"Last Night, I Fell into a Book"

Last night, I fell into a book. If you have no idea what that means, then I honestly feel sorry for you. Falling into a book is an amazing experience, and one that I wish every person could experience. I had not fallen into a book for some time, and, let me tell you this: I missed it.
For those of you who are rading this and wondering what in the world I am talking about , what this weird "falling into a book" business is, let me explain as best I can. When you fall into a book, you lose yourself in whatever piece of writing you have been lucky enough to pick up and dive into. It might sound a little Alice in Wonderland, down the rabbit hole, and that is not inaccurate. When you fall into a book, you get lost in the world that writer has created. Time becomes something that the rest of the world might notice, but for you, the ticking of the clock has been lost in sounds and speech of some alternate reality that wells up from the pages before you and pulls you in, sometimes like the razored hand of Freddy Kruger, snatching you into a dark world of screams and dreams, mightmares, at other times like the silken gloved hand of a porcelain-skinned angel who leads you through starlit nights, and at still others like the gnarled hand of an other teacher, guiding you through trails toward knowledge you never even knew you craved. Yeah, it's pretty cool.
Last night, I lost three or so hous in this mundane existance, but experienced weeks and months in a world I found shocking, intriguing, enlightening, and troubling, all at the same time. I won't argue that the book was all that good, but it snagged me and I fell. The book? A little piec eof light reaiding titled Fight Club. It is the novella that spawned the movie 15 or so years a go. The film starred Edward Norton and Brad Pitt. It fascinated me, partly because it is a perverted, dark "Walter Mitty"-type tale, partly because I watched it backwards. That is a whle diffeent story that I can tell later. For now, let's just say that the film intrigued me, and I have wanted to read the original ever since seeing it. Yesterday, Heidi and I were in Hastings and I saw a copy of the novella. I started reading it reading shortly after 8 pm. Suddenly, I glanced at the clock, and it was just after midnight. I had fallen intot he book. I had not planned it, and I was not diving in because my life required me to. I was just reading because I wanted to, and I fell in.  It was something I had not done for quite a while, and I loved it.
I once heard a bit of inspired truth: "If you say you hate reading, you just have not yet found what you love to read." I agree with this wholeheartedly. So, since this is New Year's Eve, and every channel will have a 'list' of some sort going tonight, I have decided I will throw together a list of my own. A list of books I have fallen into. I know I have had lists of books and movies and the like before, but this may be just alittle different. These are not the most inspirational novels or classics that every person must read. These are just books that I have had the pleasure to fall into for a little while. So, in no praticular order, here you go; maybe there will be something here you can fall into as well. Who knows?
Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. This little pulp fiction novella is not what I would call a classic, but it is intriguing and revealing. It was written in 1996 and examines the rift between the expectations of a generation of men and the contradictory value systems that society presents. The narrator is dissatisfied with his white-collar life and IKEA lifestyle, until he meets Tyler Durden, who eventually leads the narrator into a world of social rebellion invovling insomnia, making soap from human fat, and Project Mayhem. It is not the most hopeful story. as Tyler Durden says, "On a long enough timeline, everyone's survival rates falls to zero." It is confusing, captivating, and, well, adult. After falling into the novella, you may eventually climb out feeling a little itchy, possbly craving a shower. But that is ok, every once in while, write?
World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie Wars, by Max Brooks. This novel was released in 2006, and it has recently been made into a feature film starring Brad Pitt. The movie was good, but it does not do the book justice. It is a collection of episodic tales from the Zombie Wars, tracing the origins of the disease to patient zero, examining the various reactions to the spread of the disease and rise of the zombies in various countries around the world, analyzing the individual and military attempts to fight the coming apocalypse, and recording the aftermath of the wars that are fought worldwide. Brooks pulls in everything from racial prejudice and nationalism to personal and government responsibility, from modern military feasibility to emotional, ethical, and intellectual reactions to crisis. I have written about this work before, so I obviously like it. Last Christmas, I fell into the book and scrambled through scenes left completely out of the movie. Can't trust Hollywood to do the job our minds were built to do in the first place, can we?
When Pride Still Mattered by David Maraniss. This is a little different work than the previous two selections. It is a biography of Vince Lombardi. I received the book about 10 years ago as a Christmas gift, and once I fell into it, I could not put it aside. Everyone knows Lombardi as the head coach for the NLF's Green Bay Packers. This biography looks all the way back to the man's childhood, through his playing days, on to his time as a high school coach a St. Cecilia's. The events and experiences that influence and impacted the man, not just as a coach, but as just that, a man. It spotlights the courtship of his wife, his struggles to move up through the coaching ranks, and other life events that do not always paint Lombardi in positive light, but are sincere and honest. It even examines Lombardi's impact and influences outside of football in business and in politics. I learned that this man was once approached by both political parties to measure the possibility of the old coach becoming part of each parties presidential ticket as a vice presidential candidate.
I Am Legend by Richard Matheson. This post-apocalyptic novella has been made into several movies; most recently Hollywood bastardized the piece into a film starring Will Smith. It is a great movie; it just is not a movie version of the novella written by Matheson. The novella is about one man's attempt to survive in a world ravaged by a disease that turns all of those around the narrator into vampire-like creatures who try to draw him out of his house each night, sometimes violently, sometimes through grotesque seduction. The most significant difference between the book and the film is the examination of legends, and why we as a society believe or at least hold on to certain legends, and what the very existence of those legends tells us about us and our society. Religious dogma, the necessity for hope, the fear of what is different all play a role in the novella. The plot drew me in, and I felt both empathy and hatred for the narrator. I had to see what he did, question why he would do it, and wonder how I might be different, or the same, if I were in his shoes. That is the great thing about falling into a book: you are taken to places you most likely will not have to go. I hope not, anyway.

I have a few other pieces I have fallen into. Some are more academic; others are guilty pleasures. I came out better for the dive into some, and I came out filthy on the other side of others. However, it is New Year's Eve, and it is my birthday, so I believe I am done with this post for now. I may break out a part 2 at some point, but for now, I leave you. Have a happy New Year, and may you also fall sometime soon. You will enjoy it.

"Twas the Night Before Christmas' (Ok not really, but sort of, or not)

Twas the night before Christmas (Ok not the night,

But that's how it starts, and we must do this right)

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care

(Not the chimney, don't have one; look in the stairway, they're there).

The children were nestled all snug in their beds
(Who are we kidding? They're on their iphones instead)
When Ma in her kerchief and I in my cap

(OK flannel pjs and boxers, we will don for our nap),

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter

(Probably someone on the leaves I have let the wind scatter)

Away to the window I flew like a flash
(Then tripped on my shoes and went down with a crash)
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
(Crap, more shoveling to do with my back screaming  "No!")
When what to my wondering eyes did appear
(I'm not sure, really, through blinds, curtains, and shears)
The little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment, it must be St. Nick!
(See what I did there, so I could work in his name?
Besides, I've gone long enough, and it seems pretty lame)
So I break from the pattern and go on with my lines,
And if you're too disappointed, tough, you'll be fine.
Mom will be upset that didn't drop the whole tale
She'll ask me to recite it, like other years, without fail.
You have things you should be doing, not reading this blog,
Be it gift wrapping, kid snuggling, or drinking eggnog.
So turn off the computer, the tablet, the phone
And pull someone closer;there is love to shown.
It is Christmas my friend, and time to be spent,
Laughing with loved ones, wondering where the year went.
Sing a carol or hymn, and share in the wealth
That only comes from the giving of time and oneself.
Wrap those all around you in smiles and good will
And enjoy time together, until you've had your fill.
I hope you all can be happy; I know this one line is right:
"Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night!'

"You need to blog about this"

On the bus last Saturday evening, Luke Berblinger or Brendan Martens, or one of the other young men who rode home in a state of euphoria, said, "Coach Kohls, you need to blog about this!"
He was right. We were waiting for Coach Warner to come out to the bus after the State Championship game, a contest that saw this group of young men bring Buhler its first State Championship in football in school history. I started a blog on Sunday, but I did not finish it and post it. I take this blog thing seriously, dang it, and this occasion deserved to be done up right, if you will.  I just deleted about 500 words because it was not right. These kids, these young men, rather, deserve better.

Let's take a walk back. Humor me, ok. After managing to grab a playoff berth by finishing as runners-up in our district, we made a trip out to Ulysses. For those who have not lived in southwest Kansas (I did for 10 years, and while the people there are some of the best I know, it is called God's country for a reason: no one else wants it), Ulysses is out there. As Ev Kohls would say, "You're not at the end of the world, but if you stand on your tiptoes, you can see it." On that long bus ride, the kids watched a DVD.  As high school football players tend to do, they chose a football film. Actually, the ride was long enough that they chose two, but we will focus on one of them: Friday Night Lights.  The book that was the basis for the movie came out while I was in high school, and it is, as always, better than the movie. However, nutshell version: people are crazy for high school football, and the kids who play, and the coaches who work with them every day, deal with more than just a boys' game. Communities rally around the ritual of Friday night, and what happens on the field may in fact echo far after the cheers have ended.

Tonight, after achieving a small degree of separation from the euphoria of Saturday's win, I began to twirl the idea of our own Friday Night Lights story in my head. You see, Coach Warner hates football movies. They are too formulamatic, too predictable, and too unrealistic. However, I will say that no one could write the story of this season any better than than Buhler's Boys of Fall wrote it for themselves. I have read Our Boys by a New York Times reporter, and I was bored by it. Sorry, but it is true. Roger Barta and Smith Center deserved better. It wa a sugary lovefest. Yuck. The story of the last true 4A champion in Kansas, the final champion of 64 4A teams, is much better. It is not gushing, glitzy show. This tale is, as the kids say, legit.

The fall of 2013 in Buhler America is a true story of Friday Night Lights. You have every storyline one could hope for. The senior QB returns, only to enter a QB controversy  with a talented sophomore. The senior is injured, adding to the Hollywood conflict. But wait, as he struggles through his injury and the youngster develops as a QB and as a leader, the senior takes on a new role, as a do-what-it-takes-to-help-the-team leader. It is not a commercial forced upon us by a marketing campaign; it is sincere.  After the season, one of the shining moments for this boy of fall is a block against Abilene, when he lined up at WR and slobberknockerred a DB on a power run play, knocking down three defenders and springing the All-Star runningback. It did not show up in the paper or on the stat sheet, but it was a prime example of doing what needed to be done, and relishing the moment.

It does not stop there. When I was a senior in high school, I hoped to write the great American novel. Maybe this will be it. Pick a story line, and I will run with it. True, we had the all-state runningback who everyone looked to, whom everyone knew would shine. Our Booby Miles, minus the dramatic knee injury. He was fun to watch, and an explosive weapon who rolled up yards and TDs, culminating in a stellar performance in the state championship. However, we also had so many other stories, stories so few people will ever know.

We have the warrior who was poised for greatness after sitting out his junior year with a torn ACL, only to destroy the other knee during drills at a college camp late in the summer. I will not lie: I had a catch in my throat when the phone call came that revealed what had happened. It's not fair. But he braced the knee and powered through, cautious at first, unsure of what he could do. He drove me crazy at times, but one could never doubt his heart or his dedication to his team, his boys, his brothers. And in the end, he was a force. A pillar of strength in the middle who would not be defeated, would not be denied. A warrior. A Crusader.

We had the other wounded warrior, who had gone under the knife after a week one injury his junior year. He blazed back and stepped up. A trap on fourth and long. A reception on third and 25. A game-winning TD reception late in a shootout. A lockdown corner when opponent's abandoned the run. In the spotlight? Sometimes, but not really. Playing a role that he had to play, doing what he had to do to push his family toward another goal, toward the ultimate goal? Definitely.

I could go on. Please do not be offended if you feel I left you out; I do not mean to and I have so many stories in my head, and more importantly, in my heart. I sat in the lockerroom last Saturday and thought about all the things we were not, and that defined who we are. We started two DBs that will need cleats and tiptoes to sniff 5'7", but they played with the heart of champions, and earned every bit of the honor that comes with being just that, champions. As an offensive coach, I would want to know where that missile of destruction was coming from at safety, and toughness and heart proved much more valuable than pure athleticism, as evidenced by one frustrated stud in neon socks, and, oh yes, a state championship. Two of our LBs can only dream of running what most people would call respectable 40 times, but they played smart, were tough, and are the epitome of what high school football is about. One broke his leg in the middle of his junior year. The other, well, let's just say I have never tried harder to play off tossing a player a black jersey, while feeling such a huge swell of pride for him. The third LB, a great athlete, spent most of the second half against Topeka Hayden in tears, partially because he had separated his shoulder, partly because he wanted so much to help his brothers win. There is the 160 pound wrestler who lined up each week, giving up at least 100 pounds to the guard across from him, and yet wreaked havoc on those offenses week in and week out. That spot, the quick defensive tackle, is becoming a prized position, a position of true honor and reverence, and will continue to add to our success. We have not even touched on the all-state defensive end who once blitzed while looking the opposite way, and set the school record for sacks, resulting in drawing three and sometimes four blockers on pass plays, all the while caring more about his hair and the team's success than individual recognition. Or the DE opposite who also played TE, and stepped up  and made plays every time he was challenged. Or the two sophomores who lined up over two of the best athletes in state, not just in the championship game, but throughout the season. Go ahead; test them. You will lose. Oh wait; they did test them. And we won.

If you have not noticed, I am the defensive coordinator. The storylines on the offensive abound as well. They could fill a volume of their own.

I could go on. Maybe I will. Maybe this is my muse. I can tell you one thing: this is better than Hollywood. It is real. Sincere. True.

Boys, you are champions. And you did it the right way. Keep smiling; you deserve it.

The Alpha Male

It would seem that Andrew Bauer is making a power play. He seems to be placing himself in a position to claim the role of Alpha male.

Oh yeah, it's on.

Let me set the stage for this potential epic struggle. I currently teach in what might be the most non-traditional, yet effective and productive English Language Arts team ever assembled. Oddly, the team of seven contains four male members. That may not sound significant to most of you, but as a male English teacher at the high school level, I have often been alone in the testosterone zone, or been lucky enough to have one compadre to which I could turn. It was not a bad thing, if you must know the truth. It definitely has made me a more well-rounded teacher, and it has allowed me to identify my shortcomings as a man and learn to repair or at least camouflage them so my wife does not have to suffer them quite so much.  This team has four male members. The senior member of the team (by senior I mean he has taught at BHS the longest, not that he is just old) knows how to build and fix stuff, makes a mean pot of hot chilli, and has a concealed carry permit. He is a man. A second member has coached football, wears a mustache and goatee, and is bald. As we all know, baldness equals boldness, as evidenced by Michael Jordan, Stone Cold Steve Austin, and Dr. Evil. Man card? Check. I have never claimed to be the most manly of men, but I too have been a long-time football coach, I drive truck, and buffalo wings are in my top three favorite food of all time to consume at any time. Yeah, I'm a man. Besides, my wife said I was one. So there. Then we have the fourth member. Andrew Bauer.  He is definitely the most well-dressed member of our little clan. He is also the tallest. Intellectually, he can hurl pithy comments and ironic allusions my way without missing a beat. He was an editor of his college newspaper, despite not being a part of the journalism major program, and I can envision him, sleeves rolled up as the clock ticked toward presstime, demanding a rewrite of the feature on page three, all the while puffing on cigar, totally disregarding the government prohibition of such practices in public buildings. The classic man's man. He is also awaiting entry into the fraternity that the rest of us have enjoyed for some time: he will become a father for the first time. Yep, we're guys. Dudes. MEN.

Now, it would seem that Andrew has decided he must make a power play and claim, for himself, the position of Alpha male. It began by his subtle undermining of what little authority Greg and myself pretended to enjoy by calling us "jerks" to his students. I know he has been making challenges to both John and Greg. Ok, I do not know this, actually, but if I yell it, then it must be true. HE HAS BEEN MAKING CHALLENGES TO JOHN AND GREG! I can speak with even more certainty about the personal challenges he has made to me. He followed up his jerk attack by printing a tweet I had made in response to his challenge and posting it on his classroom door. Obviously, if I tweeted it, it was supposed to remain private. Last week, he taped to my door an article that revealed the power of evoking the image of a baby deer in a group of men to immediately elevate that man to the position of Alpha male in that group. Well played, Andrew. Well played.

So, it would seen the battle for masculine supremacy has begun and threatens the pleasant and productive atmosphere of the upstairs south hallway. It is a shame, but what else can we do?

The only problem with this scenario rests in the makeup of the remaining members of our team. The "ladies". You see; they are also not what most would envision as the traditional image of the English teacher. Mousy, reserved, and submissive. Um, no. One owns a Harley, and rode it through the American southeast this summer. One is a huge NASCAR fan who had Ms. Jewell as her predominant example of a strong female teacher. The third, our youngest member, wields a pistol better than any of us, owns a dog that I am pretty sure ate a guy, and has actually slept with a shotgun.

Men, we're in trouble. But, since we're all married, we already knew that. Around here, "Alpha male" just means you are the first one say something stupid.

Hey, I win!

"My compliments, I think."

As I scanned my closet this morning, I spotted a long-sleeved, black dress shirt that I had not worn lately. It met the three requirements for selection as a part of my outfit: it was clean, it was not wrinkled, and it did not obviously clash with the slacks I had already pulled out. So, I wore it. I saw Miss Porter in the hall after lunch, and she said, "Well, this is different. You look nice today."

Ouch. She cut me. Cut me bad.

I am going to assume that Miss Porter's intended meaning was not what the statement sounded like. She laughed after saying it, and actually said something along the lines of "That's not what I meant." She told me that another teacher, we will call her Mrs. Neill, told her that a mouse caught on a sticky trap reminded her of Miss Porter. For some reason, Miss Porter did not see that as a compliment.

That has me thinking about how compliments are not always compliments, and insults are not always insults. For example, on that occasion that Miss Porter says, "Well, this is different. You look nice today," she is not trying to point out that my fashion choices are rarely ones I should be proud of, but rather that she has never seen me wear that shirt. Or maybe it was a little of both, and she is just too polite to say, "Dang Kohls, about time you pieced together something presentable." That is the beauty, and the rub, of the American English language.

Take the word simple. "Your life is a simple one" is not in any way derogatory. Most people would welcome a life that could be described that way. However, would the listener be willing to accept "You are, for lack of a better term, simple" as a positive assessment of her mental capabilities? If she is, in fact, simple, she might nod and smile, but that does not mean she accepts it as a compliment.

Think about the word "thoughtless". Break down the word, and one has a term meaning "without consideration, literally, without thought." No one wants to be called thoughtless; however, the statement "He rushed in without thought and helped the little girl" is obviously a compliment. It is a good thing to be thoughtless, or at least it would seem to be.

I would suppose, as with all things, it is context that rules the day. I hear young men in my class tell one another, "Dude, you look swole." That is a good thing. Swole, by the way, is a perverted and corrupted form of the verb to swell, past participle form of which is swollen, rolled around in the mouth of a 17 year old boy, and later spit out as "swole", meaning he has been made large by lifting weights. To turn to his left, however, and direct the same statement toward the petite young lass at the next table, "Girl, you look swole today," would most likely result in blushing, shocked silence, or an outburst of tears. "I knew these jeans make me look fat! I hate you!" I recommend not using that term to describe your pregnant wife either.

Heck, even calling someone the phonetic equivalent of fat is a compliment, as in "She's phat like Cindy Crawford." Now, if I could only find someone in my classes who still knows who Cindy Crawford is, that might have more meaning. At one time, Bad was a negative, but then it became a positive (remember Michael Jackson, when he was still the King of Pop? He was B-A-D bad. I am not really sure where MJ sits on the positive/negative scale right now).

So, be careful what you say, even when you are complimenting someone. It is odd that I put much thought into my outfits, but I do not need to be reminded of that deficiency very often. I am still trying to figure out exactly how reminding someone of a dead mouse on sticky strip is a good thing, but I am sure that is how she meant it. Maybe the little corpse was swole.

#Socktober

Good morning! This post is going to be a short one, as I have freshmen starting to wander in and need to make sure everything is ready to go. Despite the exemption the state of Kansas has received, we still try not to leave any of them behind.

Each Friday, my classroom hosts "Friday Filmday". We watch a short video, usually from the internet, that has something to do with life, school, whatever seems relevant at the time. Last week, I showed the Kid President's latest offering. In response, my students have accepted the Socktober challenge. I have cleaned out the right side of my classroom closet (which is truly amazing in itself), and the kids have been challenged to fill it with socks, blankets, toiletries, anything that a local shelter or organization might be able to use to aid the homeless in our area.  It warmed my heart during the day, when I explained the challenge to my first senior class, when one of my girls said, "You will need to clean out more of the closet Mr. Kohls. That is not enough space." I told them that if we fill the right side, I will continue to clean off the shelves on the left and keep filling them. Now, we just have to live up to her words and fill the closet. It's a good cause, and our kids have proven before that they can do great things for other people. At the end of the month, we will choose an area organization or group of organizations to whom I will deliver the goods.

Kind of cool, eh? If you want to take part but do not know how, drop a pair of new socks, a blanket, canned good, or anything else to could help as the weather turns colder by my classroom, Room 202, and we will add it to the closet. I hope I have to clean out much more space. That would be amazing.

Until later, have a great week! 

Biff. He's Back.

I started posting this in serial form a while back and stopped for some reason.  So, I thought now was a good time to start it up again.
Here is a link to the installments I posted earlier, in case you missed it:
"The Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington, Private Investigator, Installments 1-4"

Here is a link to the latest installment, if you want to just skip to that.
"The Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington, Private Investigator, Installment 4"

Let me know what you think. As Belushi once said, "It don't cost nothin'."

Choose, or "The Twitter War"

I opened my blog to post, but then I entered into a vicious twitter grammar conflict that pulled me from my task. Is it wrong that I feel incredibly fulfilled by correcting a misused word such as "cause", which can be a noun or a verb, but not a subordinate conjunction, or "its", which shows possession, but is not a contraction of the pronoun and the verb is? Is it even more satisfying to see former and current students favorite those tweets and join into the fray? Wrong may not be the correct word. Surely, it is somewhat disturbing though.

Twitter, Facebook, and other social media provide us as guardians of the language (self-appointed and misguided as we may be) with an opportunity. I know many teachers despise the social media postings because they are so filled with inappropriate language, bigotry, and ignorance. However, my feed and timelines are not filled with such things. Sure, they are there from time to time, but the people I interact with do not post that way as a rule. What I do see is a chance to interact with people on another level, in another way. A way that they enjoy and are willing to use without hesitation. Where else can one get 15 to 20 young adults to willing read about grammar, syntax, and other writing conventions and actually take part in the discussion, even if it is just to click a star.

We have to take any opportunity we can to interact with people in a positive way. It might be clicking the star of a post or picture, letting a person know you appreciate their words or work, at least a little bit, sharing a photo from a quirky grammar and writing page so you can covertly reinforce a lesson from class, dropping a word of encouragement on Compliment Monday or as Beautiful Buhler, or congratulating a great group of guys that they have shown a tremendous amount of heart and guts so far this season. Carl Sandburg wrote a poem named "Choose".

"A single clinched fist, lifted and ready,
Or an open, asking hand, held out and waiting.
Choose
For we meet by one or the other."

I tell my kids in class not to be the closed fist, but to be the open hand. We have to be open and willing to give things a try. We ask our kids to do that every day, and we get excited when they do it. Sometimes, they are also waiting for us to follow suit. It might be something as simple as posting on twitter or facebook. But it is something.

I don't fool myself. I know that someone, many someones, probably, is reading what I post and saying, "Kohls is such a nerd. Wow." However, he read it, didn't he? He just saw how to properly punctuate a quotation.

Got you.

Nobody's Perfect, but We Keep Trying

I just came back downstairs after talking to my daughter Emily. She is frustrated by how her drawings have been going tonight. You see; art is Emily's thing.  I know I am a little biased, but can honestly say she is talented. I envy her ability. However, she has this issue. She is a perfectionist when it comes to what she draws, sketches, or paints. It has to be as she has seen it in her head, and when the pencil will not cooperate, when the ink does not follow her mind as smoothly as she feels it should, she becomes upset with herself.  I hate when she gets that way; she is my little girl, and she always will be. I do not like seeing her upset, for any reason, but I also know that this is the only way she will grow. If it were always easy, she would not be pushing herself to grow, to become better, and to stretch. So I console her and tell her to step away from it, as I sometimes have to do with what I write. That does not help; it needs to be a certain way and she will not be happy until she figures out how to get it to that point.
Her mom is the same way about certain things, particularly those that involve tiny details that "should be like this" but just aren't. I have seen her pour for hours (literally, not figuratively) over cancelled checks and the banks statement to locate a 32 cent error. It was in our favor too.  Ok, I did not actually watch her do this for hour (I had things to do), but she did. And she was sincerely happy and relieved when she discovered the banks error. It really did not matter in the grand scheme, but it mattered to her. It had to be fixed. Details, that is her thing. So I have learned to kiss her on the forehead and let her comb through the details, for she could not be happy otherwise.
Sometimes, I laugh to myself how foolish these two beautiful ladies in my life are to become so upset, so focused on such things that they cannot rest. Then I realize that this evening, while Emily was drawing a graphite point across the page of a sketch pad, erasing, gritting her teeth, willing the pencil to do her bidding, and creasing her forehead as she erased once again, I had spent nearly two hours trying to develop an idea, no not an idea, THE RIGHT IDEA, for a four minute video for Thursday night after practice.  I still do not have anything. I had a few thoughts, a few things that might have worked, but nothing was just what I wanted. So, I scrapped them. It's frustrating me right now, but I needed to shower, so I had to step away from it for a while. That did not help. Actually, I thought it did for a minute, after an idea came to mind amidst the steam and stream of that nightly ritual, but it wasn't quite right either.
I guess, what it comes down to is this: we are all our own kind of crazy. I am still going to blame Emily's propensity for frustration on Heidi, but she probably pulled just as much of that from me as anyone. No one knows how many pages I have crumbled up, how many digital details I have deleted, simply because I was not happy with them.
Sorry Em.

Tick Tock

I broke my promise to blog at least once a week, so I am going to make up for it by posting twice this week. This is the first post, and it will be a doozy, I am sure.  I am trying to pare down a writing lesson for my freshmen so it fits in today's class period. It is not happening. Yesterday's lesson has spilled over into today, like the frothy head of root beer float, leaving its sticky residue on the tabletop that is today. So, I am going to go with it.  Sometimes, lessons cannot be bound by this man-made convention we call time. Learning goes at its own pace, and in trying to rush it, we risk splattering it all over the place.  Ew.

We do it all the time though, don't we. We have to finish this by the end of the hour, this must be completed by Tuesday, my plans say we move on next week to something new. I hate it. A second year teacher, who is developing into a very good English teacher, asked me the other day if it mattered that one of our units spilled from first nine weeks into the second nine weeks. Would that mess up the grading? I told her that as far as I am concerned, it did not matter at all. We need another week and a half to do what is right for the kids and the material. She went with it, which is a happy moment because she is a schedule maker of the highest degree. I wonder how much it actually bothers her that our first nine weeks is only eight weeks long.  (By the way, the world does truly need people with the compulsion to make schedules and annoy the rest of the world with them, people such as my wife, such as this teacher and those of the same bent in our department, for they provide just enough structure for the rest of us to make it to meetings and meet deadlines. So, thank you. Now leave me alone.)

I could go on. Perhaps I will. Later. I just looked at the clock and I have freshmen entering my room and they will need some instruction in about ten minutes. Dang clocks.

Tick Tock.

"The Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington" Installment 3

For anyone who may be reading, here is the third foray into the world of Biff Wellington, PI. Enjoy.
Serial Version Of "The Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington..."

Words Have Meaning

I was thinking today how language changes, how what we say and write changes as time does. Maybe what we write and say does not change, so much as the meaning of what we write and change changes, the meaning of our language changes. (Yes, I have written about how language is a living organism, a being that grows and changes before, but it is Labor Day weekend, so I give me a break, OK.)
A Facebook friend of mine posted recently about the shift in weather. I paraphrase here, but she basically said something along the lines of "Oh Lord this weather. But since God is perfect, I am blaming Mother Nature." Simple enough. I doubt any of our mutual friends was offended, even slightly by the status update. However, this morning, as I was filtering clips of Rose Hill into playlists that our Crusaders can view as they prepare for our opener on Friday, I started to think just how much irony is hidden in that innocent expression of frustration with 100 degree temps and 70% humidity. Is it possible that sometime in our shared history that this statement could have earned the writer harsh ridicule from her neighbors, church leaders, and even family members. After all, by making the effort to deflect any appearance of dissatisfaction with our Christian God, the writer recognized the existence of a pagan god of nature, did she not? Is this not heresy? Would this not be enough to earn the writer a harsh scolding, or if she was a landowner whose neighbor coveted her north 40, an accusation of witchcraft and the occult?
Ok, so maybe I went a little too far. Not really though. According to History.com, and my preparation to teach The Crucible, a play about the Salem witch trials that was actually about the McCarthy hearings that scoured Washington, Hollywood, and the rest of the country for  communists in the 1950s, 19 people were hanged as witches in Salem, Mass, most because other members of the community had some sort of axe to grind and saw an opportunity to gain an advantage. We see people raked over the coals for saying something with no intention of stirring up controversy.
Words have meaning. Is my FB friend a witch or pagan worshipper of some ancient goddess of the forest who holds reign over the weather? No, and I am sure no one, besides me I guess, considered her statement as any more meaningful than a complaint about the heat. Her status is directed at no one, except maybe the weatherman.  However, history is full of words carrying heavy meaning. Vince Lombardi was once asked what made the Green Bay Packers such as great organization. His response was one word: love. He later said he wished he had never said that because people did not understand what he meant by using that word, especially when referring to an organization as masculine as the Green Bay Packers. He said he regretted the use of the word love, because people did not understand that what he meant was the power of the heart, "heart power" he called it. Heart power is the ability to put something before yourself, so feel strongly enough about another person, about other people, to sacrifice in some way so that that person, that group of people can find success, and in turn, happiness. And, in turn the person who feels that "heart power" gains happiness as well. Football coaches can be pretty deep, can't they. But I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah, innocent facebook statuses. Some statuses and statements have more insidious, although sometimes unintended, consequences. Words have meanings, and using them can inflict harm, just as sometimes they can save a person. Macklemore recently released a song titled "Same Love". I do not care what your political, religious, or moral views are; the song has some meaningful messages. The artist goes out on a limb to express what he feels he must say, and he is willing to accept the blowback.  What I want to focus on is how Macklemore addresses the use of negative language in rap and on the internet. Those words have meaning, and they are thrown about with little thought to whom they might hurt or degrade. Words have meaning. Sometimes, the word you drop into a conversation with the intention of being funny, or flippant, or just trendy, can stab like a dagger. You did not mean it to stab anyone, but the wound is not less deep. The only way to avoid the unintended pain and scars that follow, is to not throw the word out in the first place. A sheathed dagger leaves no wound.

Ok, I will step off the soapbox. I had actually intended this entry to go in a much more humorous direction, but as often happens when writing, ideas flow and you just have to ride the current. So there you go. I thought a little more tonight than I might have intended. I thank the blog for that. Words have meaning, and thoughts have power.

"Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington, Private Investigator" Installments 1 and 2

Click below to access the world of Biff Wellington, PI. I included last week's installment as well as the one for this week.
"Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington, Private Investigator" Installments 1 and 2

Balance

Clay Manes asked our group the other day what each of us saw as our greatest joy as a teacher and our greatest frustration. For me, I think my greatest frustration can be summed up in one word: balance. I struggle in the classroom to balance writing and literature instruction, to balance perfecting skills kids already should have and pushng them to explore new areas and develop skills they may not even know they have, to balance do what I know is effective and trying new things that might spark kids to reach new levels and grasp new concepts but might also completely flop. I struggle to feel I can always maintain balance in my life overall. I try to balance my personal passion, my family, with my professional passion, teaching and coaching. I struggle to balance a need to feel phsically fit with the time it takes from other areas to achieve that, as well as the fact that I really love food.
Balance is a concept that seems to be the key to happiness, or at least that is what the self-help books seem to tell us.  Easteran philosophy gives us ying and yang. Did you know it is more than just a trendy tattoo idea? The little that I know of the concept stresses balance in all areas of life. I beleive in Frankenstein, Shelley presented the importance of balancing the rational mind, spiritual soul, and emotional heart that lie within each and every one us and which drive society as a whole. Without the balance, the individual becomes a zealot who fails to see the consequences of his actions and will eventually drive himself to his own downfall. If society lacks that balance, we end up wtih science run wild without constraint of morals or humanity, or we fall into a world of superstition and myth that fears advancement and progress. The key to happiness, to sucess, to societal peace and contentment is balance.
However, I have to wonder one thing: who defines balance? We read about men and women who sacrifice personal relationships to become successful in the fields that they have choosen to dedicate themselves to. Athletes develop what many would say is unhealthy obsessions with their game of choice and preparation to compete at the highest level. Stories abound about coaches who have rolled cots into their offices to allow them to spend 24 hours a day foucsed on their craft, and literary history is sprinkled with tales of men who drove themselves for days, weeks,  months, and years to create great pieces of literature, searchng for ways to transfer the vivid worlds that existed in their minds to the written page, and eventually into the minds of those lucky enough to read those words written in sweat and blood. Some of these people were unhappy and regretful at the end of the day. Some, however, had found their own and their only path to happiness. They had found their own balance, even if it was not understandable to the masses.  Am I the one to say a man lacks balance in his life because he has chosen a computer, film camera, business career, playing field, or church to occupy his hours and days while I need my family, my classroom, my field, and my friends to feel content in who and where I am?
I suppose, as the Bard said,"There's the rub." (Hamlet is about balance too, isn't it?) How does one find balance when the definition of balance is not truly hard and fast, but, instead, must be as individual as a fingerprint or DNA?  Maybe it is as the old saying goes about art, or about pornography: "I'm not sure what it is, but I know it when I see it."
So, find your balance, for it is the key to happines, or at least it is supposed to be that key. I think, at times, I have found mine. At other times, I am not so sure. One thing is clear though: I definitely do know it when I see it.

"I think I will try something..."

Football season starts, officially, tomorrow morning. I am extremely excited. School starts, officially, for teachers on Wednesday with academic team meetings. For this, I am also extremely excited. I love my job, and I work hard to do my job well. I love teaching, in the classroom and on the field.

I have been bouncing around an idea as the beginning of the fall season has crept nearer. I have committed myself to write on this blog on a fairly regular basis. I will continue to do so.  I promise. It is not that I think not writing will matter to anyone else; I made myself the promise, and I need to keep it. So I will write here at least once a week. I will.

However, I want to try something else as well. I might be cheating a little bit, but I think I will still try it. During Prairie Winds Writing Retreat in 2012, I started writing a piece that is still unfinished. I do not have any idea when I will finish it, or even if I want to. Since I first penned the open lines, I have gone back, revisited the old the friend, to revise, to add, to augment, to reread, and to cut.  I titled the piece "The Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington".

What I would like to do is begin putting this piece here, in Ramblings in serial form. Maybe 500 words or so each Sunday. I am not sure if anyone will like it, or if it will make any sense whatsoever. I am hoping that by running "Biff..." here, it will push me to keep going with it, to find a direction to take it. Right now, honestly, I am stuck.

So, here you go, the first installment of "The Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington" by Jason Kohls. I hope you like it. If not, well, you will destroy my self-image and leave me an empty shell of a man. Whatever works.

Click here for the first installment of "The Torrid Tales of Biff Wellington, Private investigator".

Ready! Set! Hit!

At 6 am tomorrow, approximately 80 young men will fill Buhler's morning air with yells of enthusiasm, encouragement, and excitement. Two hours later, these same young men will be drenched in sweat, their clothes will be filthy, and shouts will be replaced with the labored breathing that comes with youthful exertion. Some will complain and scowl, others will place ice bags on swollen joints, a few will race off the work for a few hours, and many will find their ways home for a much-needed breakfast and a nap. They will return to that patch of green a few hours later and do it all again. For many young men and not a few fully grown ones, tomorrow is one of the most anticipated days of the year: the first day of football practice.

Last week, I helped coach a full contact camp for kids in first grade through sixth grade. Over the last eight summers, I have had the pleasure of watching hundreds of little guys laugh, run into each other, watch the HS players who help coach them, and grow up during these camps. You learn a lot about kids during practice. This year was no different. One kid made three tackles in a drill, jumping up after each one, excited in what he probably envisioned as more Derrick Thomas than slow motion pillow fight. He then went back to the line, and a few minutes later was crying because his friend cut in line in front of him and would not move.  He is not an NFL linebacker just yet; he is 9. Another little guy who has the making of being a very good athlete and a skilled football player made a textbook form tackle in one turn, and then ducked his head (big no-no) on the next try and missed the tackle. I watched him walk back to the huddle with his head hung low and his shoulders slumped forward under the plastic and fabric of his shiny new pads. He was not mad at the ball carrier for making him miss, and he was not upset with mom for not buy the right kind of Gatorade. He was angry at himself for not doing what he had been taught that week in linebacker drills, and now his friends, the HS players, and I had seen him make a mistake. Getting to go to the back of the line and talk to him, seeing his eyes clear and shoulders rise again before he reached the front of the line and once again put the runner to the ground in a nice form tackle is one of the most rewarding opportunities that these camps offer.

One other opportunity that I truly enjoy in these camps is watching the Buhler High football players who come out to the camp work with the younger boys who are just learning the game and who look up to these Friday night heroes. They do not know it, but the tones of their voices change as they speak to a little guy who just realized five minutes earlier that he had put his shoulder pads on backwards. They use their hands, not to give wet willies or push around someone weaker, but to guide them on proper rip technique or hand placement on a block. Sometimes, you see the nine year old that still lives inside the young men who have physically built their bodies up into thickly muscled forms Michelangelo would be pleased to use as a model. Sometimes you see the maturing hearts of those same men as they comfort a frustrated fourth grader who just wants to go home.

Tomorrow begins the most hectic, stressful, and rewarding time of the year for me. I am excited. Who knows, maybe you will hear my voice early tomorrow, mixed in with those of the charges we will push, nurture, teach, and drive. How could I not be excited? It's football season.

Literally, Things Change

As I sit here, I am literally fuming. I blame it on lack of ventilation in the garage, which I just cleaned, and some leftovers that I probably should not have eaten. This morning, I was figuratively fuming as well, as I was reminded by the radio DJ of a tweet I read late last night.  The tweet informed me that google, answers.com, and American Heritage Dictionary (online edition) had added to the entry for the word "literally". Apparently, literally not means not literally. The actual definition on google search reads as follows:

"Adverb In a literal manner or sense; exactly: "the driver took it literally when asked to go straight over the traffic circle". Used to acknowledge that something is not literally true but is used for emphasis or to express strong feeling" (http://goo.gl/ecdXVK).

After taking some time to think about it, and literally reading the definition online, I am still not completely sure how I feel about the addition. Language, especially American English, is a living thing; it is an organism that grows and matures. I have written about this before in "It's Alive". So, it should not be surprising that such a change might take place. However, as with global climate change and the use of PEDs, does the fact that it is happening mean we should not try to fight it?

As an English teacher, I teach my kids that figurative language is not meant to be taken literally, and such language can be powerful and meaning for that very reason. It is ambiguous. It literally makes you think, or at least it should literally make you think, in order to understand it. I suppose what is most fascinating to me is that in order to understand that what is meant figuratively is in fact not literal, some people feel the need to state that it is meant literally, and, therefore, it is not to be taken literally. While this seems like a great script for a new AT&T commercial, I do not know that it is what is best for our language. I may be reaching here, but to me, it seems that people may have decided that hyperbole is far too advanced for those around them to understand, and, therefore, they must add a touch of irony to the mix to get the point across. The problem with this idea is that most people who have dived headlong into the incorrect usage of "literally" that has now been given linguistic weight did not even realize they were doing so. They wanted to use hyperbole, but did not realize that adding "literally" to the sentence was not only unnecessary, it was ridiculous. 

So, now we as a society, or at least our online resources for language clarification, have decided that it is easier to just give up and go with it. In reality, it will not change anything. Those of us who cringe when we hear that a friend "literally died when I heard that" will continue to do so, and those who have never really worried about it, or noticed for that matter, will continue in their blissful ignorance of the change their ilk has inflicted upon the English language. What else can we do? We are not superheroes, moving effortlessly around the globe righting written wrongs (or spoken wrongs, which lack alliteration).

So, here we are. Will someone from the distant future, some nerd probably, look back one day and shed a tear as he marks August 15, 2013 as the beginning of the end? Perhaps. Perhaps not.  None of us can truly say what will happen in the future. We just do not know. Literally.

Love What You Do

"If you lovr what you do, you will never work a day in your life."

I hate to do be a complete downer, but this statement might be one of the most ridiculous cliches uttered at any graduation ceremony. It lscks truth; futhermore, it creates a completely unrealistic expectation in our young people and unfarily puts work in a negative light.

First of all, let's look at the lack of truth in this statement. "If you love what you do, you will never work a day in your life." It is a conditional statement that is completely false. If you love what you do, you are still going to have to work. Yu will have to work to achieve whatever it is you love to do. You will have to work to become good, or, hopefully, great at what you love. I truly love what I do for a living. I teach English and I coach. I consider myself fairly successful in my career, and I feel I have become somewhat skilled in my chosen profession. Each day, I have the pleasur eof working with kids and trying to light a flame within each one of them, to help them become better at communicatiing and at thinking, I get to push kids to become better, to become stronger and to achieve whatever greatness is within them. I love these opportunities, and I will admit that some days, it does not feel at all like work. However, on other days, I work my tail off. I read, I disect wrting and thoughts, I develop lessons and presntations with a hope that they will spark thought within those I work with and I fear I will fail hopelessly. I break down film in the wee hours of the morning, and I argue with my best friends over what is appropriate and fair. I willingly place myself under pressure to perform.  I love this. But it is work. It is worth it, but it is work.

To say that loving what you do will eliminate any sense of work is unrealistic. It seems to say that work is a terrible thing that all of us should want to avoid, and the only way to avoid work is to do what you love. Wait, what? That is ludacris. Work is not a bad thing. It is not a negative act. WORK IS GOOD! If fact, I would go to the point of saying, if you do not work, you are never going to love what you do. You will never reach a level  of achievement or accomplishment in what you have chosen to do, and you will nver feel fulfilled.

The last point is a touchy one. We cannot tell our young people that if they do what they love they will never work a day in their lives. It is unfairt and unrealistic. It is a little bit like the other classic cliches that is truly ridiculous: all we need is love. No, you need food, you need shelter, you need water, and you need to pay your dang bills. And I hate to burst any bubbles, but just becaue you love someone, it does not mean you will never have to work at making that relationship work. There will be tough times, and you will have to work to make it through. It does not mean the love is any less authentic and pure; it means that love is worth working for. At some point, everyone has to work at what they do. What happens to that young person who has sucked down the Kool-Aid and beleived that he will never have to work as long as he loves what he is doing when he hits that tough spot? What happens when his natural talents that led to his love of what he does must be developed and extended beyond what is natural, so he must push himself to learn and develop further? What happens when his coworkers are not as in love with their profession as he is, but the success of the project depends on his motivating them to do their best work? What happens whern he is actually challenged, because he does love what he does and is talented at it, and, therefore, people expect greatness from him? He will have to (gasp) work.

And, there is the irony.  It is not that doing what you love will allow you to never work a day in your life. Doing what you love will, in fact, force  you to work harder. If you love what you do, you will will want to work to do it well, to become great at what you love. Doing what you love allows you to love your work. And, as I said, work is a good thing.

So love what you do. If you love it, you will know that the work is worthwhile, and you will love it even more.

"Who's That?"

Friday morning, as a group of young men took a brief break from running 40s on the track at BHS, Luke Berblinger said how interesting it would be to play lacrosse. I told him that I thought the game looked exciting to me, and that Jim Brown had actually played the sport during his time at Syracuse. Several of the athletes looked at me, puzzled, before one asked "Who is Jim Brown?" After overcoming my moment of shock, I briefly explained that the former running back for the Cleveland Browns had held the career rushing yards record prior to Walter Payton. At that point, another young man uttered the un imaginable: "Who is Walter Payton?"

I am truly confused. I know that I grew up watching Walter Payton rack up yards. I used to read articles about how the Bears great would run up rugged hills in his training for the season. He could run, throw, catch, and walk on his hands for 50 yards. He scored TDs, owned a Lamborghini, and wore Kangaroo turf shoes. I still do not appreciate the fact that Mike Ditka did not call a running play of Payton near the goalline, instead handing the ball to a defensive tackle known as "The Refrigerator".  However, Jim Brown was past his playing days before I fell in love with the game of football. Despite this fact, I knew who he was, as a football player, and not a co-star in the WWII classic The Dirty Dozen. I knew who Paul Hornung was even though I never saw him under center on a Sunday afternoon, and I was aware that Dick Butkus had terrorized NFL offenses even though his final playing days occurred when I was not yet two years old.  Could these guys who were I have seen sweat and bleed for football really not know who the greatest players in their game were?

It makes me wonder if our society, of which I am a guilty participant, has become so focused on immediate gratification and instant access that we have trouble not only looking down the road for what work and effort now might produce but also looking back to what has allowed us to reach our present position? More than once, students have lamented the fact that they must take history courses, and they have become even more exasperated when they discover that some of that history is vital to understanding what we read, watch, discuss, and write about in English class. "Those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it" I will say. The ironic twist is that this generation (by the way, the existence of the previous quote demonstrates that every generation seems to have dealt with this perplexing puzzle) possesses the means to access historical information more easily and quickly than any that has come before it. Do any of you remember going to the library to access the encyclopedia, biography, microfiche, or magazine back issue to learn some fact about a past event or detail about some science topic? While writing this entry I typed Dick Butkus into google to confirm his final season. I never left my couch, or even turned my eyes away from the screen. I did not even have to type in his entire name before google gave me the rest of it. In .17 seconds, I received a collection of 634,000 instantly accessible portals for information about the man.  I could watch video of the linebacker as a Chicago Bear or listen to his Hall of Fame induction speech. I could have done the same thing with my phone from the middle of the football practice field at midnight on a Wednesday, when all of the libraries are closed.  

Even more amazing, and startling, is the fact that the lack of knowledge about the past does not only apply to sports figures from decades ago. It applies to musicians, politicians, newsmakers, and important figures from every arena of thought and action that exists.  More frightening is that those figures do not have to be from decades ago, let alone centuries. Many of us do not even remember deeds, great or small, of those from last year. "What have you done for me lately?" If your answer is nothing, then even if what you did has truly affected our world today, we have little interest in you or your works. 

I might be blowing this out of proportion. Matt did not know who Jim Brown was. Is that really a big deal? No, not really. However, not knowing who Walter Payton was? That is unforgivable. After all, he wore Roos. Do you remember those?

RIP Kidd

I had a few ideas about which I could write today, from the professional athlete who neglected to review the terms of his contract to my recent experiences that reminded me that I am not nearly as tough as the people who inspire me to the appeal of Dead Poets Society for me and my brother. However, when I got up this morning, I learned through a statement issued by a mass communications company that radio host Kidd Kraddick had passed away. I feel that deserves some attention.

For those of you who are not familiar with the name, Kidd Kraddick is the host of the early morning radio show "Kidd Kraddick in the Morning", which runs in this area every weekday morning on 105.3 "The Buzz". He is actually the leader of an ensemble cast that includes Big Al, Kellie Rasberry, J-Si, Jenna, and Shannon. The group also appears on the television show "Dish Nation". The morning show is humorous, diverse, friendly, and enjoyable. I listen to it every morning on my drive to BHS. The show maintains a standard in its content that includes keeping the show "kid-friendly" so that parents can listen to it with their kids in the car on the way to work. At the same time, the show is timely, sometimes edgy, always fun. The group plays off one another, they make fun of one another, and they seem to truly feel for each other on a personal level. They let the audience get to know them by opening up their lives. Listeners have gotten to know J-Si's wife, from Kidd's portrayals of her calling the show, J-Si's stories about her and his growing family, and her actually taking part in the show. Kellie has allowed the world to look in on her life, whether that be sharing her romantic struggles, her stories and skits that revolve around her family, or her allowing the audience her daughter Emma Kellie grow up. Big Al has to have trouble with ladies, because no matter who he is involved with, the audience is going to know every one of their habits and quirks. All who listen know of Kidd's love for his daughter Caroline as well as so many other aspects of his personal life.

The people on the show go beyond just making jokes and performing skits that make drivetime more enjoyable. The Kidd Kraddick show promotes a program called Kidd's Kids, which raises money and coordinates a trip each year for the several families of children with chronic conditions. The families are able to travel, by chartered plane and with the cast, to Disneyworld for a vacation. For many of these families, it is an opportunity to escape a issues that occupy their daily lives and allows the kids to be just that, kids. However, the show does not just stop with this single amazing program. Each year, they conduct "Breaking and Entering Christmas", in which people nominate families who are struggling for whatever reason, and the show arranges for that family to have breakfast one morning, usually with the person who nominated them. While they are out, Big Al "breaks into" the families home and sets up the ultimate Christmas. Trees, gifts, toys, the whole shibang. The "reveal" occurs live on the radio when the family, always one with children, returns home to discover what the show has done. Throughout the year, the show sponsors, coordinates, and presents a variety of other amazing programs. Sometimes, what the show does is not even part of the show. On Friday, Kidd read a letter he had received from a local woman who had been unable to purchase milk and eggs at the grocery store because she did not have enough money with her to cover the bill. A young man had demanded she let him pay for the items and then told her show had dropped something while looking for cash and gave it to her before hurrying away. He had handed her $200. She asked the cashier if she knew who the man was, and she said he was J-Si from the Kidd Kraddick show.

According to the statement from YEA radio, Kidd Kraddick passed away while attending a golf tournament. The tournament was being held to raise money for Kidd's Kids. I have no idea what the future of the man's show is, and I am sure that is not a concern at this point. I never met the man whose actual name was David Kraddick, but I, like so many other people who share their mornings with him, feel as if he was someone I knew, someone I would have liked to have as a friend, someone made life a little better for so many people each day and incredibly brighter for those fortunate enough to have crossed his path and to have been pulled into the programs.  Kidd Kraddick, you will be missed.

Little Eyes Are Watching You, Buckaroo

I have written before about the important lessons I have learned over the years from my Mom and my Dad, as well as my grandparents.. Today, I want to write about some of the ride I feel when evidence preents itself that I am actually teaching my children, Emily and Dylan, a few of those lessons, and they are taking hold.

More times than not, the lessons we learn and the lessons we teach come through condidly, thourhg the actions take and words we use on a daily basis. Sure, there are those times when we announce,  "This is something you need to learn" such as when I sat Dylan down after he had gotten into trouble at school and I told him that when you speak to someone, or he is speaking to you, you look him in the eyes because it shows you respect him enough to truly listen. Or when Heidi and I have both looked at our daughter and told her she is talented and should have confidence in her abilities in slo many areas. Those times are great, but it is what we do on a daily basis that brings home those lessons, or elevates them from words to truth. That was true as we grew up, and it is true now as we play that role of example. There is a coutnry song called "Watching You" that speaks to this point, presenting examples, both positive and negative, of a little boy learning by watching his father. A poem, "Little Eyes Upon You', that expresses the same ideas. For me, no song or poem could come even close to the impact watching my daughter and son has on me.

I feel an emense sense of pride when Emily or Dylan demonstrate that they are, indeed, my children. When Heidi was pregnant with Dylan, I remember asking her if she was sure the baby was in fact hers. I just wanted to be sure. There has never been a doubt that he is definitely mine. The same goes for Emily. I see their mother in both of them as well, and thank The Lord for that.

Heidi relayed a conversation between Dylan and Heidi's mom. She had come by and was going to take the kids to Hastings. Emily wanted to go, but Dylan said he would go later. After returning, his grandmother tried to give Dylan some cash. He told her she did not have to do that, that she did not need to give him money. That is not the part that melted Heidi's heart and made me swell up with pride.  That came next. She told Dylan, "I give it to you because I lve you." Dylan's repsonse was "But Grammie, money isn't love." Dylan is 12. He loves video games and working on the computer. He is, for all intents and purposes, what most wuold call normal. I do not know about you, but most 12 year olds I know like money, to buy video games or spend on whatever. Dylan likes to save money, and blow it later. But his first response was "Money is not love." I can proudly say, he learned that from me and from his mom. I learned it from my parents. I know Dad is beamig right now. Money is necessary. People like when you give them money for things like food, shelter, medical care. Yes, sometimes money is extremely important. However, money is not love. Emily displays the same philosophy over and over again. Money is not love. Love is what we do with, for, and because of each other.

Loe is being that example, not because it is what we are supposed to do, but because it is vitally important. It is what allows our kids to grow up happy and balanced. It creates an immediate world that reinforces the words we use and lessons we consciously try to teach. Emily always tries to do the best job she possibly can. Why do something if you do not at least try to do it right, to do it at a high level? She gives hugs because "you need one." She is creative and principled; she wants to be her own person. I might be boasting, but she learned those things from us, and she has ignored enough of the negative lessons I have inadvertently taught through my word and actions to become that developing young adult.

I could have written a much longer post about the negative lessons I have presented, consciously or unconsciousl, bjut let's focus on the positive. That is something I want my kids to do, right?  Those lessons have their effects too, I know. My kids are not perfect; I know that. I also know that that fact is also because of my lessons. I am just glad that Emily and Dylan seem have been able to disregard or overcome most of the negative lessons that their mom and I might lay out there, and have held on to the positive ones more often.  I am proud of who they are becoming. I love them.

"My Apologies"

Lately, I have slowed in my frequency of posting on this blog. I know this has caused all of you who read this periodic piece of thought-provoking brilliance great distress. I apologize. No, truly, I do. I apologize to you, the reader, but more to myself. I'll explain.

When I began writing this blog, it was so I would have an opportunity to put my ideas on paper. I just realized how that phrase has gone from literal to figurative in my life in such a short time. Anyway, I wanted to put my ideas down, to knead them like bread dough, and let them proof and rise. I wanted to share, and I wanted to think. In my first post, I discussed the idea of writing to think. With my reduced frequency of writing, I must then admit that I may not be thinking nearly as much, or as deeply, either.

I am not saying that I have taken more time as the summer has passed to allow my mind to completely stagnate.  I have been forced to think about the entire concept of teaching literature at the college level as well the effect of the skyrocketing cost of college on the selection of majors by today's scholars. Mr. Jerry Marsh had written an commentary on the latter as a response to an article we had both read about the decline of the English major, and he shared an article on the former with me yesterday. Leave it to Coach Marsh to remind me that I need to regularly read The Wall Street Journal. I carried on a conversation with Jason Williams this very morning about the irony in the conflict of Django Unchained, a film I want to watch but have not gotten around to this summer, and we discussed some of the points of contention in the Zimmerman trial. I had an epiphany in the shower the other night about how to make a strategic adjustment to a trips formation by utilizing the strengths of our athletes while maintaining consistency in their techniques and using practice and teaching time in the most efficient manner. I thought about the Uberfact tweet that stated "If humans were able to hear sounds at a frequency lower than 20Hz, we'd be able to hear our own muscles moving" and how such abilities would affect the atmosphere in the weightroom.  I read Andrew Bauer's blog on the conflict in the debate community regarding debate styles and what each style demands and teaches. As a teacher and a former debater, I really did think about what he had to say. We are both kind of dorks. Really, read his blog; he says so right there.  Ya Nerd

So, I have been thinking about stuff, and I have been talking about those ideas and thoughts. That is positive. However, sometimes, the solo act of writing forces us as intelligent beings to formulate those thoughts, mull them over, and "put them on paper".  We need the give and take of discussion with other people, and that sometimes comes through interactive writing, such as blogs, as well as the traditional face to face variety. However, I also need to look inside myself sometimes. For me, writing is a form of solo conversation that allows me to dig deeper into my thoughts and argue with myself. It creates those rabbit trails that I discussed in a previous post, those meandering excursions that are sometimes diversionary, sometimes fruitful.  Maybe that is just me, but it is how it works in my little world.  So, I write. I actuality, I have written two other drafts of posts tonight, but I have not been able to develop them to a point I am comfortable enough with the ideas to post them. I need to think on them a little more. It does not always go smoothly; sometimes thinking is hard. So, I fell back on a trick I used in college when I was stumped on papers for EN or LA classes: I wrote about writing what I am trying to write. Why? It goes back to what Coach Marsh once told me about improving my speed: "If you want to run fast, you have to run fast." If you want to write, and write well, you have to write.

So, while I apologize to you for my not writing more. I have to apologize to myself as well. I have to say to myself, "Self, you are cheating me by not allowing yourself to be better, to improve yourself." Sorry self. My bad.

Truly Random

I was looking for something last night (I do not remember what, and it does not really matter what it was), and I just kind of shrugged it of. For no reason whatsoever, other than that I was disregarding the importance of the searched for object, I thought of Calloway Kocher, sitting in my my English class, responding with a "Meh" that was trademark Calloway. I laughed a little, a pleasant chuckle at the memory of that sweet girl sitting in my class, shrugging off with a quiet smile whatever it was that she was letting roll off her that day. But then a thought struck me: Why did that thought decide to pop up its head like a mental prairie dog? It is not the first time I have wondered this. Ramdon thoughts have a tendency to push themselves into my consciousness, and the reasons for their surfacing is sometimes confusing.

I know at times these "random" thoughts are not truly random. They follow a stream of consciousness that actually hold some logic. My "Meh" thought arose because I was shrugging of something that really had little affect on me. I had given it the time and thought it deserved, and it really had not struck me vey deeply, and it was time to move on. "Meh" is the right word to convey that feeling, and for me, "Meh" will forever belong to Calloway. Not so random. Those not-so-random thoughts outnumber the truly random ones, especially if I really sit and think about them. Ask my senior English students, and the ones who pay attention should be able to corroborate this fact. I can always tell which students have truly keyed into a conversation in class when I ask the question, "How in the world did we get here?" and someone can trace the discussion from its "random" conclusion, back through its meandering mental stroll, to its often mundane genesis. Sometimes it is that journey that provides the most opportunities for thought and introspection.

Sometimes, however, I cannot trace the journey a thought or memory takes as it bubbles to the surface of my conscious mind. Why did the memory of a bunch of friends and I traipsing down to the Frisco Bridge cross at the river pop up the other day while I was beginning to doze off on the couch? Why did I hear Coach Parsons' voice on the VHS videotape of the Hoisington game my sophomore year while driving home from weights last week? Why do I suddenly have the vivid image of Grampie questioning me about climbing up the antenna tower so I could get on the roof of Nana and Grampie's house to retrieve a basketball the had bounced onto the porch roof?

One thing I have noticed about my random thoughts, at least my recent ones that I can catalogue for consideration, is that they are pleasant. Curtis Grote and Justin Gray cracking up in an honors English class that consisted of 29 girls and those to boys. Kyle Weber giving me an honest explanation for why he had chosen to spend the beginning of track practice at the high jump pit instead of the long jump run way, even though he did not high jump. Watching the final episode of Cheers in my dorm room with Heidi, just as we were beginning to date, only to have a coach knock on the door because I had failed to show up to freshman study hall, even though my midterm grades were all As. These nuggets are panned at times that do not make immediate sense.

But does that really matter?  They are memories.  They are pleasant. Does there have to be a reason for them, or can I just let them happen? Should I spend much more time trying to pin down an answer?  Probably not.

Meh.

"I Want to Watch That Again"

This summer, I have often found myself wanting to watch a movie that has recently been released for home viewing, but I have yet to go to the trouble of actually selecting one and viewing it. I watched The Breakfast Club with Emily, but nothing that has recently become available really makes me want to devote 90-120 minutes of my time. So, each time I get that urge, it eventually passes and I just check Twitter instead.

The other night, Dylan wandered into my little cave at the end of the basement and told me he wanted to go for a walk. I said that was fine and that he should go for it. He started up the stairs, and then came back down and said, "Actually, I want to walk to Hastings, but since I cannot remember how to get there, I might not do that." I asked if he wanted me to walk to Hastings, and that seemed like a good idea to him. Long story short, Dylan, Emily, and I walked to Hastings. As tends to happen on such trips, I found myself thumbing through the discount/clearance rack, this one featuring DVDs.  There were some interesting titles, and I starting thinking what movies that have been out for a while that I would like to sit down and view again. Movies that I remember for one reason or another, but that have not found their way into my basic cable viewing schedule. So, here is my list of my top 5 films that I would really like to watch again. Note that this is not a list of my top 5 movies of all time, or my top 5 most influential films; it is a list of 5 films I want to watch again for some reason. Some you might question, and that is cool. Some you might think about and say, "Oh yeah! I want to watch that again too!" That is even cooler. More cool? Whatever.

American History X.
This movie came  out in 1998 and starred Edward Norton before Fight Club.  I started to type a synopsis of the film, but I decided it might be more efficient to simply embed the trailer for you. (I apologize in advance for having to insert links only for some of the films. I will try to fix that later.)

I want to watch this movie again because I remember that I had a visceral reaction to it when I first watched in fifteen or so years ago. Unfortunately, the racial issues and societal conflicts that the film presents are still relevant today. Furthermore, the movie tells a story of an individual's personal growth and change, as well as the tragic consequences of that individual's choices. It is shocking, offensive at times, moving, and meaningful. I was forced by the film to develop feelings, positive and negative, for the characters. I began to care what happened to them. Artistically, I liked the director's use of flashbacks and black and white. The techniques were used to move the plot forward and intensify the emotion of the movie as Norton's character battles to make it through a world he once saw only in terms of black and white.

The Boys Next Door
John Hudson demanded we watch this movie when we were in high school. It was released in 1985 and stars a young Charlie Sheen. Sheen actually received second billing in the film. I can still picture particular scenes from the movie, and certain lines stand out.  This flick was the first time I heard of chemical that can be added to a swimming pool to turn the water purple if one wee to urinate in it. Kind of like Grownups, except that after whizzing in the pool, Adam Sandler and Kevin James go on a killing spree.
The Boys Next Door Trailer

I would like to watch this movie again because I would like to see if the impression it made on my mind was because it was actually a good movie that told its story in such a way that I could not forget it, if I was just a 16 year-old kid who was shocked by a movie that was brutal and startling, or if it was a combination of both that keep the images from the movie loaded in that part of my brain reserved for teenage memories. In my memory, The Boys Next Door has a dark and perverted Of Mice and Men quality to it. Two young men, traveling because they just cannot seem to find a place to fit in, and one of them tends to create trouble for them both, especially when the other is on the verge of finding something good he can grab on to. I have not seen this movie on any video store shelf, and I once searched for it on Netflix and could not locate it. There is another film by the same name, but this one has been hiding from me.

Summer School
Mark Harmon in the 80s, before NCIS and Kirstie Alley before Jenny Craig. Harmon played a teacher who was excited for summer, ready to race out the door and enjoy his vacation, only to be roped into teaching summer school.

I have no idea why I want to watch this movie again. It was ridiculous the first time I saw it, probably around 1989 when it came out on VHS and we rented it.  Harmon is a likable character, although he portrays the stereotypically horrible teacher at the beginning of the film, only to discover that all kids can learn, although some learn a little differently. That's new and fresh. Maybe this is not one I really want to see, but if I had put 187 starring Samuel L. Jackson on this list, some of you might start questioning my sanity. Besides, we all need fluff sometimes, and it is summertime, right?

MASH
The movie. I have already watched two episodes of the TV series today. No Alan Alda, but it did give birth to the series and starred Donald Sutherland. It came out the year before I was born, but it is a classic.
Theatrical Trailer for MASH

I have seen the film, but it has been a long time. I actually am no sure when I saw it; it was probably during college. I know the film, while set in Korea during the Korean War, was actually more connected to the conflict in Vietnam that was taking place when the film was produced. I think I do not just want to watch it again; I NEED to watch it again.  I remember certain aspects of the film, such as the football game against a rival unit in which the docs drug their opponents, as well as when the doctors convince a colleague to reconsider suicide by actually setting up the attempt for him. However, I know life experience and an expanded knowledge base will allow me grasp much more of the movie than I did the first time.

All the Right Moves
Tom Cruise, Lea Thompson, and Craig T. Nelson, and high school football in Pennsylvania.
All the Right Moves Theatrical Trailer

The movie came out when I was in middle school, and I went to my Aunt Ginny's to watch it on HBO. This was one of Cruise's early movies, and he was just cutting his teeth as a star. Craig T. Nelson was a complete jerk as the football coach, a completely different character than he portrayed as Hayden Fox, head coach of the Minnesota State Screaming Eagles, on the TV series Coach. I was an 8th grader, I think, when I saw the movie, and I was pretty easily impressed, so I want to watch this movie again. I remember that it had some great football sequences, that one of the team captains had to deal with the fact that his girlfriend was pregnant, that some of the content was a little more than an 8th grader at the time was used to seeing, and that Lea Thompson, for some reason, wore long underwear under her band uniform.

So there you have it: five films I want to watch again. I won't lie; I am not going to watch Summer School again unless it comes on USA Network sometime. The others have a chance of making their way into my rotation at some point. Oh, and just to provide you with a few more ideas, here are a few others that came to mind as I was writing today. Enjoy.
Falling Down
This Is Spinal Tap
Apocalypse Now
The Wall
Unforgiven
Collateral Damage
Wall Street
Nightmare on Elm Street (just the 1st one)
Reservoire Dogs

“Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, and believe?”

“Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, and believe?” Scott Turow.

I went back to Ellsworth last weekend. Yes, it is that town Rascal Flats sings about, sort of, in the song "Ellsworth, Kansas." The town was hosting its annual fireworks celebration, and, more importantly, much of my family was in town and convened out at Grandma's farm on Sunday for lunch and to sort through many decades' worth, actually over a century's worth, of treasures that Grandma Kohls had gathered, saved, hidden, and preserved for us. Actually, the treasures had been pretty well sorted by the time we got there, and for that, we all should say, "Thank you!"

As I thought about the weekend, the line "We are the stories we tell" came to mind. I know I have heard it somewhere, but I could not remember the source, so, of course, I Googled it, and the quote by Scott Turow was the closest I could come up with.  This weekend, I was reminded that my family is one incredible collection of storytellers. Some are short and quick, recalling a moment that flashed sometime in the near or distant history, and then we move on. "That was the gun that Darrel almost killed me with," my brother-in-law said as we examined a shotgun from the hall. "Dad only let us take that one if you were hunting alone. Too dangerous," my Dad added. And that was that. Near death experiences apparently lack the storytelling punch one might expect. "Was that the BB gun you shot Ralph with?" one of my relatives asked my Dad as Matthew picked up a toy from the table. "No, that was one of the ones you pumped up. You could do some damage with that one."  Some stories began in one place, triggered by an item, and led to other tales. My Dad showed me an old pipe that he had brought home. He started telling me about how Grandpa Schmoekel always smoked a pipe, and that he blended his own tobacco. From there, Dad's story weaved from putting pipes in back pockets to his Grandma Schmoekel's frustration with her husband and her sewing his pockets shut to a trip they made out to watch harvest after they had moved to town. Eventually, Dad was telling me about the older couple driving to town sitting on two buckets as a front carseat sat smoldering in a wheat field. Likewise, as we watched some TV talking head lament the whole Pala Deen situation, Dad told me a story of one day when he got in trouble on the back porch of his Grandma Schmoekel's house in town, which led to a visit by Grandma Kohls to Baker during my freshman year, and then to how politicians have changed in their focus over our lifetimes.  The stories meandered a bit. 

Some of the stories were not even told aloud, but they unroll themselves in your mind nonetheless. When it came to my absentee brother's turn to select a keepsake, I ran upstairs and found the Payday game. As kids we spent countless Sundays and holidays at the farm, and on those afternoons when the Kansas weather was too cold, too wet, or too hot, we might break out the game of Payday, and the cousins would roll the dice, count the spaces, hand out the chits, and, hours later, argue about who actually won. Darrel had to have the game. My sister snagged a stack of green and white dishes that had been in Grandma's cupboard, pulled out for everyday meals or special occasions. Actually, even everyday meals at Grandma's were special occasions, even if we did not know it at the time.  So, without discussion, my sister, my brother, and I all settled on dinner plates of some sort as mementos we might want to hold on to and take to our own homes. All of us have stories of those meals, with Grandma either working feverishly in the kitchen, moving around the house, refusing to sit until everyone was through the line, or arguing with Linda that she did not need to sit down. Some of the stories go much further back than any of us, including our aunts and uncles. Andrew, the youngest of "the cousins", can tell stories about the earliest of our clan, the Kohlses, the Schmoekels, and Brunings and such. And why wouldn't he; he comes by it naturally. So many items pulled from the China cabinet or front room drawers contained handwritten notes, penned in the familiar script of our Grandma, revealing such details as the date that one of our ancestors, at the age of 16, received a particular ring from her grandfather, who just so happens to be the first individual buried in the St. Paul's Lutheran Church cemetery. 

I could roll on and on about the stories that echo in that house, and those that are told in Mom and Dad's house about Nana and Grampie.  However, our stories are not limited to ancient familial tales and ghostly voices. We tell stories everywhere. Saturday night I went to my cousin Cindy's birthday party, where someone asked her about the story about the time she was kicked out of my basement. I was away coaching at a BU football camp, so I was not there, but the story involves three claps and an "OUT!" Apparently, according to Cindy's amazing portrayal of my Mom, her aunt Jane, "Girls' voices are just too loud." My son Dylan regaled us Saturday afternoon with his adventurous tale of walking to the Otta-Shop (I know that it is now Kwik Shop, but it will always be Otta-Shop to me), a story that included such gems as "I was hot, and I had gone the wrong way, so I sat down and ate some string cheese." One incredible aspect of our storytelling prowess is that it truly is a family affair. Somehow, Dylan has developed a meandering style that seamlessly melds my own, my dad's and my Uncle Ralph's.  Uncle Ralph had his own unique way of unfolding a story, at his own pace, and he would reach the end when he needed to, whenever that might be. 

“Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, and believe?” So true. I would add one phrase to the quote, however: “Who are we but the stories we tell ourselves, about ourselves, about each other, and believe?”  We will continue to tell our stories. We have no choice; it is who we are, and who we always will be.