We have heard about PE teacher Mrs. Keeling who, when children would not stop talking in her classroom, would order them to their knees and then noses to the stinky benches. And we have unconfirmed reports that she on occasion would, with children who continued to talk with their nose to the bench, sit on their heads. And we have another unconfirmed report that auditorium teacher Miss Wilson would pinch unruly children.
As I have thought about my various elementary teachers and their varied disciplinary techniques, I had a sort of epiphany of what must be the most innovative technique of disciplining an unruly child—making him blush (http://www.facialblush.com/).
I have mentioned in previous posts that I had many problems while in public schools and one of them was blushing. My seventh grade home room teacher Mrs. Willis was one of those stellar Texas women who taught us at Reinhardt. The day that I came into her classroom with my new Hardys shoes that had horseshoe taps that clicked so loudly that they disrupted classroom activity, what did she do? Did she send me to the principal’s office for licks? Did she take me to the hallway for a browbeating lecture? No, she called me to her desk and asked me to deliver a folded piece of paper to Miss Parks in her classroom at the end of the wing. And in the deadly silence of the classrooms and hallway, five or six classrooms listened to each of my tortured steps. As I reentered Mrs. Willis’s classroom, I blushed and also understood her correction and removed my taps from my shoes.
My biggest blush in her classroom came on a day when, according to her, I was pestering the boy who sat in a desk next to me, Kenny Williams. She said to the entire class, “Kenny, if Don was bothering me like he is bothering you, I think I would hit him on the head with something.” Kenny lifted the largest textbook he could find in his backpack and hit me as hard as he could on the top of my head. The popping sound blasted through the seventh grade wing and gave me a blush that might have been close to a childhood heart attack. Needless to say, I left Kenny alone after that.
Friday, June 15, 2007
A Retraction
I recently received a post from a reader that informed me that, “in her parts,” the Internet slang LMFAOL actually means “Laughing My Fat Ass Out Loud.” Said correspondent also confided that in the last three years or so, when she turned 55, the words fat and f*cking have begun rolling continuously around in her brain like marbles and frequently rolling off her tongue as well. She attributes this use of “the two ‘f’ words” with entering a freer, more “zestful” stage of her life. In addition she said she had mentally established an abbreviation pattern in her thinking—f1 for the fat and f2 for f*cking, which greatly helps economize her thinking and actually provides her with increased energy levels. She further suggested that I consider use of the f1 and f2 abbreviations in my blog, for instance, in a sentence composition such as “Most of the women at the party had f1 asses and most also wished that they had f2 asses but did not.”
I am no prude and do not have a problem with the message meaning underlying its semantic structure. However, I do object to the use of these crude acronyms. Lazy thinking leads to lazy writing, which is something I will not allow on herewith blog.
And further, compulsive use of these “f” words likely is caused not by newfound “zest” but due to a decline and impending shutdown of neural networks.
I obediently accept the correction that some in some parts might intend the term LMFAOL to refer to f1 and not f2 asses. (We can leave to future editors of the Merriam Webster dictionary to scientifically determine the widespreadness of this usage.)
However, I will not allow a debasement of this blog’s raison d'etre—to encourage clear and direct thinking, which is expressed in clear and direct writing.
I am no prude and do not have a problem with the message meaning underlying its semantic structure. However, I do object to the use of these crude acronyms. Lazy thinking leads to lazy writing, which is something I will not allow on herewith blog.
And further, compulsive use of these “f” words likely is caused not by newfound “zest” but due to a decline and impending shutdown of neural networks.
I obediently accept the correction that some in some parts might intend the term LMFAOL to refer to f1 and not f2 asses. (We can leave to future editors of the Merriam Webster dictionary to scientifically determine the widespreadness of this usage.)
However, I will not allow a debasement of this blog’s raison d'etre—to encourage clear and direct thinking, which is expressed in clear and direct writing.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
Reinhardt History Corner
Check this link for more photos and archival material from 1960-62.
http://s194.photobucket.com/albums/z214/diocynic/
http://s194.photobucket.com/albums/z214/diocynic/
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Monday, June 11, 2007
Priceless Shots from Reinhardt
Chinawoman, gypsy, square dancers, and Spanish dancer.
Photo captured June 11, 2007, with permission of school principal and 1961-62 classmate John Gallagher, who today works at Reinhardt managing the school's computer systems.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Simple twists of fate—one reason I ended up at Reinhardt
If my mother had really loved me and had had the common sense to have taught me to soak my hands overnight in a bag of antiperspirant before I went on that State Fair date, and Alison had fallen in love with me—I already in love with her, though with a child’s heart, not so much clearly aimed at an object, but self-reflexively, looking in a mirror, at the heart’s desire to find union with our opposite—and we had married and lived happily everafter, then I would not have found my true object, my most excellent and beautiful wife of 34 years.
I had a similar experience last week. Pam and I attended my aunt’s funeral at Restland and were gathered at my uncle’s home for an after-funeral gathering. Thirty or so were in attendance, a once-in-a-lifetime gathering of brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, and members from the church and square dance club.
John Hancock was handling himself well, with much dignity, given that he had just attended the funeral of his wife of 53 years. My cousin, Jim, aged 60 and recently retired, turned out to be a soulmate or genemate of mine, compulsive about psychoanalyzing and finding his history. As we discussed some mysteries of our parents’ and grandparents' early lives, he said something to the effect that we should pump John while we were there that afternoon to put together some of the missing pieces. I think he suspected that it would be the last time he saw John or any of the rest of us, so he ought to make the most of the opportunity.
So Jim, John, Don and my Mom, who is 86 years old and lives in a retirement facility in Richardson, found ourselves at Judy’s (John’s dead wife’s) dining room table. The two elders, like us old people often do, were looking backward rather than forward; they seemed to loosen up a bit--solemn, philosophic and becoming a bit playful—just the ambience I want this blog to have.
Jim had a good opportunity to spring his questions but was silent. So I decided to jump in with a question to better round out my short paragraph of knowledge about my grandparents, this being the genealogical tidbit that constitutes and exemplifies our pitiful ability to know our past:
My grandfather Hull Huggins Hancock was a roughneck at a young age in the oilfields of Tulsa, Oklahoma. He was the son of a quarry owner—someone who breaks rocks for a living. Hull also was a bit of a dandy and drew the interest of the daughter of the owner of the drilling company. Her name was Isabel McGilvery. Just after they were married, a tragic accident occurred—the bull wheel of a cable tool rig hit his skull, partly severing his ear and crushing his brain. Though he lived, he was permanently disabled, in constant pain, and lived from the charity of his father-in-law, who set him up with a small rental property operation to allow him to maintain his marriage and raise the four male Hancock children he produced. Hull was abusive of his boys. If one did something wrong, he would whip all the boys with a belt, and he would even whip Wag the dog if it tried to interfere and protect the boys. When he died, his four sons thought a tin can was sufficient for a gravestone.
My question to John was this, me the ever-romantic one: “When your father and mother first met one another and fell in love, what was it about Hull that drew Isabel to love him?” John, then but really throughout his life, was unable to summon up much imagination. He said, “My Dad was a roughneck, he had a lot of money.”
My Mother, who had listened to this exchange very closely, was next to speak. “If your dad had not been in that accident, your mother would have divorced him, because he was a drunk. She used to tell me things like that.”
My brother, aged 63, who was sitting across the room on the couch, as always misinterpreted the situation, assuming this was an inappropriate and outrageous thing to say, and let out one of his goofy guffaws, much too loud. I took my Mother’s comments as the right thing to say and understood her dry cynicism, me being her sugerbaby.
I had been corrected by an intelligent, loving woman. I listened to her and heard her and it has made all the difference in the world.
I had a similar experience last week. Pam and I attended my aunt’s funeral at Restland and were gathered at my uncle’s home for an after-funeral gathering. Thirty or so were in attendance, a once-in-a-lifetime gathering of brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, nephews, and members from the church and square dance club.
John Hancock was handling himself well, with much dignity, given that he had just attended the funeral of his wife of 53 years. My cousin, Jim, aged 60 and recently retired, turned out to be a soulmate or genemate of mine, compulsive about psychoanalyzing and finding his history. As we discussed some mysteries of our parents’ and grandparents' early lives, he said something to the effect that we should pump John while we were there that afternoon to put together some of the missing pieces. I think he suspected that it would be the last time he saw John or any of the rest of us, so he ought to make the most of the opportunity.
So Jim, John, Don and my Mom, who is 86 years old and lives in a retirement facility in Richardson, found ourselves at Judy’s (John’s dead wife’s) dining room table. The two elders, like us old people often do, were looking backward rather than forward; they seemed to loosen up a bit--solemn, philosophic and becoming a bit playful—just the ambience I want this blog to have.
Jim had a good opportunity to spring his questions but was silent. So I decided to jump in with a question to better round out my short paragraph of knowledge about my grandparents, this being the genealogical tidbit that constitutes and exemplifies our pitiful ability to know our past:
My grandfather Hull Huggins Hancock was a roughneck at a young age in the oilfields of Tulsa, Oklahoma. He was the son of a quarry owner—someone who breaks rocks for a living. Hull also was a bit of a dandy and drew the interest of the daughter of the owner of the drilling company. Her name was Isabel McGilvery. Just after they were married, a tragic accident occurred—the bull wheel of a cable tool rig hit his skull, partly severing his ear and crushing his brain. Though he lived, he was permanently disabled, in constant pain, and lived from the charity of his father-in-law, who set him up with a small rental property operation to allow him to maintain his marriage and raise the four male Hancock children he produced. Hull was abusive of his boys. If one did something wrong, he would whip all the boys with a belt, and he would even whip Wag the dog if it tried to interfere and protect the boys. When he died, his four sons thought a tin can was sufficient for a gravestone.
My question to John was this, me the ever-romantic one: “When your father and mother first met one another and fell in love, what was it about Hull that drew Isabel to love him?” John, then but really throughout his life, was unable to summon up much imagination. He said, “My Dad was a roughneck, he had a lot of money.”
My Mother, who had listened to this exchange very closely, was next to speak. “If your dad had not been in that accident, your mother would have divorced him, because he was a drunk. She used to tell me things like that.”
My brother, aged 63, who was sitting across the room on the couch, as always misinterpreted the situation, assuming this was an inappropriate and outrageous thing to say, and let out one of his goofy guffaws, much too loud. I took my Mother’s comments as the right thing to say and understood her dry cynicism, me being her sugerbaby.
I had been corrected by an intelligent, loving woman. I listened to her and heard her and it has made all the difference in the world.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Don’s squirrelly problems of astigmatic myopia and hyperhidrosis
We know much more today about children’s special needs than we did in the fifties and sixties. Serena had an overactive bladder but she also has shared with me that she was flat chested [http://www.breastaugmentation.com/index.php] [http://www.breastcreation.com] while at Reinhardt; I had my own goddamned problems. When I was on the Reinhardt Rams championship football team, at the final game of the season--we were at the Spruce High School field at night and the stadium lights shone on the faces of my friends and their parents packing the stands--I had a problem whenever I was on the field. I couldn’t see anything. Whenever Mr. Gerber called me in to play, I handed him my horn rimmed glasses, which he put in his pocket, and headed off toward a fuzzy set of figures out on the field. I couldn’t figure out why he decided to play me at offensive end. In the huddle, I frantically told quarterback Steve Green not to take the long pass option to me because I couldn’t see him in the backfield or a football flying toward me. I was a bit ashamed to say that to Steve in front of my nine other teamates but thought it was better for him to try to make a better play than to throw a ball at me, which might hit me in the head before I saw it. I was still able to play defense fairly well and was proud that Mr. Gerber had put me, playing right defensive end, up against the biggest boy any seventh grade had ever had for a player. I must have been about 5’4” and weighed 80 pounds. He was 6’2’’ and weighed 200. After the game, my Dad reproved me with a comment, “Why didn’t you block and knock down that big boy you were supposed to be guarding.” We lost the game with a score of something like 36-0, and I felt bad that I allowed that big guy to rush past me so many times to knock poor old Steve to the ground. Oh, well, my athletic days were near ending anyway, due to delayed spurts of testosterone, another medical condition which I’m sure has a name and a treatment.
I’d like to think that if I were to relive my life today, Mr. Gerber and my Mom would figure out that I needed some sports glasses, contact lens, or something. Perhaps those didn’t even exist back in 1962.
My problems with hyperhidrosis (see http://www.sweatypalmsinfo.com/) began at about the same time. On our seventh grade State Fair Day, as I walked down the Midway holding hands with my date Alison Posey, I knew my hyperhidrosis was creeping up and so did she. At a certain point, I think we were near the Merry-Go-Round, she very politely but firmly grabbed my wrist, wiped my palm off on my shirt, and dutifully tried to make a dry start of things. My hyperhidrosis problem re-emerged during the first week of classes at Gaston. I found myself in the drafting class as homeroom and thought I would like to take drafting. Mr. Klapp was encouraging. But after a few days of seeing the small pools of sweat I was leaving on the drafting table, I prudently realized that drafting wasn’t for me, I would just make a mess of things, and told Mr. Klapp so much.
I’d like to think that if I were to relive my life today, Mr. Klapp and my Mom would figure out that I needed something, perhaps some antiperspirant or an endoscopic thoracic sympathectomy.
I really think my experience with Mr. Gerber at that football game was a pretty good life lesson, in that through my work career I have continuously had bosses lacking in the most basic common sense when it comes to marshaling and caring for their team members.
I’d like to think that if I were to relive my life today, Mr. Gerber and my Mom would figure out that I needed some sports glasses, contact lens, or something. Perhaps those didn’t even exist back in 1962.
My problems with hyperhidrosis (see http://www.sweatypalmsinfo.com/) began at about the same time. On our seventh grade State Fair Day, as I walked down the Midway holding hands with my date Alison Posey, I knew my hyperhidrosis was creeping up and so did she. At a certain point, I think we were near the Merry-Go-Round, she very politely but firmly grabbed my wrist, wiped my palm off on my shirt, and dutifully tried to make a dry start of things. My hyperhidrosis problem re-emerged during the first week of classes at Gaston. I found myself in the drafting class as homeroom and thought I would like to take drafting. Mr. Klapp was encouraging. But after a few days of seeing the small pools of sweat I was leaving on the drafting table, I prudently realized that drafting wasn’t for me, I would just make a mess of things, and told Mr. Klapp so much.
I’d like to think that if I were to relive my life today, Mr. Klapp and my Mom would figure out that I needed something, perhaps some antiperspirant or an endoscopic thoracic sympathectomy.
I really think my experience with Mr. Gerber at that football game was a pretty good life lesson, in that through my work career I have continuously had bosses lacking in the most basic common sense when it comes to marshaling and caring for their team members.
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