SONS SOMETIMES RISE

In a recent staff meeting we discussed concentrating our efforts on teaching the short-timers, those darling inmates that have a chance of parole. Sure sounds like a winning strategy, doesn't it? Well, you’re probably not going to believe my reaction, and that’s fine, but this is what I said, "Give me the lifers. I’ll take them, I’ll teach them."

Back in 1992, when I first started with the Michigan Department of Corrections, my outlook was much different. Why should I, or anyone else for that matter, waste time teaching someone that would one day be carried out in a pine-box (figuratively speaking)—and handcuffed too, because no one really truly dies in prison; there’s legal issues involved and there’s a chance they’re faking their own death and trying to escape.

In the early 90’s I remember a young man (actually I thought of him as a naïve, immature kid) that entered my classroom with a nasty temperament and a bad attitude. We had a policy back then that any inmate without a high school diploma must go to school. This kid explained to me that he was "doing all day," and why should he care about attending class? We battled often. I’d write major misconduct tickets as a temporary fix—hell, if he couldn’t come out of his cell then my workday would run much smoother. Also, I wouldn't be held liable if he hurt another inmate on my watch, especially the precious short-timers. Unfortunately, he’d come back angrier than before, claiming that I was a racists, that I couldn’t break him. This went on for well over a year.

One day he approached me as determined as ever. "Listen," he said, "My mother’s dying and I want to make her proud."

He earned his GED in a very short time afterward. At the GED ceremony, dressed in cap and gown, this young man introduced me to his mother. You could tell she was dying, but at that very moment, she was happy to see her son do something positive. His name is Darryl Woods and the attached article from Thursday’s Detroit Free Press proves my point: "I’ll teach the lifers."

NO BIG DIG WOES, NO 48236

My water’s green, sun caused it, too much algae and not enough plant coverage over the pond’s surface. The fish don’t seem to mind. In order to see them my wife bought a plastic feeding ring, a medium-sized floating peace sign that the fish attack every time we cross the bridge. They’ve been conditioned to think a few fish pellets will be tossed their way.

Davey’s family gave us an expensive beige umbrella to cut down on the algae by blocking out the sun’s intense rays. One of those fancy jobs, where you crank it to a certain point and it turns and tilts to the angle you desire. I staked its heavy wrought iron base into the dirt, but the wind got a hold of the umbrella and beat it to the ground nonetheless. Now I’m thinking Davey’s family should’ve taken it to Texas, what with 100+ degree temperatures near Houston.

Other than that, the pond is structurally sound. No big dig woes. No water leaks. Last tally: approximately 1 grand spent on the project. This weekend I’m going to lower the water level and extend one section another two feet, just enough to place a large skimmer. Once I’m finished, the pump (which sits near the bottom of the pond on a red plastic milk crate) will be housed inside the skimmer. I’m hoping to cut down on unwanted debris floating in the water. Again, another strategy to battle the algae.

Today’s picture is a close-up of me on the bridge. Do you think my wife and I should have a garden tour? She's a master gardener and knows how to show off our landscaping designs. Or maybe I could model it off in "Better Homes & Gardens," or keep it local with www.Signaturemag.com (although my zip code isn’t 48236). I’ve never been one to shy away from the camera. It’s all about the presentation, isn’t it?

GYM SPELLS

I guess I’ll tell it like it is: State employees coming through the prison’s front gates, whether they deal with inmates directly or indirectly, are subjected to harassment. The same rings true for inmates entering my classroom. We’re all just bags of meat walking through a door, or gate, or whatever—take your pick.

Yesterday, while checking attendance, an inmate whispered to me (if you can do such a thing from arms length away) that he would not be able to attend class any longer today because of a physical ailment. Keep in mind: he's a weightlifter (aren't they all?) chisled out of granite. I, in turn, asked him if he had a medical detail excusing himself from class? I know not to pry into an inmate’s private health matters, none of my business, unless I’m spit on or bit. He blurted out, "I have colitis."

Let me reinterpret this for you: The young man did not want to shit behind the half-wall in our school hallway. No privacy there. He wanted to crap back in his unit. And of course, this is based on the assumption that he really had to go at all. He claimed to have forgotten his medical detail back at his "house." (Last week he demanded a cane from healthcare for his ailing back.)

Since he put his business out there, I had to give him an opportunity to "save face." He already started warning his classmates, "Stay out of my video!"

"I’ll tell you what," I said, "if you can spell it, then you can leave."

Unfortunately, he went into a tirade about our student-teacher relationship becoming irreparably harmed due to my callous insinuation regarding the credibility of his health problem. I said, "I’m not questioning your health. I’m not a doctor, I’m a teacher. What I’m questioning is your ability to spell."

"Oh, you got jokes, huh?" he replied. He started mean-mugging me.

I paused, took my time, then continued, "For instance, if you had the flu, you’d probably spell it f-l-e-w."

Not only is physical pain a good way to learn, so is a heightened sense of arousal, i.e. through embarrassment. Remember, our prisons are full of bad spellers.

JELLYVISION

No one knows Jack like Jack knows Jack. Ain’t that right Jack? I’m referring to Jack Brandenburg, a State Representative for Michigan’s 24th District and a Macomb County Republican whose re-election campaign includes a state takeover of Detroit.

Seems Jack cried foul in a letter to his constituents regarding a Detroit Free Press editorial claiming that he missed 123 votes. Well—yeah—he’s not disputing the number, in fact he agrees with the number; It’s just that they were "unfair" and "irresponsible" in reporting it because he had "extenuating circumstances." They knew, Jack claims, beyond a reasonable doubt why he had missed so many votes.

Gosh Jack, now I understand how you operate. When you came to visit our prison, you weren’t interested in finding out about the education programs or what purpose they served. You certainly didn’t speak to any of the teachers. Your quick chicken-walk down our hallways had been enough to justify slamming us in an editorial for the very same FREEP you are now mad at. What was the title of your editorial again? Oh yes—"State Prison GED Program Deserves Cuts." Seems you were armed with all kinds of data, all kinds of numbers that you could twist in the wind regardless of the facts, especially the one where the Michigan Department of Corrections produced half the GED’s in the state last year. Guess that doesn’t matter, probably has more to do with your hatred of Detroit.

Well Jack, I wish you the best of luck in your campaign. Take it easy with your new hip, don’t pound the pavement too much. And thanks for letting me know that you missed only 17 votes due to your hip surgery. And thanks for letting me know that you missed 13 votes when you had the flu this spring. And thanks for letting me know that you missed 93 votes in two days due to the misdiagnoses of your son’s lymph node cancer; glad to hear that it was only a mole. Yep: 17 + 13 + 93 = 123. And thanks for letting me know that you’ve been working since you were 12 years old. And thanks for letting me know how long you’ve been married, your wife’s name, and how many kids you have.

Gosh Jack, I feel like we’re such good friends now. Your follow-up email regarding your criticism of our program made me feel much better. Thanks for acknowledging that I work with a "difficult population." Thanks for stating that what I do is "truly heroic." (I have to be honest with you, Jack: the scar on my forearm isn’t from an inmate—I had 2nd stage Melanoma a few years ago). Thanks for all you’ve done for me, for your representation, for patting me on the back. I’m still wondering if you’ve found the soft spot to stick the knife?

THE ACCIDENTAL THEME

I agonized over the cell phone for three long months. It’s crucial to the story, to the plot line—who has the goddamned cell phone? I said this to myself over and over and over, again and again and again. The prison-tutor in my classroom, a poet in his own tortured right, was certain that I had finally went off the deep end. Never mind his braided horns, or his tattoo of Satan on his neck, or his extremely long curled-over fingernails, he was a black Frenchman from Quebec, a D-prefix (fourth letter in the alphabet meant fourth time in prison)—never mind all that—HE WAS A RELIABLE SOURCE—in fact, he insisted, "The cell phone doesn’t matter. Forget the cell phone."

Out of desperation, out of a sense of helplessness, I let go, sent the story off, knowing I had failed. Three months later, while my tutor sat in segregation for having a little "holiday cheer" in his cell, I was awarded Wayne State University’s 20th annual Judith Siegel Pearson Award for a short story concerning women’s issues. Instead of feeling triumphant, I felt confused. Sure the $200 was comforting (I hurried up and cashed it), but I didn’t understand my own story. Here’s the link: (Jail Bait).

It wasn’t until later, when the prison-tutor-poet came back from segregation (turns out he inadvertently put baby powder in a small unmarked plastic container, or so he says) that I had figured it out. The final judge, WSU’s faculty member Bill Harris, author of numerous plays including "Robert Johnson: Trick the Devil," "Riffs," "Coda," and "Every Goodbye Ain’t Gone" must’ve seen it all along. One word sums it up: Miscommunication.

DWB from my POV

We saw Davey and his family off to Texas, carried a box of miscellaneous items back from their house for sale, walked past some neighborhood kids, ages 10 to 14, shooting hoops in a driveway. They yelled at the 2 semi-trucks laboring along, “Bye-bye, Davey, bye-bye.”

“They’re already gone,” my wife said, nodding in the direction of a Ford Expedition farther up the road, disappearing from our subdivision.

The kids went back to their game and we continued our walk home. The plan was to get our vehicle and go grab a quick bite to eat. It couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes when we approached the same spot where the kids were playing basketball, however, the scene was much different. My wife, always the driver, asked whether we should stop to see what was going on. I told her, “No, keep going.”

This is what I saw in the side mirror: Mrs. Witkowski holding a kid tightly to her bosom, trying to restrict his movement as he sat on the side of the pavement; Mr. Witkowski on his cell phone; Another adult herding the kids into the house. I looked out the back window to get a better view and saw a black man standing near his Pacifica, both arms gesticulating wildly above his head. “Turn back,” I said, “this doesn’t look good. People drive too damned fast down this street.”

My wife looped around the block and we got out. The unidentified adult approached the teenage driver (I had been wrong in thinking he was an adult) and tried to calm him. I glanced at his Pacifica, which seemed new except for the dent in the front right fender. I approached Mrs. Witkowski, who was doing a great job of keeping the kid calm. “Let me know if you get tired,” I said. I glanced at the kid’s left leg, mangled, with tire marks on it. Within minutes, three police cars, two firetrucks, and an ambulance, all of them with sirens blaring, cordoned off the street and went to work. Not that it should matter, but keep in mind: everyone at the scene was white, except for the driver.

This is what happened: The 16 year old driver had just received his license and was driving extremely slow through the subdivision, babying his new ride that I had learned later had a pre-existing dent. The kid ran to retrieve the basketball, saw that the car was crawling along, so he grabbed the ball and turned, his left leg slipping out from under him and right into the path of the Pacifica’s rear tire. From what I heard, the driver kept saying, “My momma’s gonna kill me. I’m going to prison. Oh man, I crushed his leg.” No one wanted the kid to hear any of this.

EMS rushed the kid to the nearest hospital with Mrs. Witkowski by his side. All I kept thinking of was my last words to Davey, “Remember what I told you…” but he finished my sentence for me, “they fry people in Texas so behave, I know, but I’m not going to prison,” he assured me with confidence. Now, if only the 16 year old driver could believe the same thing; afterall, it wasn’t his fault, it was an accident, a horrible, horrible accident.

DARK MATTERGY

Yesterday’s post generated an anonymous comment about Jack Kevorkian, a.k.a. Dr. Death, (the word "hell" came up repeatedly) which kind of reminds me of his artwork. From what I’ve heard, Jack’s paintings are like Hieronymus Bosch’s "Garden of Earthly Delights"—fiendish in nature, and twisted for sure. Jack also wrote a book that most critics claim is self-absorbed, ghoulish, and plain bad rambling. Not to be offensive, but does Jack have Alzheimer’s?

Today’s drawing won 1st place at the 2004 Exhibition of Art by Michigan Prisoners (University of Michigan) under the graphite sketch category. I refuse to elaborate on the artist’s criminal past except to say that next to Jack—well … let’s just say Jack would come out looking like our future American hero.

The graphite sketch, with its controlled, calculated lines, definitely defines the artist. He tutored in my GED classroom for approximately 8 years. In fact, he had been tutoring off and on in various prisons since I was in grade school. One of the corrections officer’s stated that this inmate was living his life vicariously through me; man did that send chills down my spine. By some twist of fate, the artist/prisoner in question was transferred to another facility earlier this year.

His artwork, titled "Dark Mattergy," is hanging in my basement office (he donated it and said I could do whatever I wanted with it), so for two years I have been submitting his sketch along with my poem superimposed over it to various literary magazines. I’m not sure if it’s my bad poetry, or his bad sketch, or simply his horrific past, that has made it difficult for me to get it published. Therefore, I leave it up to you to pass judgment. Please, don’t be afraid to criticize, fire away.

CRASH AND LEARN

Today’s picture isn’t a cut and paste job, instead, it’s created from one of those standard computer programs where you insert your face onto Mount Rushmore or over a famous athlete or astronaut, or in this case, an entire photo supplanted into an old newspaper article.

I chose the Hindenburg. And why not? I’ve never been one to be politically correct or to shy away from controversy, and it seems to me that by using this tragic event, I’m supposed to write something funny. But when is it ever okay to write a comedic piece based on an actual real life catastrophe? The Twin Towers? I think not. Hurricane Katrina? Maybe. Is there a standard amount of time, like when you drop a piece of barbecued chicken on the floor (ten-second rule)? Or how about the recently widowed—when is it okay for them to move on, seek out the companionship of others, date, marry, and … well?—you know.

My take on it is that if the tragedy is personal, something you’ve experienced, then you own it and can do whatever you’d like with it, whenever you feel comfortable. (You may still offend someone, but that’s the risk you take.) Seems therapeutic to me.

"But this doesn’t explain the Hindenburg?" You ask.

No, it doesn’t. I’m not connected to this historical event in any way, shape or form. In this case, I’m guessing that it’s far enough removed from the living so as not to offend anyone. Also, natural disasters and accidents seem much more tolerable than terrorist acts. And I’m not into making fun at the expense of others, no sirree, no smudged newspaper ink here.

HOW PEOPLE MATE

I’ve never found myself in a compromising situation (unless you count my days being single) and I’m not here to create waves, even if unintentionally like that male model from the Sears & Roebuck Catalog. You know what I’m talking about because at that particular point in time every woman knew the page by heart, had the catalog binding broke—a jagged crease approximating the page in question—glimpsed the small shadow of his inner thigh, and pointed it out: TEA BAG EXPOSED. Us kids heard about it on the news. We had to look too. And so did everyone else when the opportunity arose. Sears claimed it had been a printing defect, a wayward smudge of black ink.

The poor guy must’ve been embarrassed beyond one’s comprehensible imagination. A regular modern day Joe Boxer (Sears & Kmart have now merged) and the professional photographer, editor, or lay-out person, must have studied thousands and thousands of pictures, scrutinizing each one to make sure the so-called barn door had been shut tight, before settling on this man’s innocent, natural pose. Where is he now? Has he outlived the embarrassment? Or is he proud of his fifteen minutes of fame?

Observation: At my place of employment, the female workers usually wear smocks—that way they’re not revealing too much backside to the male prisoners, triggering the criminal mind's overworked libido. On the other hand, some of the young male prisoners walk around with their asses hanging out of their trousers, unknowingly inviting every sexual predator within eyesight the opportunity for some booty. A person’s sexual desires are driven by what they perceive; the question is: do you want to be framed into a picture that you can’t get out of? I certainly don’t.

BLANCHED MESSAGES

Never mind Harry Potter and Hogwart’s School of Wizardry. I’m not into mainstream, popular fiction. No way. Let’s be serious here: your best writers have "a cause," "a struggle," "issues," something worth fighting for. James Baldwin, a froggy little guy, had two strikes against him that can be summed up in three words: gay black man. Richard Wright, three words: communist black man. And if I may:

Dear Oprah, you missed the message in your movie adaptation of Wright’s "Native Son." You never utilized the story line where Bigger Thomas (the main character) intentionally murders his black girlfriend. Instead, you chose to concentrate on the suffocation of the white girl. Bigger Thomas accidentally kills the white girl and that becomes the only focal point of your movie. The black girl doesn’t count. This is what Wright wanted to get across to the reader—how society values one race over another. I guess we know who you cater to—white, middle-class, housewives. No wonder 50-Cent dissed you. So what’s your latest Oprah Book Club pick? I know it’s not Donald Goines.

When I was completing my undergrad studies I enrolled in a Black American Writers course. As part of my grade, I had to submit a paper and give a class presentation on a writer of my choice from the anthology: "Dark Symphony, Negro Literature in America." However, with the professor’s permission, I was allowed to study Donald Goines. I wanted to stress the point that there’s actually a place in mainstream fiction for ghetto lit and that perhaps Goines should have been included in this anthology. The professor knew the risk I was taking and explained to me going in that my message would go over like a lead balloon. Why? Because I was the only so-called "Honky" in the class. And guess what? After the presentation, not one person, minus the professor, enjoyed it. My message got lost in the color of my skin.

If I had a chance to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. Part of the prison culture is a steady diet of Donald Goines’s novels; afterall, he did time in the Michigan Department of Corrections on numerous occasions. The black prisoners are astonished that I, a so-called Harry-Potter-looking-mother, have read all sixteen of his books. And why not?

BLIVETS

After one week of vacation, I returned to work not knowing whether personnel had put a stop order on me. A stop order is the equivalent of "the wall of shame"; it’s where they post your name and photo id on their metal detector to remind the gate officer that you’re no longer permitted inside the facility. For those of you new to my blog, I had received a memo requesting an updated teaching certificate. Although I followed the necessary protocol, six credit hours of course work and a renewal application to the Michigan Department of Education, personnel for some reason thinks I’m lying. Now they’re sending me nasty emails with more threats of termination. Gee, makes me feel like I’m the criminal in here.

I remember discussing bad teachers with one of my inmate students; he thought it was a great idea to have all teachers re-fingerprinted for a digital database. It seems the Michigan State Police tossed out the old teacher fingerprint files in favor of a system more computer orientated. After pointing out that I didn’t have a problem with being re-fingerprinted and having a thorough background check, that I just didn’t feel I should have to fork over $80 to have it done, another inmate chimed in, "Shit, if you want it for free, then commit a crime." HOT DAMN! Valid point. Chalk one up for Mr. Einstein. (For another fresh prison educator perspective visit the following site: www.frombehindbars.blogspot.com.)

Anyway, I’m back inside the prison and all I’m thinking is "blivet" on account of all the work I’ve got to do. Serves me right for taking a vacation. Do you know what a blivet is? It’s ten pounds of shit crammed into a five-pound bag.

Today’s pic is from late 1996, it’s back in the day when inmates were allowed to wear their own clothing—now, as Michigan taxpayers, we not only feed and house them, we clothe them too. Notice my messy desk and the inmate demanding answers. My duties included the following: GED teacher, graduation coordinator, acting school principal, inmate newspaper supervisor, and hostage negotiator. No gray hair then, but not for long. I remember some hotshots from Lansing paying us a visit. They wanted to know why our student enrollment had dropped. The Deputy Warden of Programs sent them to me. I thought the answer was quite obvious, take your pick: 1) incoming prisoners were not being tested for classroom placement because the school psychologist had been recovering from gall bladder surgery, 2) filing and school details weren’t being completed because the school secretary had been out on stress leave, 3) the facility decided to save money for custody issues by not hiring a replacement for the school principal who retired six month ago, and 4) a school waiting list had been created due to our special education teacher being sexually assaulted by an inmate. They didn’t want to hear all this; they wanted to know what plan of action had been implemented. Maybe blivets refer to people too, only on a much grander scale.

"CORN"

By the time my brother and I were teenagers our parents decided to adopt a girl, that way our mother wouldn’t be so outnumbered. After countless donations to Catholic Social Services, frequent visits and interviews by social workers, and the casual acquaintance of William X. Kienzle, author of "The Rosary Murders," the Archdiocese of Detroit concluded that it would be in my parent’s best interest to adopt a boy. Most teenagers are susceptible to raging hormones, so I had a feeling this would happen; each social worker had asked my brother and I how we felt about having a young female in the house and about splitting an inheritance three ways. Not wanting to be saboteurs, and also being fairly shy, we shrugged our shoulders in unison, feigning disinterest in the whole interrogation process. We knew the adoption idea went bust when our dad gave them an ultimatum: girl or no deal. He also decided they wouldn’t get one more nickel out of him.

I don’t know exactly how it happened, but our parents got involved in a foreign exchange-student program, and by the time my brother and I were commuting to college, we had females from Spain, Sweden, and Portugal living at our house. Over time, our dwelling became a foreign embassy; we had girls from Columbia, Argentina, Brazil, and Mexico for sleepovers with the foreign exchange-students living with us.

Our first live-in came from Spain. For some reason, my dad thought if he talked loud enough and slow enough she’d understand his english. The poor girl was appalled to see us eating corn on the cob at the dinner table, and after learning a few select words and sentences, she explained, "In Spain we feed it to the pigs." We encouraged her to try it anyway, and reluctantly, after applying butter and salt, she decided it wasn’t so bad afterall.

Today’s pic is of a wild boar my dad shot long ago on a hunting trip in Tennessee. The older the pig, the tougher and nastier the meat. Notice the yellowed newspaper in its mouth—CORN. Guess some writing prompts start by word association.

BOB, NOT SANFORD

My brother and I were Disco Devils. No kidding. So don't even think New York discotheque or John Tavolta's "Saturday Night Fever." We were much too young for that. We weren't even of Sweat Hog age. Think Disco, as in the name of our now defunct elementary school (they turned it into a library) and Devils, well, that was the nickname printed on our sweatshirts and other school fundraising paraphernalia. At that age, we were much more intune to "Sandford and Son."

Every Friday after school, my mother would have all our stuff prepared to go, including her homemade chili, for our weekend get-a-way to our cottage on Shady Lane. It took between 1 1/2 to 2 hours to get there, and by the time we unpacked, ate dinner and gathered around the warmth of our fireplace, Redd Foxx would be clutching his chest and, in his typical Fred G. Sanford role, claim "I'm coming to join you, Elizabeth." My dad always got a kick out of Sanford's antics, and he'd pull a few himself, such as asking if we'd like to watch something else--the rabbit ears on our television only picked up one station.

Today's picture is testimony to how much my dad loved that show. He even claimed that one day--when he retires--he'd like to own a junk yard. Junk yards, according to him, are better than gold mines. After 38 years of work, he is now retired and enjoying his newly found freedom, mostly tinkering with anything mechanical at his retirement home one street over from where our original cottage stands. Last summer I gave him an old riding lawnmower, which is parked not too far from this old truck. He cabbaged the seat and placed it on his small rowboat. He has always had a knack for finding a use for whatever is donated to him.

OLD LESSONS

Back in the mid-80’s I quit engineering school and my grandmother tried comforting me by saying, "Hey, not everyone’s college material. It’s okay to work instead, as long as you’re happy." I was taken aback by her comments, what a thing to say to your grandson. Here I am having an identity crisis and her statement validates my actions—after all, I did quit college—thus validating her words. Arguing the point seemed … seemed … well, pointless. Nothing could take away the sting of her words back then, except time.

In hindsight, I truly believe my skillful interaction with inmates can be contributed to my experiences as a failure, to the missteps I’ve made along the way to becoming a man. I remember my dad suggesting I fill out an application for employment at Ford's new engine plant in Romeo, Michigan. I think he had already spoken to someone, stuck his neck out, called in a favor, and I told him I wasn’t interested. Puzzled, he questioned me as to what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t have an answer. "What’s wrong with you?" he asked. "All these years Ford Motor has put food on our table, and now suddenly it’s not good enough for you."

I understood the message I conveyed, but the truth of the matter was that I had to figure this out on my own and I didn’t want people saying, "That’s Bob’s boy, he got him in." Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my dad’s accomplishments, I’ll never duplicate his achievements, it’s just that I’m the one that has to get up each morning and face myself in the mirror. So now, when an inmate claims that I think I’m better than he is, I tell him, "I’m one mistake away from being in prison myself." They understand my message. Fortunately, I’ve figured out my calling: teaching. Somehow, stumbling along my chosen career path, I found my niche. Stumbling along, it seems, has served me well. If I had chosen employment in the struggling auto industry, there’s no telling where I’d be. I do know this: There’s no turning back.

One final word. I remember an old-timer-inmate with twenty-five years under his belt asking me if I knew a certain person. He was referring to my deceased grandfather. I dismissed his question, not wanting to reveal anything about family. My grandfather never wanted to give up farming back in the 70’s, but my grandmother convinced him to lease his farmland to the big corporate farmers and pursue his GED. Once he earned his GED, he found employment at a prison in Jackson, Michigan, where he continued to do what he loved, farming—only this time he had to supervise inmates. I can imagine my grandmother’s words of wisdom when confronting my grandfather about their farm; I bet it stung.

TOOL TIME IN BAD AXE, MICHIGAN

I had to get away, simply had to, so I dropped everything I was doing (which wasn’t much) and made the 2-hour trek to my grandmother’s house. It seemed like the most logical thing to do, to go visit someone on house arrest due to an oxygen producing machine and hose. Not that she can’t get out—she had just finished cutting her grass before my arrival—only her portable canisters limit her to eight hour increments maximum.

We had a nice visit. I learned that my dad had been over a day earlier picking cherries, and a pie most certainly awaited me at my parent’s retirement home some fifteen minutes down the road. On the way out, I noticed the Huron Daily Tribune on my grandmother’s kitchen table, particularly an article in the lower right corner. I told her that the parolee arrested in Bad Axe came from the facility where I worked. She, in turn, told me that she knew the family. Wonderful, I thought. Let me recap the article for you as briefly as possible.

The parolee was originally doing time under the "650 Drug-Lifer Law." After a substantial amount of time in prison he was granted a parole. On July 15th of last year he was caught naked as a jay bird in a Holiday Inn Express watching a pornographic video while his partying teenage friends did God-knows-what in an adjacent room. His new charges included: accosting a child for immoral purposes, 3 counts of indecent exposure, 3 counts of selling/furnishing alcohol to a minor, and 1 count of malicious destruction of property.

Well, guess what? After 8 months in the Huron County Jail, our dear troop leader, sorry Boy Scouts of America, had been dismissed of all charges and handed over to the Michigan Department of Corrections for possible parole violations. However, prior to this, while sitting in the hoosegow, our dear friend gained valuable information on a man accused of repeatedly suffocating his blind/diabetic wife. Prosecutors in that case, found his testimony very very helpful. Wonderful. Not only does the MDOC have to deal with an obvious parole violator; they also need to figure out how to protect him. Yee-haw. Perhaps he needs more oxygen to the brain; he's certainly a real tool. Ain’t that right, Mr. Tim-the-Tool-Man-Taylor?

I-PICK, NOT U-PICK

I told Davey (he hadn’t moved to Texas yet, nine more days) to take my picture. He asked why. I told him not to ask questions, to get my camera off the bench and take my picture. He picked up the camera. From the viewfinder, eyeing the raspberries I had picked, he asked, "Can I have those?" I told him he could pick his own as soon as he TOOK MY PICTURE! He pointed out all the times I shooed him away from the raspberries, then asked why I needed the picture. I didn’t feel like explaining myself, I said, "For my blog."

"What’s a blog?" he asked.

By now the hot sun was beating down on me and the mosquitoes were making lunchmeat out of my shoulders, neck, and arms, and I didn’t feel like playing a thousand questions. "Snap the picture Davey," I ordered.

I’m surprised he captured my smile; it looked natural and not forced. I scrambled out of the pickery bush, grabbed my camera, and headed for the house, leaving my wife to supervise Davey, knowing that he would have a hard time finding any ripe raspberries. In a couple of days I'll be able to pick some more, at least another quart or two.

REALITY BOOM

Even though the weatherman said chance of rain yesterday, I went canoeing. There’s something about putting paddle to water and gliding along that has a calming affect on me. I forgot about the "to do" list at home, all the incidentals I promised to get done before my week of vacation is over. The wood deck and wood fence aren’t getting cleaned and stained; The wood trim on the house isn’t getting painted; The new screen doors, which I purchased last summer, are still propped against the garage wall begging to be installed. By gently stirring the water and causing movement, I am able to enjoy the moment.

Reflecting back, I feel a slight tinge of guilt for not checking at least one item off that dreaded list. Not that it should matter. As soon as an item is scratched, some new chore comes up and has to be prioritized. Trips to Home Depot—I like to call them $100 errands—remind me of other projects that fell by the wayside. The real trick is not getting overwhelmed, not shutting down and doing nothing at all. In a civilized society there are responsibilities that can’t be ignored, that simply need to be accomplished.

Today is the Fourth of July, need I remind you. Last night the neighbors lit M-80’s and Roman Candles from our street. I know that when I get today’s newspaper I’ll pick-up sulfur smelling paper shrapnel and burnt wicks off my driveway. Tonight will be no different, they’ll make an extra trip to a fireworks tent or purchase more illegal explosives from the back of someone’s rented U-Haul. As you can tell, I’m not into the whole loud banging euphoria of patriotic bliss. I’d rather spend my time quietly gliding down a river. Unfortunately, while paddling along, some father along the shoreline allowed his son the pleasure of throwing a few firecrackers into the air. Peace can only last so long, until the reality of the day hits us hard.

RAISED IN CAPTIVITY

While cleaning my home office area—or at least attempting to work through the myriad piles of magazines, newspaper clippings, and legal notepads—I came across a June 1997 issue of GQ with Will Smith on the cover. Procrastinating as usual, I started fanning through it. Music section: Joe Strummer, The Clash (Isn’t he dead?). Advertisement: Moore. For Less. "Striptease." Video now collectibly priced to own (Why?). Cover article: "Will Smith Saves the Planet." (Promo piece for "Men in Black.") Then I saw it. Human-interest story: Gary Fannon.

At the age of 18, Gary was tried and convicted under Michigan’s "650 Drug-Lifer Law" for dealing over 650 grams of cocaine. We had first met in 1992 when the classification director gave him a detail to tutor in my GED classroom. I remember him answering fan mail every day while his mother fought vigilantly to get him out of prison. I had to remind him to put away his mail and help the students. He had asked if I was familiar with his case, but I acted like he was just another number doing time. He told me about entrapment. How a dirty undercover cop convinced him to score some coke, 26 ounces for $32,000 to be exact. How he set up the drop point, got scared, and wanted out. How he and his girlfriend decided to go on vacation to Florida. How he was arrested in Georgia for speeding and brought back to Michigan.

He told me all of this back in 1992. Being a fairly new employee to the Department of Corrections, I may have been somewhat naïve; however, thinking back on it, if it were my situation, and the drug deal went down without a hitch, meaning the coast was clear, I’d’ve been back in Michigan demanding my money. That’s neither here nor there. The 1997 GQ article focused on Gary’s transition back into society after ten years in prison; he was released on July 26, 1996. Not once did I remember seeing him in the prison law library. His mother fought his battle for him, getting his case overturned.

One final note. In 2001, while eating a Thanksgiving dinner at my wife’s cousin’s home in Novi, I was asked whether I knew Gary Fannon. Choking back dry turkey, I admitted that I did. Turns out, he went to their open house inquiring about their $340,000 home—a house I certainly couldn't afford in today’s market. He didn’t make the purchase, but maybe he came into some money. What do you think?

CHASING SHADOWS

I’ve had a woodchuck disturbing the natural tranquillity of my wife’s backyard garden for quite some time now. We’ve seen him rooting around in the wildflowers and perennials making his way to the banana peppers and tomato plants. Sometimes we’re seated next to the pond and he’ll skitter along like it’s nobody’s business but his own, approaching the garden like its a gigantic smorgasbord.

I’ve tried to catch him, placing banana peppers, cut apples, and sliced watermelon in a trap, but he’s too smart, I might as well be chasing shadows. Instead, I’ll end up with a wayward squirrel or, as you can see from the picture, a baby possum. With my luck, I’m bound to catch a skunk next. Of course, since my wife’s always been a big fan of James Herriot, I’m not allowed to kill any of these critters. Catch and relocate is my modus operandi. I know that if I trap a skunk there’s no way I’d kill it on account of it releasing its glandular concoction one last time.

As for the possum, his mother was probably close by, so I let him go on the spot. Plus I’m more concerned about trapping that damned woodchuck. Eventually he’ll slip up. I have all summer.

TATTOO YOU

My vacation has officially begun. One full week convict free. Perhaps when I do get back to work they’ll let me inside the walls, since according to my employer’s records I am no longer a certified teacher for the State of Michigan. Enough! That was yesterday’s post.

As I’ve said, time for some much needed R & R. My wife’s already on me about not shaving. Remember the episode of "Cheers" where they had a beard-growing contest? Didn’t the mailman’s beard come in all uneven and patchy, like a dishevelled werewolf? That’s how mine would look.

You’re probably wondering about the "tat" too. We had a going away party yesterday for our neighbors whom are Texas bound (their son is Davey, "Gobstoppers & The Muffin Monster"). I fell asleep on our pool deck. Davey and his friends thought it’d be funny to tattoo my face. Of course I flinched, but decided to pretend I was still snoozing. They had fun with it, saying stuff like, "No not there, too many craters. Watch the wrinkles. Over here, there's no hair." Now I just have to remind myself not to rob a convenience store since I have an easily identifiable mark. Wouldn't want to become an immediate celebrity on "The World's Dumbest Criminals." Have a great Fourth of July everyone, and stay away from those illegal fireworks!

THE SHARK TANK

Imagine working in a shark tank, trying to hold your own, trying to do your job. I’m not tough, it’s really not me. The other teachers exclude themselves from the decision making process. I schedule all the GED Exams, coordinate it with MW. Murders and rapists—and I don’t know them all—try to intimidate me. "What shoe size do you wear?" one will ask, leading me to think he’d off me and have my shoes if I don’t schedule him for testing. I tell him they’re a size 9, "but when I get through with you," I say, "they’ll feel like a size 12." I’ve never lost a pair.

If you slip up, lose your cool, then it’s like a feeding frenzy, the inmates will exploit your weaknesses. Also, never show your soft side. Be tough. Keep control of your area. "You are totally useless, you sit there and yap like a little school girl about total bullshit, nothing’s relevant," I tell an inmate not doing his classroom work, "so shut the hell up, that’s a direct order." And he does. He doesn’t say boo. Sticks his nose in a book and reads for 15 minutes. So I feel bad. Really really bad. I think maybe I’m too harsh. So I go over to him and apologize. "Hey man," I say, "I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings."

Reality check. "Hurt my feelings?" he replies. "F…k, you can’t hurt my feelings. Hurting my feelings is when the judge told me I got to do 12 to 20 years in this shithole."

I still feel bad. Not for him, but for myself. I have at least 15 more years before retirement. Fifteen more years of dealing with people like him. But the shark tank is much bigger than I’d thought. I teach year round, had to renew my teaching certificate by today, June 30, 2006. Submitted the necessary paperwork to the Michigan Department of Education. Still waiting for them to mail my certificate along with a bill for $125. Have to pay the state to work for the state. Received the following memo from personnel. Most teachers don’t receive their certificate until the end of August when the public schools start their new school year. But I’m not a normal teacher, I work for the Department of Corrections. I’ll keep you posted as to my job status.

DOUBLE JEOPARDY

I've had students, full grown men mind you, at the third/fourth grade reading level, tell me they're ready for the GED exam. My usual reaction, which I've perfected over the years, is to let them explain to me in so many words how they prepared, before asking, "Why am I embarrassed for you?"

Most of the time they have difficulty sensing the irony, the sarcasm, in my voice. Sometimes, when the argument gets a little heated, I'll play Alex Trebek. "Here's the answer," I'll say, "kidney stones and gas." I'll get these blank, impassive stares. They don't watch the show, too knowledge based; therefore, they don't understand the format. I'll explain that I'm looking for the question. Still no answer. "What are the two things you will pass in your life time?" I'll say.

The real kicker about teaching in a prison is that the lifers are usually serious about their education, whereas, ninety percent of the short timers could care less. "Why should I attend classes," they'll ask, "when I can pay to take the test out in the real world?" I guess that's why they're called cons--they're confident in their abilities, which are woefully lacking. Once in a while a student will ask for extra time on his test, especially if he's the last one in the room.
"C'mon, no one will know," I hear.

My response: "I'll know." They don't get it. "Look," I explain, "I could go to a Department of Corrections party, get drunk, and tell on myself." Afterall, no one's infallible.

THIS OLD DOG

This old dog hurts internally, choosing to spend his time sleeping on the couch in the damp basement instead of at the foot of the bed. He understands his place in the master bedroom; however, he's been inadvertently kicked one time too many and simply chooses not to make the effort of leaping onto the hard mattress.

The veterinarian says he's in good shape considering his age, says to continue feeding him a steady diet of white rice and egg for his upset stomach and to give him 75 mg of Rimadyl twice a day for his stiff joints. Still, on occasion, his back legs give out from under him, and he throws up, his sad look of apology evident as he tries to disappear from what has happened.

This old dog's loyalty never waivers, or at least it should never be questioned. He eats what is given to him, believing it to be the nourishment he needs. He goes outside when he is told to, even when it's unnecessary. His only one true defiant act may be where he chooses to sleep. I'm afraid that this old dog just might be slipping away.

ANOTHER PITCH

It's been two weeks, has to be, since I emailed my proposal to the Arts Editor at the Metro Times. I explained my pitch in a straightforward manner: "Dear Mrs. Rebecca Mazzei, Arts Editor, I am currently writing a book review of a debut short story collection titled 'The End of the World' by George Dila. Dila appeared in two previous Metro Times fiction issues. His title story and "Teddy and Freddy" appeared in your 2002 and 2001 issues, respectively, and are in his book. I believe a review of his book in tandem with this year's summer fiction issue will show your readership the type of talent your contest draws. Furthermore, my stories have appeared in your weekly. Please let me know if you're interested, and if so, a word limit and deadline."

The very same day I got my response: "Hi James, good idea! Why don't you give me a 500-word review due by next Thursday? I'll take a byline too, explaining when your work appeared, etc."

I'd made my pitch, I'd gotten my response, so I finished the review two days prior to the deadline and did a follow-up email: "Attached is the 500-word review of 'The End of the World' by George Dila, including my byline. Also, I've attached a jpg file of his book cover. I hope it meets the needs of the Metro Times. Let me know."

Now I wait, wondering why the hurry in the first place, paranoid some intern has my book review on the bottom of some "to do" pile, that is, if it were printed out and not accidently deleted. Maybe he'll count 530 words and per the directions of his boss scrap my piece altogether. As I wait, I email the author of the book, filled with false hope, trying to make it a reality. He responds: "James, A review in MT would be fantastic. I'm currently in Iowa attending workshops, having a great time. George." I wish I could say the same.

SUZUKI 50

Last week Governor Jennifer Granholm vetoed a proposed "No Helmet" bill for Michigan, basing her decision not so much on the statistical importance of cracked skulls with or without helmets during accidents but on long-term care costs for closed-head injuries. In other words, if there were sufficient insurance protection (who cares about craniums) she would have allowed the bill to pass. It’s so nice to know that an increase in cracked skulls while helmet-less didn’t factor into the equation.

In this first picture (spring 1974) I’m perched atop a Suzuki 50 decked out in light-burgundy flair-bottom pants, saddle shoes, hoody, and knit cap (no helmet). Unlike my childhood days spent popping wheelies on my bicycle and emulating Evel Knievel (Previous Post: Our Towne Club), I believe my brother and I fashioned helmets during minibiking. Also, I’m positive we didn’t attempt any air-defying stunts; the Suzuki 50 was too heavy. Evel would’ve disapproved, claiming the heavier the better.

The second picture is proof of my folks good parenting skills. As you can see by the blurred trees, I am zipping along quite nicely. My dress shoes have been replaced with durable boots and I’m wearing a half-shell helmet. Sorry, Mr. Jim Rhoades, legislative director of ABATE (American Bikers Aiming Toward Education), I’m all for helmets—even bicycle helmets.



Thirty-two years later, and would you believe my dad still has this Suzuki 50? It’s in mint condition and still runs. Next time I’m at my parents house I’ll have someone take a picture of me sitting on it. And of course, if I decide to go for a ride, I’ll wear a helmet.

TO FLOSS OR NOT TO FLOSS

I’ve got blogger’s burnout, not from the extra writing—heavens no!—but from trying to fix the template of my blog. If you haven’t noticed, and I’m sure you haven’t (because nobody scrolls that far) my profile is now at the end of my postings; sadly, it’s been there all week.

So I leave you with another short story that was inspired from the three main sources listed below:

1) Accusations by two inspectors that an inmate had been stabbed in my classroom.

2) The slang term "flossing" which means "to show off."

3) Shakespeare.

"When Hamlet says, ‘to be or not to be,’ he refers to the ‘slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,’ and implies that man is a target and must withstand the brutal assaults of daily existence."
---Lexicon of Literary Terms by Robert Anderson & Ronald Eckard



Here’s the link: (www.metrotimes.com/guides/summerfiction/2000/Floss.htm) If you’d like to leave a comment regarding the story, what you liked or disliked, or anything else for that matter, then please do.

GOBSTOPPERS & THE MUFFIN MONSTER

Whenever we invite our neighbors over to swim in our pool and cook on the grill, their 5th grade son, Davey, who has a healthy appetite, will immediately ask, "Do you have any Gobstoppers?" I’m not exactly sure which came first in the evolution of Gobstoppers at our house: Davey’s requesting them, or my wife’s purchasing and stocking them in our kitchen.

What I do know is that once in awhile, after Davey’s been over, I’ll have to take a plunger to our toilet. I know it’s not from digesting Gobstoppers that flushing is no longer an option, nor is it from the hamburgers. The huge wads of toilet paper gumming up the hole tell me otherwise. My daddy always said, "Son—its three squares and tear."

Of course, for all practical purposes, it depends on the ply of the paper. The toilet paper where I work is a much lighter ply, thus more squares before the tear. However, clogging up the pipes is much different. Unlike Davey, who doesn’t know any better, the inmates will flush entire bedsheets and clothing down the toilet in an effort to clog up the sewer lines. It’s the oldest inmate trick in the book. I can sympathize with the maintenance crew; They hate dealing with the stinky, hazardous mess. But not anymore. JWC Environmental (http://www.jwce.com/) has the solution: The 300004T Muffin Monster in-line sewage grinder. Whatever is flushed, the company claims, the Muffin Monster will grind into tiny little pieces.

I wonder if they have a much smaller, home version?

BAGGAGE

I always tell my students that the best time to study is first thing in the morning when you don’t have that excess baggage of the day weighing you down. Sometimes I wish I could follow my own advice because when the evening approaches, the clouds start to roll inside my head and cause all sorts of havoc with my ability to write. Yet, I still manage to surprise myself with a few profound statements once in a blue moon.

Tonight I’m not feeling it, the letters moving forward on my terminal forming a slow train of words, forming whole sentences, then paragraphs, only to see the letters evaporating, dismantling the tracks of where they once were, leaving white space and a vertical blinking line.

I try to escape my worries. I try to concentrate. I try to type. Letters. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. Then I start to think that the reason I’m not more productive at writing is because of what someone said to me earlier in the day. Baggage. More Baggage.

I tell myself: It’s just words. Spoken words. Once they’re said, they’re gone. Evaporated. Except for what they generate in our minds. Except for what they make us do. Except for what I might write. That’s what I’m afraid of. What I might write. That’s why I’m holding back. Written words have more permanence, even when you travel alone.

PREYED UPON

Some people are craftier than others. They know how to pitch their wares; They know how to grab your attention, and they're not even around. It's called point of purchase. Go into any major grocery store and you'll see mammoth displays near the entrance. The closer to the shopping cart corral, the more likely their product will be placed in the basket, burried and forgotten about, under the items you really do need, and at the end of your journey, you'll unload your cart not even paying attention to the conveyor belt pulling everything toward the scanner. It's a done deal. You'll swipe your card and sign.

A month ago one of my students brought in a preying mantis like the one pictured above. He knew I was fascinated with bugs. He knew how I'd react. "Where'd you get that, it's so cool!" I said.

"The Bug Man," he replied.

Before I knew it, I was filling out a disbursement form to buy two more of these preying mantises. I'm too embarassed to tell you what I paid for them; afterall, they're made out of paperclips, cardboard, paper, glue, and paint. The Bug Man set me up. He's probably buying himself some Right Guard from the prison store as we speak.

RATS & BUTTER LOVER'S POPCORN

"The only good rat," my dad claimed, "is the one on the end of a pitchfork."

You had to forgive him, all those years growing up on a farm made him that way. In fact, I'd never seen him so squeamish.

"Rats are more social, more friendlier, than gerbils, hamsters, or guinea pigs," I said, justifying why I'd spend $200 on a 5-tier rat cage for my living room.

"They're still rodents."

You couldn't change his mind no more than you could change how the sun comes up in the morning. You couldn't get him to sit on the right side of my couch either, with those beady-eyed rodents looking down on him.

"And they carry all kinds of diseases."

What living, breathing thing doesn't have that kind of potential? "We all can carry diseases, Dad."

"They're more susceptible."

I could've brought up the gerbils my brother and I had as kids. After interbreeding three or four times too many, they started eating the tails off of one another. Cannibalistic gerbils. Not pretty. And they'd bite. Mean little bastards. Rats are friendly. There was no point in changing his mind, and even though he was in my house, I agreed not to get them out when he was visiting.

When my wife and I would sit down to watch a movie, Kiwi, the rat pictured here, would cling to the side of her cage, nose poking through the wire, trying to catch a whiff of the Butter Lover's popcorn I'd usually make. She never got any because, as my wife explained it: "It's bad for them."

Now wait a minute, I often thought, then why the hell am I eating it? My wife would often leave the room to get something from the kitchen, and I'd usually slip a few popped kernel's into the cage. Kiwi's bunkie, Daisy, loved popcorn. Unfortunately, she had developed a rather large ugly tumor, and while I was away at the catfish tournament, my wife decided to have the neighbor put her down.

If my dad had said rats were more susceptible to tumors, instead of diseases, I probably would've agreed. Has anyone done a study to figure out the long term side effects of eating Butter Lover's popcorn? Studies have shown . . .

OLD MAN ADAMS

I remember Old Man Adams looking forward to the outdated National Geographics I stocked in my GED classroom. He had lived a hard life of drinking, smoking, and whoring around, and as he explained it, his twenty some years as a truck driver afforded him that luxury. His brain seemed pickled, but for the most part I thought he could earn his GED in a relatively short time. I explained to him the procedures for qualifying: "First, you take a series of half-tests to prove you can pass. After each half-test, you take the actual GED exam for that subject."

"Why am I doing this?" he’d ask.

"So you can get your GED," I’d remind him.

Then he’d cuss me out. "All my life," he said, "I’ve worked hard. Now I get to go to school but you want me out. @!####!!% And #%%**!#!" Followed by, "You can make me take the tests but you can’t make me pass them!"

For some reason Old Man Adams wanted to show me that he was capable of doing well, so he set out to prove that he could pass each half-test. But he also reminded me that he’d get as dumb as a bag of rocks when it came time for GED exams.

So I began to confuse him.

"Now what test am I taking?" he’d ask.

"Your Social Studies half-test," I’d reply.

"Didn’t I just take that?" he’d ask.

"No," I’d lie, thinking he was on to me. Here’s how it worked: Some of the tests put in front of him were not half-tests like he’d thought; they were GED exams.

I had tricked Old Man Adams into finishing school. But the story doesn’t end there. Each student was allowed two visitors for the graduation ceremony. Old Man Adams refused to fill-out the necessary paperwork. Turns out, he had a daughter who hadn’t seen him in years and he didn’t want her to know that he was in prison. At first his counselor threatened to make the phone call, but for some reason, Old Man Adams gave in.

I’ll never forget that graduation ceremony—witnessing two people reunite as they did. Old Man Adams’s toothless smile. His daughter’s tears of joy. She had traveled all the way from Kentucky to watch her father receive his diploma.

I don’t know if she ever came to visit him again. He was immediately removed from school. Approximately three months after the graduation, I saw an inmate pushing Old Man Adams around in a wheel chair. He had emphysema. That was the last time we talked. He thanked me. He, actually, thanked me. I knew it had nothing to do with school. Not too long after that, I had heard he died.
_______________________________________________________________________
Happy Father’s Day (Past and Present).



The picture:

I wish my father were still 47—that would make me younger too. I’d even keep the same brush-cut. Unfortunately, my wife hates brush-cuts.

Reason: Butch-wax.
Explanation: Leaves grease on the pillow.

Message: "Hi, Pop, y'old dust mop."
Short story: "Charles" by Shirley Jackson

KENNY'S GOT A TOAD!

TEMPORARILY CLOSED

BRIDGING THE GAP

When I had first agreed to a pond, my wife bought one of those plastic pre-formed peanut-shaped things. Not only did I have to dig a hole for it, I also had to have an electrical outlet nearby. Needless to say, I wasn’t too happy when my wife pointed to a spot 90 feet from the house. This involved digging a 90-foot trench from the house to the pond and running electrical wiring through a steel pipe. After drilling a hole through mortar, I refused to go any further. Let someone else hook-up the electrical wiring to the conjunction box in our basement.

I’ve never had good luck with electricity. Once, when my father-in-law was alive and suffering from Parkinson’s, we decided to take a trip up to our cabin for some much needed R & R. Unfortunately, I had to install a new heating element to the water tank. I turned off the correct circuit breaker, and by the time I found my Phillips flat head screwdriver my father-in-law switched it back on. As soon as I put screwdriver to metal I couldn’t let go fast enough. I wanted to cuss him out but knew, in one of his brief moments of lucidity, that he realized what he had done. Another time I was installing fluorescent lights in our basement from an aluminum ladder. This time it was my fault, I switched off the wrong circuit breaker. The least I could’ve done was used a wooden ladder.

My wife tried to get an electrician to our house on several occasions for the pond hook-up. No one would come. Our neighbor across the street volunteered. At first he thought this involved digging the trench, installing the electrical outlets, and so on. But when he found out it was a simple connection he said, "Hell, I can do that." When we were in the basement I told him I’d turn off the main and he said not to bother. "Just pull me off the box if something happens." I stood back and watched. It wasn’t until later that I found out that he wasn’t even an electrician.

All of that was four years ago. Since then, we’ve gone bigger. Here’s the latest update with the bridge. Our other neighbor, Ken, constructed it. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to see the waterfall from my kitchen window, but the bridge is at just the right angle and has a low enough arc not to obstruct my view. Stepping outside onto my back deck, the sound of water pounding on rock greets me. The only problem I’m having is that the pump may be too large for the pond. I could always make the waterfall higher since I have all that electricity running the pump. Or I could start over, dig a larger pond.

REJECTION ISN'T NECESSARILY BAD

This isn't Manny (see May 15, 2006, post). I found this little guy or woman, for I'm not an expert at gender identification of insects and I don't have my Peterson's Field Guide handy, in my wife's flower bed on the east side of the house. Manny is in an aquarium on my back deck. He's brown, this one's obviously green. If I were to hook them up one would surely kill the other. Manny would probably be the victim. He's smaller--a real eating machine though. I fed him four flies the other day. My neighbors still see me running around outside with a butterfly net. Where there's dog shit, there's flies.

And where there's a story of mine, there's usually disappointment. I received a rejection e-mail from Jennifer Pieroni of Quick Fiction today. They specialize in Flash Fiction, Sudden Fiction, and Short-Shorts. Cool little literary mag. I cannot let rejection get in the way of my passion.

This post reminds me of Don Shea's flash fiction story "True Love," about a man and a woman finding each other at an entomology conference. They have dinner together and go to her hotel room afterward. In the bedroom scene the apprehensive man (both are naked at this point) tells her about the female praying mantis's mating habits. Her response is classic and worth quoting verbatim: "The female empid fly also has a nasty habit of eating the male when he approaches her during mating season. To divert her from this purpose, the male typically finds a morsel of food and wraps it elaborately in a silk balloon formed by his glandular secretions. The time it takes the female to unwrap his gift is often long enough for him to copulate successfully and escape unscathed. But in one empid species, whether through cleverness, laziness, or just bad faith, the male fails to put any food inside the balloon. The female is hoodwinked into copulation with an empty promise."

I need to rethink my plan for my short story. Do I send it out again, rework it, or shelve it for now? I say rework it, put more food into it.

REAL MEN OF GENIUS

Yesterday my gut hurt so bad like someone poked a knife under my rib cage, and as they say in prison, ran the gears on me. Serves me right messing with Squirrel Piss, the name my fellow fishermen used for the plastic container of moonshine they passed around. I complained about the taste and was politely told that you drink it for the effect. Hurt me all the way through Monday.

After work I had to attend a Utica School Board Meeting to acknowledge the Elementary Schools that did well in Science Olympiad. I didn’t want to go on account of the Squirrel Piss but I did. The superintendent (the building is named after her; they couldn’t wait posthumously or at least until she retires) mentioned that Utica Schools captured 6 of the top 7 spots in the overall competition of 80 schools. Whoopee! I’m sick and tired of educators with their elitist attitudes. Just recognize the kids for their achievements, none of this "we’re better than everyone else." No wonder I have to deal with the failures of the public schools. What they need is a few more trailer parks, some public housing, and a few crack houses sprinkled into their school district. Embrace those parents and their kids and teach them why don’tcha!

It’s funny that I’d criticize the very same educators that I envisioned myself being. I never wanted to be like my high school U.S. Presidency teacher, Mr. Sullivan (the short man pictured above). He never varied from the direct teaching approach. Lectern up front, desks and chairs in neat rows with masking tape running down the floor to make sure order was maintained. He’d start his class by taking attendance the good old fashion way: calling your name from a roster he never looked up from. (We had a seating chart for crying out loud; it couldn’t have been that hard for him to see who was missing if he’d only look up!) After his slow process of attendance, he’d say the same thing, "All right, get out your notes." Next, he’d start writing facts on the board. Grover Cleveland served two nonconsecutive terms. Abraham Lincoln wanted to preserve the Union at all cost. Harry Truman … and on and on and on.

His direct teaching approach led to all kinds of horseplay. No one cared about the executive branch of government, or the legislative branch, or the judicial branch (unless it had a direct impact on one of the many burn-outs caught with pot). I’ll confess: I lost interest more than once myself. Mr. Sullivan had the same response when students started talking. He’d say, "All right"—I believe everything he said started out this way—"All right, I’m not standing here trying to grow." Usually this would elicit verbal bantering between him and a burn-out from the back of the classroom. His ultimate response: "All right, there’s three things I don’t like," and with his index fingers touching he’d begin his counting, "number one—warm beer, number two—wet toilet paper, and number three (he’d pause to make sure everyone heard his main point of emphasis)—a smart ass."

Mr. Sullivan may not have been the best teacher, however, he certainly was a memorable character. He died a few years after I graduated from high school; they found his expired body in his apartment above the local watering hole in town when he failed to show up for work. At least that’s how I heard it. Not like my high school gym teacher who left a note in his pickup truck before jumping off the Blue Water Bridge in Port Huron. I read about that one in the Detroit News.

As for Squirrel Piss, or moonshine—stay away from it, it can cause all kinds of problems. As for education, teachers are human too and they cope the best way they know how. As for men in general, those beer commercials about "real men of genius" speak volumes. As for women in general, how about some "real women of genius" commercials? It’s an imperfect world full of imperfect people and I’m one of them and so are you. Care to comment?

President tossing here: http://www.planetdan.net/pics/misc/georgie.htm. If he gets stuck drag him out with your mouse.

ANOTHER TOURNAMENT ENDS

Due to safety concerns (ex-felons are opportunists), I have been living my life in advance; I wouldn't want someone to break into my house, or worse. I guess what I'm really trying to say is that my last two blogs were prepackaged drafts and my wife had the important duty of posting them while I attended this year's catfish tournament. Please accept my deepest apologies. I keep trying to tell myself that responsible blogging is just as important as honest blogging.

As for catfishing, I never catch a cat heavier than six pounds. This year's winner was on the light side (ten pounds, eleven ounces) due to rough water on Wild Fowl Bay. In fact, Friday most of the fishermen decided to stay in the marina. I did catch some large mouth bass; the largest was 18.75" in length. Also, I got to try out my Uncle John's fishing rods which were given to me over a year ago after he died of throat cancer. Now I have lots of fishing goodies.

Our event coordinator, Billy Joe, mentioned his good buddy and fishing partner Marty (Mark Adkins Sr., 41 yrs. old) who lost his life two months ago on these very same waters. Marty used to share the responsibility of organizing this annual event. Attendance was down from last year too. Some people didn't feel right about the tournament with Marty gone. Billy Joe said Marty would want everyone to keep fishing. I agree.

This year's winner, Bill Podeski, took first place by one ounce. That's a medium sized sinker. Not that I'm implying that Bill would pull a fast one where we'd need to take a lead detector to his cat or open up his cat's stomach. No. Bill won fair and square. As for me, there's always next year (if I make it).

LET THERE BE WATER

The hole in the ground is now officially a pond--four thousand gallons of water, seven goldfish, snails, water lettuce, and other aquatic plants. I am still waiting on my neighbor's bridge. If you'll recall from the last post, woodworking is not my speciality.

There's something about a waterfall that calms the inner soul. I plan on spending late evenings relaxing by the water with my journal. Hopefully I'll generate some fresh ideas for short stories. At least I have a tranquil setting. Wish me luck with the mosquitoes and yellow jackets.

JOE, IN BLACK & WHITE

I used to be an artist, not formerly known as Prince, but the kind that does sketches and paints, until my father put a stop to such nonsense. My family moved the year I started 9th grade, the last year I had an art class. This didn't traumatize me too much, except for the first week when the counselor placed me in Woodshop. I met the so-called "burn-outs" in there, and I was terrified of using the table saw, among other power tools. I believe our first project was to make some bookshelves. Not me, no way! I had the counselor switch me to a typing class.

I already knew how to type. I pretended to follow along with the typing teacher's drills and qualified for the school's typing team. Being the only boy on the team and the best typer had its advantages. I met plenty of girls. Unfortunately, this did not increase my popularity like I thought it would, so I focused my energy on my art.

The above picture is titled, "Joe." That was the name of our dog back then. Ten years later he would suffer a stroke and my father would have to put him down. I enjoyed working with scratch-art, where you brush ink over a canvas then scratch away at it to form different textures of light. On the back of the canvas was my letter grade in red ink: -A. Also, at the community art show, I received a second place ribbon in this medium.

TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN!

My first writing award came in fifth-grade at Disco Elementary School (no kidding on the name). I had earned the privilege of attending a Young Authors Conference at Malow Junior High. I can’t recall much about the conference other than it was on a Saturday and I had missed my usual line-up of cartoons and television shows: Speed Racer, Kimba the White Lion, and Land of the Lost, to name a few. I can’t remember what story I had written either, although I’m sure it was a blockbuster compared to the other fifth-graders; What could they possibly have known about plot, characters, point of view, and setting? What I do remember is feeling a sense of accomplishment, a sense of pride. I had created something, a so-called story that stood out amongst my peers, at least in the eyes of Mrs. Johnson, the contest judge and our fifth-grade teacher who forced us to enter the contest when she assigned it as homework.

Fast-forward a couple of decades.

I would never again win a writing award until the young age of thirty-five. Winning, as you can see, is a rarity for me. I very seldom win anything. (One time I hit four numbers on the Michigan Lotto and the Lottery Commission held a press conference to say they had a bumper crop of pay outs for four numbers. Soon the prize money changed to a fixed amount.) You can only win if you buy a ticket, someone had once told me, and sure enough, Mrs. Johnson was no longer around to make me write, so how the hell could I win at anything? Bottom line: I had lacked motivation. However, this time I wanted to meet Michael Moore of "Roger & Me" fame. I had this idea about a documentary on the Michigan Department of Corrections and I knew he was the man to hear my proposal. I saw opportunity: a contest where the winner could meet Michael Moore. I paid my contest entry fee and submitted my story.

A month later, when I came home from a camping excursion, there was one message on my answering machine. I had won. I contacted the editor the very next day. He congratulated me on my story and then explained that the award was given to a poet instead because I didn’t call back immediately. How’s that Hee-Haw song go?—the one where Buck Owens and the Hee-Haw gang stick out their tongues and make big wet farting noises, "If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all …" The editor assured me that my story would be published in their magazine. Hee Haw!

Fast-forward one year.

If you don’t at first succeed, try try again. I submitted a story to the Wayne Literary Review (Wayne State University) and won $200. They decided not to publish the story. I guess it was a bumperless-crop of talent that year. As soon as I got the check I hurried to the bank determined that if they had made a mistake—too damned bad!

I leave you with the following website where another story of mine can be read free of charge. Of course, if you really really want to, you could send me some cash. Let’s at least discuss my terms. Click here: http://www.pebblelakereview.com/archives/Spring%202005/fiction/Thumbprints.htm

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER

Today’s post was planned in advanced (I had mentioned my wife’s sudden fascination with IKEA and wrote a lengthy description about her shopping habits and her pet peeves) but for some reason I decided not to use the material. For one, after all her talk about wanting to go to Canton, she decided against it. I’m not sure I know why. I thought for sure it was a done deal, that writing about her trip to IKEA in advanced, even if she didn’t go and I said she did, would be no worse than Mitch Albom’s claim that two ex-Michigan State basketball players attended a Final Four game when in all actuality they were somewhere else. If Mitch’s credibility survived scrutiny (his employer, the Detroit Free Press, swept it nicely under the rug) then why shouldn’t I survive scrutiny? Why not post what I had already written?

I’m the type of person that will over analyze a situation until I’m perfectly comfortable with the outcome. Further justification of associating my wife with a trip to IKEA would have to be James Frey’s memoir, A Million Little Pieces. Even though parts of it were fabricated, it hasn’t hurt the sales of his second book, My Friend Leonard. People have embraced his writing and understand that his second book is fiction (It is ... isn’t it?). In my case, wouldn’t people appreciate (or not) my words regardless of the truth? Afterall, what control do I have over how other people feel? I can only control how I feel.

So why did I have such a change of heart? It didn’t really strike me until I examined the above photograph one last time. I wondered: How well does one person know another person? It doesn’t matter whether that person is your wife, husband, girlfriend, boyfriend, sister, brother, mom, or dad. How well do you know them? How close can you really get to another person? How well do you know your self? I leave you with these questions, not to depress you, but to make you value the relationships you have. Lastly, the person behind the three balloons is in fact my wife, and we’ve been together for approximately eighteen years. I am proud to say that I am still getting to know her.

AM MY WAY

Don’t you dare scroll downward until I’ve had my say! Today is 6-6-6, the sign of the devil. The sixth day of the sixth month of the sixth year of the twenty-first century. In the words of Michelle Brooks: "EVIL." In the words of George W. Bush: "EVIL DOERS." Remember, both are Texans—so beware!

Unfortunately, this isn’t stopping my neighbors. Both husband and wife are tied to the automobile industry. DuPont to be exact. Jobs are being eliminated in Michigan. Fortunately, they can relocate where the economy is doing much better, where the cost of living is cheaper, more affordable. China you ask? Nope. Mexico? You're getting warmer. Good Old U.S. of A. Houston, Texas, Ma’am. "PURE EVIL." Yeah, I'm mimicking Michelle.

I could’ve deceived you with a pyramid scheme selling Amway soap and helped old man Devos become a wealthier man. And perhaps I'll vote for his son who is running for governor of Michigan. We could call him Soapy-the-Second. (I don't exactly know whether the original Soapy Michigan Governor was any good or not.) Now for my campaign: I’m here to sell my soul for a few more hits, taking my one man act to foreign territory, wearing a pseudo-Speedo. Frank said it best: "I did it my way." Please scroll downward at the count of three.

One.

Two.

Three.

Now!



Okay, so it's not a Speedo. Would you like an apology? In the words of The Deuce (not Deuce Bigalow silly--the automotive guy, Henry Ford II): "Never complain, never explain."

POND UPDATE

The pond is coming along just fine and, sorry to say, no Jimmy Hoffa. It would have been easier and less expensive for the FBI to install my pond instead of having to tear down a horse barn only to rebuild it later. I suspect the FBI has helped boost Michigan’s economy, at least in Milford anyway, and I too have helped by purchasing my pond liner from Firestone Tire, a major auto supplier.


In today’s photo, I’ve included a two-tiered shelving system for plants. My wife, a master gardener, provided the specs as far as the water’s depth for various aquatic plants. We plan on having a two-tiered waterfall and a bridge also. She’s already sweet-talking our neighbor into designing and building the bridge. All I need to do is supply the wood and hardware.

In my next pond update (probably sometime next week), I should have approximately 4,000 gallons of water in it. And fish. And frogs. And toads. And snails. And plants of course.

Tomorrow’s post will be more exciting. I promise. Why? Because I will be discussing politics while wearing a Speedo. Tell all your friends to click on my blog and leave a comment if they’d like. I’m sure, with my strict exercise program, that most comments will be favorable.

THE BLOODY JOKE

Two days ago I participated in the Relay for Life fund raiser at the Blossom Heath Park in St. Clair Shores. My mother-in-law and I do the survivor walk every year; it’s become tradition. In past years I didn’t mind doing this walk, except I refused to wear the sash; Something about being observed walking around like a beauty pageant contestant with a majority of breast cancer survivors didn’t set well with me (I know: men can get it too.) This year I decided to wear the sash but they no longer have them; survivors get medals instead.

When I first heard of my cancer the doctor scared the hell out of me. He said I had melanoma and that I needed to go to Ann Arbor, that I needed to have surgery a.s.a.p. Supposedly "going to Ann Arbor" meant getting the best health care treatment available, which meant, at least to me, that it was serious, so serious that I had to be dying. My mother-in-law experienced "Ann Arbor" some twenty years ago as part of a test study for breast cancer, and at the age of eighty-two, she’s doing quite well. But that was her and THIS IS ME. I knew without a doubt, because my luck is usually bad, that yep, death was right around the corner. I asked him what needed to be done and he drew a line with a felt tip marker parallel down the top of my forearm. He said they needed to cut away at the melanoma to make sure it doesn’t burrow down to the bone. "And if it’s in the bone?" I asked. "Then you have six months to a year," he replied. After a brief moment of silence, he said I was entitled to a second opinion and that he’d send my medical file to one of his colleagues if I’d like. So I scheduled an appointment with his colleague.

For my next appointment, I brought my wife along. The doctor examined my forearm and my medical file, and joked around in broken English with my wife about the cost of malpractice insurance. My wife’s cousin is a doctor, so naturally, she struck up a conversation quite easily. Personally, I believe he was willing to do the surgery right in his office all along and wanted to see if we were comfortable with that. He drew a line perpendicular on my forearm. Puzzled, I informed him that the other doctor drew it parallel. His reply, "If I cut, it heal much quicker, no pull on stitches." Then he pinched my forearm one way, then the other way, to demonstrate my skin’s elasticity. "See." It made sense. I nodded in compliance. "I do here," he said as a matter of fact.

As I turned to look away from the arm in question, he continued to joke around with my wife while making the incision. "Oh my, I think I hit blood vessel," he said to her, " get me sutures there on desk." He was a real joker. After he finished sewing me up, he showed me a grub-sized piece of meat. "That’s it?" I asked. "Yes, you go now. We do follow-up, make sure no more cancer."

On the ride home I noticed blood on my nice Christian Dior shirt. "What the hell is this?" I asked my wife, who was concentrating on her driving. "He hit a blood vessel," she answered. "I thought he was joking," I said. "He was," she replied.

I’ve been cancer free for seven years now and go for check-ups every six months. Wearing the sash was probably my way of paying tribute to the second doctor who took care of my cancer before my anxieties killed me. In life we don't always get what we plan for, I wanted my sash, but that doesn't mean I can't still joke about the outcome.

SYNERGY

I should be ashamed of myself. Here’s pitiful me, two blogs in a row without a shirt, trying to get more attention (do the math: attention = links = hits), trying to continue, as Erik D. France would point out, the SYNERGISM. Man, I feel like a bag of meat selling myself like this. Where’s my pride? My reputation? My soul?



First, on Michellespells (blog site), I intercepted Wichita Lineman’s question regarding punk band names. Hey, my June 2nd blog was already written, honestly—CANNED ahead of time. Great punk band name don’t you think? Liquid Ham. I’m sure Wichita Lineman would agree. Also, MW is a reliable source and can back me up regarding yesterday's blog.

Not to get sidetracked, but I will anyway—always do—as you can see in the photo, I’m no Wolfman Jack(or Wolfman Tim, nice story Wichita Lineman). I think it’s the Polish bloodline from my mother’s side. No chest hairs here. You could try enlarging the photo at least a thousand times to see the few wayward strands poking out across my nipple line (CPR term, not sexual, in fact, very clinical).

Again, Liquid Ham is a such a cooool name. Unless you go to the link someone sent me the other day on my blog regarding cannibalism. Some guy served up his wife at his Michigan eatery. Body parts boiling in pans. (Think Liquid Ham.) Severed head in a box on the storage shelf. The latest rumor, this man is at the correctional facility where I’m employed. Synergy at work.

Not to get sidetracked again, but did you see the new issue of Orchid, A Literary Review? The photographs by Mollie Edgar show only legs: legs protuding from a storage chest, legs fallen away from a toilet, legs on the floor sticking out of an elevator or on the hallway floor or on a bed coming out of a blanket. What happened? Something sinister's going on.

So how desperate am I? JW recommended that I link up with festeringass.com. I'm not that desperate ... yet. Interesting site though. MW calls it the "blistering bum". If I really want all that attention maybe I should seek employment at Danny's, maybe they'd open on Mondays and women would accidently show up (I thought of this from Cheri's blog). Alright, I promise, three days in a row without a shirt would be way way way too much. I'm thinking of posing in a sash like they do in all those beauty pageants. Perhaps tomorrow. What do you think?

LIQUID HAM

I don’t know if this picture symbolizes a rite of passage—I didn’t get the photo album from my mother until after my parents moved—but once I peeled away the laminate covering and pulled the picture out, I read the following on the back: Jim’s first beer. I was the ripe old age of eight.

I can’t recall how many more beers I’ve had over my life time (I can assure you that Towne Club was my favorite as a child; see previous post) nor can I tell you how many more beers I’ll have in the future. You’d think I’d wisen up by now.

Six years ago I was tested for allergies. The doctor told me I was allergic to hops and tomato. In layman’s terms he meant: "beer and pizza." My initial reaction—denial—this can’t be. Moderation then, he said, and for chrissake, don’t have it on rainy days due to higher mold counts.

I still partake in these two luxury items; however, I’ve had to be extremely careful. Sometimes I develop severe migraines from my over indulgences; then I wonder if beer is an acquired taste? I know meat is an acquired taste. Show me a kid who loves chewing meat the first time it’s placed in front of him and I’ll show you a kid that spits it up—even if it’s a McDonald’s hamburger. Coincidentally, I’m drinking Hamm’s in the photo. How ironic.

MY DOG BEAR

When we closed on our house in 1992 I agreed not to live there for eight months. Instead, I agreed to stay in the basement of my future in-laws’ 1940’s style bungalow. This may sound peculiar, but my fiancee convinced me that since I didn’t have any furniture it would be best if she occupied our dwelling first. So I helped her move out, or in, depending on which perspective you take.

Next came the dog—a British Black Labrador named Bear—she rescued him from an employee at a Detroit car wash who was moving into an apartment downriver. Basically, she talked him into letting her have the dog for free. She explained to me that since she was living by herself it was absolutely necessary she have a guard dog. Being an animal lover myself, I accepted her decision. "Besides," she said, "he comes with pedigree documentation."

These so-called papers, which were delivered at a later date due to promised visitation rights, came in an over-sized official looking envelope, and I suspect the previous owner left out the history of Bear’s lineage because my fiancee didn’t fork over any cash, three hundred bucks to be exact. The only papers I saw were from a veterinarian documenting the standard canine shots and an emergency surgery to remove a nail from his rectum. Apparently he ate a nail when he was a pup and it wound its way through his colon before puncturing the lining where the sun does shine.

For better or for worse, Bear became our guard dog. However, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that all you needed was a garden hose to shoo him away. During our honeymoon and thereafter (you have to give Bear credit for his determination) I would repeatedly kick his seventy-five pound frame off the foot of our bed. Not anymore. He is approaching sixteen, his hips are shot, and we have to buy prescription dog food for him to eat. In other words, he is now the king of the castle and can do as he damn well pleases.

Today’s picture is of my dog Bear. Lastly, I’d like to recommend Bonnie Jo Campbell’s short story "My Dog Roscoe" which first appeared in the Animals in America issue of Witness magazine. The story is easily accessible at the Ludington Writers Website under the Michigan Writers Link.