" movie Road House.

B) The Tri Lambs - Revenge of the Nerds. Classical underdogs. A student of mine came up with this one. He automatically gets an A in my class.

C) The Large Wooden Badgers - An obscure reference in the funniest movie of all time, Monte Python and the Holy Grail.

D) The Knights Who Say "Nee" - Again from the Pythons, but a bit more obvious.

I'd say Shakespeare is most certainly turning over in his grave about now.

The Shack

Two books that I have recently read have had a profound impact on me. They have mede me ponder on the most influential books ever written. Well, that title goes to the Bible. But supplementing the Bible with Jesus' teachings of love, these books will do a spirit some good. The first one, The Shack, must be read with a box of tissues. The second one, Nobody Don't Love Nobody... must also be read with a box of tissues. The point that makes these books so influential is that they are considered non-fiction (despite the Shack being written from a 3rd person fictional narrative.) The topics are very tough to swallow. But any book that I can catagorize with the second most influential book I have ever read, Black Like Me, deserves mention.

For those of you who don't know, Black was a research project. Set in the 1950's before the civil rights movement, a white man underwent skin treatments to change the color of his skin to a darker shade, and completed the ensemble with black shoe polish. As a "black" man, he then proceeded to make his way through the South from New Orleans eastward, journaling the way he was treated, in many cases very poorly, and sometimes by the same people who had a week earlier, treated him with generosity and kindness when he was "white." It also showed the unbreakable spirit of a race of people who were willing to band together for survival, strangers helping strangers in the name of love and justice. Its author opened the eyes of many people during a time when our country needed to change its thinking. He paid the ultimate price for it though. He wasn't murdered, but contracted a disease it is believed from the treatments to change his skin color, and died a premature death. The cause was so simple, yet so profound that anyone with bigoted ideas who reads it can't help but feel ashamed by the simplicity of truth.

The Shack, for those of you who haven't read it, but heard about it, have probably heard one thing: God in the book is a black lady. That is all that was told to me by my friends who had read it, and I knew it had to be deeper than an issue of what God looks like. I read it, weeping when the main character went through the pain of losing his child, then weeping more when "Mama" took him through some tough lessons to soften his hard heart. It wasn't until afterwards when I found out that it was a true story, written like a novel by one of the minor characters. Having read it, I found it much like Ninety Minutes in Heaven, another example of God's miracles. And after all these miracles, people still doubt His existence.

Secondly, Nobody Don't Love Nobody is an older book, copywrighted in 1994, but it plays to an issue that is still present today: poverty. Non fiction again, it consists of many lessons a first-year teacher learns from teaching in a homeless shelter called The School with No Name. Examples include the teacher adopting a crack baby when a mother can't take care of it, taking in three siblings so that they won't be split up in foster care while their mother gets clean, to the strength a little girl teaches her from her own experience of being locked in a dirt-floor basement for a week or two because the mother's boyfriend didn't like her. Each chapter shows agape in the face of inhumanity.

Each of these books has left me changed forever. They were easy and tough. Easy to read, tough to get through. Each shows the evil presence that plagues this world, and the unbreakable human spirit. Like one of my favorite quotes from the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, "The heart can be broken, but it goes on beating just the same."

What is the most influential book you've ever read, and why?

The "Nine-Month" Teacher

As school rolls around again, students and teachers both begin to get that dreaded feeling in their stomaches. For teachers, the end of summer break ushers in a flurry of activity that doesn't end until roughly Memorial Day. Lesson planning, behavioral planning, interventions for those "bless yer little heart" children that need to be saved from themselves. Checking medical records, academic records, re-reading and complying with the Individuals with Disabilities in Education Act (IDEA.) It's enough to make a seasoned teacher feel like he or she is at the bottom of a mountain with an avalanch crashing down upon them. And all of this is without mentioning one little chore: ACTUAL TEACHING!

In my district, children go back tomorrow. So after all the lectures from the experts (they are experts because they found a publisher to put out their book,) faculty meetings, departmental meetings, grade-level meetings, coaches meetings, course-alignment meetings, and meetings to plan future meetings, the teacher then retires to his or her room, looks at a list of chores to do, checks the clock on the wall, and screams.

Now you may ask, "Then why doesn't said teacher just prepare for the upcoming school year throughout the summer?" If only it were that simple. Teachers do go to different trainings, think about certain lessons, and so on, but most of the work to be done can only happen after the mandates from up above come down the pipe. If I print off a syllabus without knowing the new and improved rules, I'd just have to redo the work. So it's a waiting game.

Yesterday I spent the whole day in meetings. The calendar had yesderday scheduled as a teacher work day, but I didn't put a single minute of work into my classroom. So I stayed until 10:00 at night, preparing what I could from what I had learned that morning. So after two hours of meetings this morning, I was finally released to my room to prepare to save the world, one "bless yer little heart" at a time.

And the meetings will continue throughout the year, scheduled outside of class time. A teacher goes to school at 7:30 in the morning, leaves at 4:00 thirty minutes for lunch (tutoring time) and with five minutes to stand in line at the bathroom every hour. Tutoring before and after school. Then the teacher drags his or her bones home to be Mr. or Mrs. Mom, waiting for the kiddo's bedtime so paper grading may begin.

That is why when somebody tells me that teachers only work nine months out of the year, I tell them two things. 1) Summer break is only two months now. 2) We put twelve months into the ten we work.

"Grading Scales" (Subtitle: "How I Have Been a Bad Teacher for the Last Ten Years")

I have always tried to practice fair grading in my class. True story: my junior year in college, I wrote a paper for my government class. Now I didn't have much going for me when it came to taking tests, and since most classes had three grades (mid term, research paper, final exam) it was imperative that I did well on the res. pap. Luckily, that was my strong suit.

Well, without getting into party line specifics (those of you who know me know my political stances) I wrote a comparison/contrast paper on capitalism v. socialism. My professor just happened to have the complete opposite viewpoint, so when I recieved my paper back, the grade written on the first page was a C. I don't make C's on papers, so I freaked. Never mind what I said after I read the only comments he wrote on the page: "You're wrong."

That was it! Nothing about lack of support, unity issues, GUM (grammar, usage, and mechanics.) The C was based totally on his opinion on the topic. I am not a confrontational man, but I stayed after class to talk to him. He asserted himself, gave me his swayed viewpoint, and didn't allow me to counter. I learned a lesson that day.

First I found out that I had better study hard for the final exam, but that's irrelevant here. I vowed from that point forward that when I became a teacher, that my grading practices would be based on a fair, objective rubric that allowed for opinions that differed from my own, as long as the opinion was well-written and adequately supported. From what I have seen, most K-12 teachers follow this fair practice because they are taught how to teach while in college (yes, college professors need only a master's degree in their specialized field and no training in pedagological practices.)

I always thought I was a fair teacher until I went to another "boring" teacher in-service today and had my socks blown off.

Here's the idea: giving a zero for a missed assignment on a 100 point scale is a time-tested, widely used practice which is very wrong. The instructor, Rick Wormeli, said that in his classes, any student who doesn't turn in a paper gets a 60%. I about threw up when he said this. But then he gave his logic and I suddenly felt very stupid. Maybe you will too.

Flip the scale around. If 0-59 represents an F, would it be a good practice to flip it around and make 40-100 an A? In my class, 90 is an A, 80 is a B, 70 is a C, and 60 is a D. Anything below 60% if flunking. His point was, why assign ten different levels of A, B, C, and D, but 59 different levels of F? How is that fair?

If a student gets a zero on one assignment, then makes five 100%'s in a row, the average comes out to 83%. 0 plus 100 plus 100 plus 100 plus 100 plus 100 equals 83%? Seems that the student 5 times out of 6 is making a perfect score. How can I justify giving the student a B for such mastery? This is indeed an unfair grading practice.

But I didn't buy into giving a student who was lazy and didn't do the assignment a 60%. That is also unfair to the student who tried and earned a 50%! That will only make the one who tried not do any more assignments and make a 60% each time. That isn't motivational, and I am all about motivation in the classroom.

Therefore I have created a scale which I am going to pitch to my high school on Monday. I think this is much more fair, because it keeps each letter grade within a decade of percentages. It goes as follows:

Old Grade New Grade
0% 50%
10% 51%
15% 52%
20% 53%
25% 54%
30% 55%
35% 56%
40% 57%
45% 58%
50% 59%
55% 60%

After that, 90, 80, 70, 60 would stay the same.

Now wouldn't you have loved to have this grading scale when you were in high school? Feel free to weigh in, and wish me luck on Monday as I try to convince a group of people who have never come to a full consensus on anything!

Reality Television

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I have had to sit down and watch a few reality television shows in my time. I understand that reality tv has become part of our pop culture (thanks MTV) but there are a few issues that I want to address:

1) What is so interesting about seeing people yelling and cussing at each other? I understand that the days of Beaver Cleaver are long gone, but we are what we watch. We already had talk shows like Jerry Springer for this trash. Why bring it to prime time?

2) Television has a way of shaping people. As a teacher I see students trying hard to re-enact what they see on tv. Just tonight on Big Brother I watched a guy who was apparently auditioning for a career in muscle building, sporting a wife beater no less, yell at a girl who cussed right back at him like she was a sailor fresh in from months away from civilization. My students think that it is okay to settle disputes in such a manner because their role models on tv are paving the way. Imagine how hard it is for a teacher to reverse what they have learned! To teach men to value women (not as objects of any kind) and teach women the meaning of the word GRACE!

3) I don't get the constant interviews. These people on these reality tv shows are not important members of society, and I can't seriously believe that people give a rat's butt about what is on their minds. Despite this, "Dope Boy" may get into an argument with "Diva Wannabe" most of which is bleeped out so you can't understand it even the root of the conversation, just that they have a great distaste for each other. Immediately following this argument, they interview "Dope Boy" who uses this opportunity to act all big and bad. Of course the only way you know that he's doing this is from his body language because eight out of every ten words are, you guessed it, bleeped out. That's really interesting. Honestly?

4) Having very little positive to say about some of the crap that's on tv, I will say that there are some reality shows that are positive in nature. That is to say that they don't make their money off of hiring a psychologist who will then put fifteen people together who have fifteen different belief systems, all of which contradict each other. It's like tossing a match into a warehouse full of dynamite. The following is a short list of reality shows that try to either make dreams come true, or at least try to focus on the positive aspects of life, like love.

-American Idol
-The Bachelor/Bachelorette
-18 Kids and Counting
- Extreme Home Makeover

I tried to think of others but couldn't. Maybe you can think of some other positive and uplifting reality shows, or maybe you differ in your opinion. Love to hear from you. This could be an interesting debate. Educate me.