Yup. I Went There.

Over there -> on the side of my blog, there is a game of Hangman. It's a game I recall playing in school when I was in the second grade, so that would make me about 6 or so. I know my son has played it with me for hours, and it's a good tool for learning spelling, reading, and getting children interested in words.

Have you ever really considered what this game is saying? I mean, there are words, and spaces, and a cute little guy, and it's part guessing game part deductive reasoning, and it's lots of fun sometimes, and you can see how it's the precursor to the huge television hit 'Wheel of Fortune', but have you ever really looked at the game? I mean, look at it from a little kid's point of view. Five or six. Just starting school.

The teacher draws a funny shape on the board, and then draws a series of likes next to it. "These lines represent the letters in a word," she says. "You have to guess which letters go there and try to fill in the word. If not ... " She points at the funny shape she's drawn.
"What's that?"
The question comes from Jimmy, a nice, sensitive little boy with one heck of a cowlick sitting in the front row.
"That, Jimmy, is a gallows. Can anyone tell me what a gallows is, what it is used for?"
Her gaze sweeps over the class. She looks somehow stern as she waits, and some of the children begin to shuffle their feet and fidgit. They feel a little anxious at her tone, but no one raises their hand. No one has a guess.
"Anyone? No? Well then I'll tell you. A gallows is a contraption used when they hang a person my the neck until they are dead."
She smiles.
"Isn't 'contraption' a funny word? I think so." Jimmy is raising his hand.
"Yes?"
"Dead? Like, um... dead?"
She continues to smile, probably still thinking about the word 'contraption' as she answers "Yes, Jimmy. Dead."
From the side of the room and about half-way back, another hand goes up. Norma Robbins, a hefty girl in a pink sweater that she's started already to outgrow, waits for the teacher to nod her assent.
"Um ... what does a gallows have to do with school?"
The teacher's smile broadens, and she swiftly draws another figure on the board, putting it right next to the gallows, the chalk scritching and scratching as she works. This one is a cute, stick-like figure, with a big balloon head and a smiley face.
"We are going to play a game today. The game is called 'Hangman'. I will write a series of lines on the board, much like these, here." She points toward the lines. "That tells you how many words there are in the word. Now, all you have to do is guess which letters are in the word, and when you guess right I'll add them in above the line. Eventually someone will be able to guess the whole word, and you will win the game. Yes, Rob?"
The blonde boy in the back of the class lowers his trembling hand and uses the back of it to wipe away the tears that are filling his eyes.
"W-w-what happens if we d-don't guess right?"
"Well, if you guess incorrectly, that's where Harold comes in."
She taps the chalk on the figure next to the gallows.
"This is Harold. Cute, isn't he?"
There are murmurs of agreement from the class.
"Every time you get an answer wrong, I'll draw a part of Harold on the gallows. First his head, then his body, then his arms and so on. So you all better guess the correct letters and figure out the word, before ... "
"Before what?" says Jimmy, tears running down his cheeks unchecked.
"Well," says the teacher, "before I get all of Harold up here. Once he's all up here on the gallows the game's over, and cute little Harold will hang by the neck until he is dead. So I guess Harold's life is really in your hands."
She picks up the eraser and wipes Harold off the board.
"Okay, who wants to go first?"
She turns back to the class and looks out over her students again, and then pauses, a puzzled expression on her face.
"Why are you all crying?"

Honestly, this is an evil game that puts way too much pressure on the child to succeed. And what kind of hostage-taker mentality came up with this game? 'Guess correctly or I'll hang this little friendly looking dude. Go on, guess!'
Jesus!
It's like something out of the movie "Saw"! I can see it now. "Rope: Just when you thought it was safe to go back t the 1st grade..."

Yeah, can you tell I've been writing Horror stories for the better part of a year? I started this blog so I'd have somewhere to write lighter, funny stuff, but this just snuck in the back door as I was looking at my blog page.
Sorry. I went with dark humor today.
Maybe tomorrow it'll be about rainbows!

Talk to you later!

It Begins Again :-(

Today I came to believe that my anhidrosis is back. (please see "No Sweat, No Problem - Not Really!" for information on anhidrosis)  Parts of me are sweating, but parts of me are not. I went ahead and made a doctor's appointment for tomorrow to see if I should go in for some tests or if I should start the steroid infusions right away. I've decided to keep a little private diary, or log, about the treatments this time, as well as the symptoms to try to keep track of my progress, or lack thereof. I can't believe I never thought to do this before. What I'm thinking is there may be a book in all this crap. After all, according to the people I've spoken with, I'm kind of a medical miracle. So I started my sweat log, or Slog (Think it'll catch on? Me neither). I chronicled the date, the weather, my sweating issues in detail.
But then I got distracted by that book idea. A book about a man who, for no known reason, loses the ability to sweat. Hmmm... what would I call it?

• No Sweat!
•  - No, that sounds like I'm trying to be a self-help guru. Tony Robins would be parked on my lawn trying to call me out!
  
• Feelin' Hot Hot Hot!
• Well... that sounds like it's either a dance number, or women will be buying the book thinking it's a calendar of half-naked firemen. Um... no.
  
• Sweating Like A Pig!
• That would be technically accurate, since pigs do not sweat, but I think a lot of people wouldn't get it. The Richard Simmons crowd might think it's something he put out to go along with 'Sweating to the Oldies', and I'm not all about that. Going to a book signing and being charged by an angry crowd of 300 lb-ers who were expecting a small, effeminate man in ridiculous shorts sounds more like a nightmare than a dream come true.
  
• Bone Dry.
• Sounds like an AA pamphlet.
  
• The Quest for Salty Gold
• Okay, that sounds like a pornographic fetish video - Noooope!
  
• Adult Onset Exacerbating/Remitting Ideopathic Anhidrosis - The Story of a Medical Miracle
• The only thing drier than the author would be the title. I'd be guaranteed to sell at least one book.  Thanks, Mom.

Okay, not having a lot of luck here. I still think there might be a book in all this malarkey, I just need to find a hook. An eye-catching title.

A little help here? Does anyone out there have any suggestions for a title? Throw one in the comments section below. Serious, funny, or in-between, I'd love to hear from you!

Talk to you later!

School Daze

So it's a new school year, and it's my day off. Here I sit at the schoolyard, having come to pick up Handsome when school let out. Handsome decided to stay after school and play with some kids, (surprise, surprise) playing wall-ball and tag, and whatever else they decide to play today. I took a seat at one of the picnic-style tables they have under the tree next to the playground and broke out one of the books I'm currently reading, 'Full Dark, No Stars', by Stephen King. Eventually the Fun Club, an after-school play program, came out and set up on the table next to me. They brought with them even more kids, and I have been surrounded by small children for over an hour as I read about horrible things happening to a poor woman, all with Mr. King's particular sense of detail. Small children playing with balls and toys, throwing paper airplanes past my head as they try to find out who can make the best design.

After a while it all seemed just a little surreal, all the strange thing I was reading right here in the middle of a crowd of innocent little kids. I felt a little weird, constantly feeling a low-grade worry that someone might start reading over my shoulder, and get a little freaked out. I mean, I know they can read; it's a school program, after all. So I put the book-marker in place, closed the book, snapped an elastic around it to keep it closed (as is my usual habit), and put it aside.

Right in front of me in the space so recently occupied by my book, there were two words carved into the table. Though I somehow missed them when I sat down and inadvertently covered them with Mr. King's story collection, they were carved deep into the wooden surface. Someone took some serious time to make sure their message would last once they left, that it would survive beyond them. Each block letter was about an inch high, and the loving care they took in the carving made the words clearly legible.

***K YOU

Terrific.

I slapped my book back down over the words, placed my folded hands on top of it and considered. All I could picture was a child coming along (hell, they are all over the place here), looking down at the carved message and then looking at me. And then going over to one of the adults and saying “That man wrote on the table, and it says –“

It's not just that, I don't want them to see it at all. So I went to the motorcycle and got my laptop out of the backpack strapped to the little luggage rack. Now it sits squarely where my book once sat, and I'm waiting for all the kids to leave. I'll point it out to one of the staff once the kids have thinned out, and maybe they can have a custodian come out tomorrow and clean it, or obscure it somehow, before the kids come out again. Until then I'm kind of trapped. Handsome is thrilled to have all this extra time to play with the kids. He doesn't know why he's getting to stay so long, and he ain't asking.

I definitely ain't telling.

Ah, school.

Talk to you later!

... The More They Stay The Same

The other day I was in the Jeep, kind of cruising on my way home. Flying on autopilot. Paying attention to the road, but everything else about driving was kind of running in the background of my mind. I got to a spot where the street I was on goes downhill and winds in an S-curve, right then left, then straightens back out for a bit before the stop sign at the end. The houses there are pretty close together, and seem to loom over the street. It's not really crowded, not as cramped as it appears, with room for a sidewalk on your left and even space for a few cars to park. Everything is close enough, however, that you can't see around either of the bends in the road. It's a little like an 'S' shaped corridor.
I went into this curve with a little zest. A little verve. A little speed. If I were a kid I might have entered the first curve while saying 'zooommm..." at least, I would have been saying that until I saw the cop. Sitting right in the middle of the S-bend so that it couldn't be seen from either before or after the curves, was a police cruiser. And it was occupied.
My eyes flew to the speedometer as my foot touched the brake. It was too late, I saw, as I passed the officer doing 35 in a 25. Or was it a 20? I strained to remember as I pulled up to the stop sign after the curves. There I sat, my eyes glued to the rear-view mirror. I sat stiffly, looking with my eyes only, since to turn around to look might seem guilty. I sat and prayed not to see the cop car come around the bend.
And there came a car! My heart dropped until I saw that, rather than a police car, this was a grey Buick. As they pulled up behind me I could hear their music, feel the too-high Bass keeping the rhythm in my stomach. From their silhouettes I could tell that there were two of them, and they had their hats on sideways; a practice that, to me, deserves a stinging slap. Much like wearing your pants half-way down.
But as they pulled right behind me at the stop sign, I could see them more clearly. Both were about 18 years old, sitting up straight, eyes glued to the rear view and wing mirrors, refusing to turn around and look as that might seem guilty. They both looked wide-eyed and intense, each concentrating on his own prayers that the cop car not come around the bend behind them.

I laughed.

I may have been 42, listening to the local Country station and dressed in a way that I would call 'sensible', and they may have been 18, listening to hip-hop way too loud and dressed like rap star wannabes, but we had one thing in common.

Guilt looks the same no matter how old you are!

Talk to you later!

Acceptance Letter (Sort Of)

If you're reading this, you know I'm a writer.

Yes, I know, 'get to the point, Captain Obvious!'

I'll get there in a minute. I've posted here about getting rejection letters (I have a few... okay, more than a few) about some of the fiction pieces I've submitted,  and also my rare acceptance letter. Only two so far, and one of those stories is being published this month as a matter of fact. I believe I posted about that acceptance letter, and the excitement and emotions it brought me (Click here to see the blog entry titled "Published?" if you're curious). I had an experience recently that was a little similar.

We have tried a lot of things to get my son to read. He just turned 9, and he says flat out that he has no interest in it. He doesn't mind being read to, but he doesn't want to do the reading himself. There are... let me see ... three bookcases scattered about his house, one of them quite large, filled with books we have gotten him. All with the specific aim of sparking his interest. Kid's stories, adventure stories, silly stories, stories up the old whazoo. No dice.

This past Wednesday, Handsome's first day of the 4th grade, his new teacher had a surprise for him. They all have to read for at least 30 minutes a night! This is in addition to any other homework she may assign, and the parents have to sign off on it. 

Well, I heard Handsome was livid when he got home. I was at work and missed the show, but I'm sure it was spectacular. After work, when I went over there for my nightly visit, I saw something out on the dining room table. It was the ring-binder in which I've been putting "The Adventures of Tommy and Eric", a science fiction series I have been writing for him for about a year now. There are four stories so far, each about 30-35 pages long. When I finish one it becomes a bedtime story, and once I read it to him it goes in the binder. It wasn't in its usual place on the bookshelf, but was out on the table.

"What's this doing out here?" I pointed the binder out to Handsome, who was sitting at the table finishing his homework.

He looked up from his work, and his face was glum.

"We have to read a half hour every night."

"Yeah," I said. "Mom told me."

"So I'm reading this," he said pointing at the binder.

I looked at the big bookcase we were sitting next to, and thought about the two others that are in the house. All those stories, some of which he chose himself or even asked for on is own, all the adventure stories, kid's stories, silly stories and stories out the whazoo, and he chose to read the ones I had written? I sat there, stunned, feeling a bit of a lump in my throat.

I've gotten rejection letters about my work, and I've gotten acceptance letters about my work. I prefer the acceptance letters, trust me. This isn't exactly another acceptance letter, but it's close. Close, but different.

Close, but better.

Much better.

Talk to you later!

A Little Role-Reversal

My boss has a certain style about him. If you're talking to him and you bring up stuff he doesn't want to talk about, such as why something may not be done on time, or having so much of your own work that you may not be able to do much of someone else's, he walks away. Just turns his back and walks away, often while you are in mid-sentence. He does this sometimes while you are asking him for something; at those times he says "I'll get back to you", or "I'll look into it", and bang he's out of there. Whether you have finished making your request or not. I've looked into this, and I think he has the verbiage wrong. The words "I'll get back to you on that" are supposed to mean that he will check on something, or try to get something done for you, and then come back to you with new information, or a plan of some sort. What he seems to mean by those words is that he is considering the topic closed for discussion, and he will never broach the subject again.
Another thing he tends to do is simply issue orders. Now, I know he's the boss, and he is supposed to issue orders, but my thinking is that when someone comes to him with a work issue, such as there is something they will not be able to get done on time, or there is something that is just not working for them (including equipment failure), he might actually attempt to figure out a solution; offer to get something fixed, come up with an alternative, something like that. Instead, our hero tends to sit behind his desk and say "Just get it done," or "just do it". Not what the person who came to him had in mind, I'm sure.

This morning there was a vehicle shortage. There was a guy, J.S., who was pretty much ready to go to the street and deliver; all he lacked was a mail truck. This had been brought to the boss's attention first thing in the morning, and as usual he said "I'll handle it", and walked away.
Now it was 2 and a half hours later, the office was almost empty of carriers, and there was still no truck. He had not come back to the carrier, though J.S. went to him several times. He had not found a truck, nor come up with any kind of a plan to allow J.S. to go out and make his deliveries.
In fact, while J.S. was under the illusion that he would have a truck, he agreed to do some of someone else's work as well as his own. Now, having to wait for a vehicle, he didn't have the time he thought he would have. He had to tell the boss that he wouldn't be able to carry as much as he'd originally said.
The boss, of course, was upset that J.S. wasn't going to be able to do all he had said earlier in the morning. Hearing them, I looked up in time to see the boss telling him "What I'm upset about is that you said you'd do it, and now you changed your mind," completely ignoring the fact the J.S. was still sans truck.
He walked away (yes, before J.S. had time to say anything in his defense) and took a seat at his desk. J.S. took a deep breath, and walked over to stand in front of the desk, across from the boss.

"You walk around here in the morning saying 'mail's up, pull down, go go go', and any time someone has a problem your answer is 'do it'.  Tell you what."
He flipped a hand back and forth in front of his chest, indicating the both of them.
"Let's do a little role-reversal."
He pointed at the seated man.
"Get me a truck."
The boss opened his mouth to make a retort -
 ... and J.S. turned and walked away.

As he walked, he heard the sound of clapping making its way across the work floor. Looking over, he saw me, standing at my sorting rack, applauding.

I told him this was what I was going to blog about today. He said he wanted some sort of credit, and I think he deserves it.

This blog post was brought to you in part by my co-worker, J.S.

Letter-carrier, turkey-wrangler.

Thanks, J.

Talk to you later!

Visiting M.E.

Sometimes, when I'm getting close to the end of my route, M.E. comes out on the porch to meet me when I'm delivering the mail. When I'm delivering that street, I go up one side of the street, then turn about and deliver my way back down her side of the street and return to the truck. This afternoon she apparently decided that it would be too much for her to wait until I got to her house. She came out to the edge of the porch and yapped something at me. I have no idea what she said; it was raining, and through the patter of rain hitting my raised hood as well as the MP3 player I had plugged into the ear that was facing her, I really couldn't hear her that well. I kept walking, so she grew louder, though I still couldn't pick up her meaning. The tone came through well enough, though. I would describe it as 'peremptory'.
"Hang on, M," I called over my shoulder. "I'll be there in less than ten minutes, okay? You have to wait your turn!"
She made some response, but I was drawing further away from the house now, and I could hear her even less well than before. I delivered my way to the end of the street, crossed to the other side and delivered my way back towards M.
When I got there I saw that M., rather than going inside to get out of the slight rain, was still waiting on the porch. She was silent now, standing perfectly still on the top step, rain glistening in her black hair. Her dark eyes were fixed upon me, and as I mounted the first of the five steps up to her I could see that she was trembling with suppressed emotion.  I stopped on the fourth step, leaving her just one above me.
"It's good to see you," I said as I reached out with one hand, placing it brazenly upon her backside. As I began to rub gently, her mouth fell open, and she shifted her weight, wiggling in a kind of ecstasy. A low moan escaped her open mouth, and she placed a paw on my leg ...
Oh, wait! Did I forget to mention that M. is a dog? Whoops, my bad!
Anyway, I patted and scratched her for a while, then went on to finish my route.

I'll bet you thought it was going to be a better story than that!

Talk to you later!