In Context

When I was teaching in the English department both in high school and at the college level, I stressed vocabularly study. I love words. However, I learned when I first started teaching that more important than the definition of the word was the ability to use the word correctly, which is called "the word in context." When I tested, I gave the students a sentence with one blank in it requiring that they choose which word would best fulfill the meaning of the sentence. If a student could choose the correct word, regardless of whether or not they knew the formal defintion, then they had a new, usable vocabulary word. I am not averse to knowing the definitions. Recently, my pastor referred to the definition of "faith" which is found in Hebrews 11:1. "Faith" is defined as the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. What an awesome definition, a measurement for that which can't be measured. The same wonder I find in the definition of drama: the willing suspension of disbelief. Somehow these two definitions define for me the power of language and our challenge to acquire as extensive a vocabulary as possible. The limits of our language are the limits of our world.

A post 9-11 writing

[This blog is a journal entry that was written just after 9-11] One lesson in this life I hope I've learned is that people should not be condemned by the actions of others. Right now in America, Arab-Americans are under suspicion because of the hijackings on September 11. America is deciding how to root out terrorism not only from the United States but from the world. Many in America are targeting those of Arab descent for blame, regardless of their loyalties. I hate this. It brings tears to my eyes. Recently, a friend confessed that he would complain were he getting on an airplane with single Arab men on board. I felt sympathy for him at the moment but have come to realize after more thought that that is an intolerable idea. The ripple effect of the bombings has been to generate the best and worst in people. Donations have poured in. Many of the firefighters and policemen who labored to rescue people in the ashes of the World Trade Center have paid with their lives. It is the individual in America who makes up his/her mind whom to trust and whom not to trust. We must trust as we have trusted in the past, regardless of the cost. What happened to the Japanese at the outset of World War II must not happen to people in America again. Our security has been violated, but our bond with mankind of all races and creeds is unbroken. While our government sorts out its options for extirpating terrorism, we, the citizens, must recognize the worth of individual Americans, punishing only those who are dedicated to under-minding the fabric of our democracy. These heinous individuals cannot be recognized by their race or creed but by their deeds. It is not an easy task but must be done in order to preserve the freedoms of every American.

On my own in D.C.

I recently wrote a blog about how difficult it is to get me out of my home. I love home. However, two good friends, Ed and Broder, who live and work in Washington, D.C., accomplished the impossible -- getting me to visit them for a week in the nation's capital. I flew up knowing that they would be working much of the time and that I would be on my own to navigate D.C., if I was going to see the city -- and I did. I got a Metro pass, learned how to "read" the color lines, and set out to discover and enjoy the "people's city." Although the week passed quickly, I managed to see everything I wanted to see except the Lincoln Memorial. I toured the Capitol, photographed the Supreme Court and the Library of Congress, spent a morning at Mt. Vernon, attended a concert at the Kennedy Center, toured the Smithsonian. My two main goals, however, were the Newseum and the Phillips Collection gallery. I spent hours in the Newseum, seeing the studio where "This Week" is filmed and even being photographed delivering the news just like one of the big TV news people, and made two visits to the Phillips where I saw my favorite painting, Renoir's "Luncheon of the Boating Party." I'm glad I let my friends coax me out of my home so that I would take this trip. I think they helped loosen my grip as I am now scheduled to take a Caribbean cruise in December.

Send Out The Clowns

I suppose we all have things that frighten us. Even the most macho of men feel fear regarding something that has ominous qualities. Some people suffer from vertigo so can't stand to be high up looking down. Others, like some of my family, are terribly afraid of electrical storms and cower during lightning and thunder storms. Others are afraid of crowds and avoid them as best they can. Some love the thrill of a roller coaster while others can think of nothing more unappealing. Me, I have two bugaboos -- clowns and balloons. I don't know the source of these phobias, but they are strong. Because of my aversion to them, I have never greatly enjoyed birthday parties if there were balloons, and most of the time there were unless it was my own party. And I never particularly enjoyed the circus, where clowns abound. Clowns, to me, were garish and surreal. I thought perhaps I would outgrow my problem with clowns and balloons, but it persisted even as my children began to have birthday celebrations. Will anybody join me for a clown-less and balloon-less celebration? I hope so.

A-political

I am a substitute teacher at a local college. I love my job. I can say yes; I can say no. I never know when I'll be called, but I usually say yes, even when I have only an hour or so to prepare for a class. Several weeks ago, I was called twice to sub, both times in composition classes. The professor who was scheduled to teach these classes was ill. These were the first two classes of this fall term, increasing the pressure on me to do a good job of teaching yet knowing very little about the methods the professor planned to use for instructing these students. However, I was able to get enough information to teach what I think were adequate beginning instructions for both the Composition 1101 and the Composition 1102 classes. I knew that I was to teach a writing technique necessitating the ability to determine cause and effect, and I wanted the class to be certain they knew what they were doing and what to look for. I therefore came up with some hypothetical topics which I would have groups brainstorm for cause and effect. I assigned one group the Tea Party movement. Watching them as they were getting started, I saw that they were somewhat perplexed with their assigned topic. One student had a handheld device out and was googling the topic. When I intervened, asking the problem, they said, "Are you talking about the Tea Party pre-Revolutionary or the 2009 Tea Party?" I was aghast that they had almost no idea about this movement which is in the papers daily and revolves around the likes of Sarah Palin. Are our students totally ignorant of the politics of the day? I don't know for sure, but if this class is any indication, political information is not reaching our young people.

Building Trust

Ever optimistic in the face of negativity
Is nowhere in the realm of possibility.
Even strong believers in the art of living positive
Are oft beset by inward feelings of their inability
To carry out their altruistic goals.

When I think that all my life, I tried so hard to please my wife
While wrestling with my gay side all the time.
I am amazed that I survived and lived to write this little verse
To illustrate the point--you can be you.

If you trust your inner self to be what you were born to be
Regardless of what others think, you’ll find yourself okay.

Some men think that they can’t be the person they were born to be
And strap themselves so tight that they can’t breathe.
Until their savior comes along, gives them a part, sings them a song,
And points them at themselves--Hip, hip, hoorah!

When Emerson said, “Trust thyself, “ he plucked man’s inner iron string
And played a melody not played before.
So trust yourself and play your tune,
The world will someday come into focus
And applaud your worth for being you.

My Political Manifesto

We are living in difficult times. The economy almost went off a cliff, and the recovery is slow. Fortunately, the economy seems to be creeping towards improvement. However, many companies are down-sizing to a "new norm." That is one of the things keeping unemployment high.

I don't envy our President the job of leading this nation through a recovery period. No matter what he does, he is criticized. When the criticism is justified, I understand. When it is not, I don't understand. In my opinion, the Republican party has been dedicated to seeing that this man fail as per Jim DeMint's infamous quote concerning "Obama's Waterloo." Republicans have done so by voting no on almost every bill. They have helped disseminate lies, untruths, disinformation, and innuendo. They have failed on almost every account to present alternatives and have supported bills which, when presented by Democrats, they have then voted against.

I admire President Barack Obama greatly. I read The Audacity of Hope before he was elected president, followed his campaign, and contributed to that campaign. If he is successful, it will not be with the help of the Republican party. It pains me when I see him besmirched as a non-Christian, an illegal immigrant (the birthers), and as a Nazi and racist. I find intolerable the vitriol that flows from the mouths of Glenn Beck, Rush Limbaugh, Michele Bachman, and Sarah Palin.

I respect one's political beliefs because we live in a free country where we can disagree. However, we also live in a country where we are told to pray for our leaders. I can't imagine what it's like being the President of the United States with problems and challenges criss-crossing his desk every day.

I believe that Barack Hussein Obama will historically be proven to have been one of our great presidents, regardless of whether or not he serves one term or two. His accomplishments so far have been phenomenal although he has gotten little credit for the achievements of this administration that is filibustered on almost every bill.

God bless America.

My First GPS Trip (repeat)

Early one mid-October morning, I hopped into my Lexus LS430 that I had recently purchased, aiming to break in my built-in navigation system on a trip eventually to lead me from my home in St. Petersburg, FL, to Nashville, TN, where I would visit my two sons and their families. This was to be an eight day trip with four stops: my brother’s home in Perry, GA; my friends who have a mountain home in Franklin, NC; my elder son’s home in Franklin, TN; and my younger son’s home in Nashville, TN. The sun was shining as I headed north up I-275. I had planned this trip and had plenty of CD’s to keep me company during the drive, including one CD of an Annie Proulx short story. The trip to Perry was uneventful, and I was greeted when I arrived in Perry by my brother and sister-in-law who spent the afternoon and evening feeding me and catching me up on recent events. The next morning, my brother and I headed for a Cracker Barrel on the interstate, knowing I would be heading to Franklin, NC, after breakfast. The weather was marginal with some fog and a threat of rain. After my brother left, I began programming the GPS and had some trouble for some reason getting it to accept Franklin, but eventually it “took” and I saw my destination. I then headed, as directed, toward Atlanta and the by-pass. When I arrived at Commerce, GA, realizing I was going to arrive much later than I had thought, I called my friends in Franklin, warning them of the delay. By this time the rain had increased to the point that there were electronic road signs flashing warnings of flooding. As the afternoon progressed and the rains increased, I felt sure that the GPS would soon announce a turn that would be more northerly although I was traveling on I-85 North which was reassuring. When the GPS “lady” finally indicated that I would exit I-85, I shuddered when I read the exit sign: Franklinton. I had been lead astray. Where was I? Calling my friends in Franklin, NC, I learned that I was some 200 miles off course and needed to double back in order to reach my intended destination. Because I had had a hamburger the day before for lunch, I had eaten only a bag of chips and some sweet cookies. Although I was hungry, I didn’t feel like eating. I just wanted to get to my destination so I began driving again. I had just run out of the rain in Franklinton and now headed back into it. It was intense. The next wake-up call came when a light on my dash flashed a large red exclamation point saying “Tire Low.” One thing about these fancy cars is that they can tell you when you have low tire pressure. I would have preferred that my Lexus had been programmed to tell me, “You’re not going where you think you are.” The car was driving smoothly so I decided to go as far as I could before retiring at some motel for the night. That motel was a Day’s Inn in Marian, NC, near Asheville. Rising the next morning, I purposed to have a better day. In order to assuage my concern about the tire, I decided I would call AAA and have my tires checked before proceeding. Soon Jimmy showed up, friendly and ready to help me get on my way. However, he could not find his tire pressure tool. When he suggested going back to his shop for a tool, I admitted I was hungry as I still had not eaten breakfast and that bag of chips and cookies were long gone. He then asked, “What do you want to eat?” When I suggested that a sausage biscuit would suffice, he said, “Follow me. I’ll take you to a McDonalds, and you can eat while I go for the pressure gauge.” And that’s what we did. I ate my sausage biscuit and drank a cup of coffee until he returned. Checking the tires, he found all four to have exactly 30 pounds of pressure. Grrrr The rest of my trip was spent visiting the people I had aimed to visit, including my two grandchildren in Tennessee. My friends in Franklin, NC, suggested that had I not had the mis-direction, it would have been just a trip. As it was, it would always be remembered as an adventure. I’m sure it was somehow I who mis-programmed the GPS but, regarding the trip I can only say, “Franklinton, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Home is where the heart is

I love home. In fact, I think my feelings are even stronger than that. I adore home. I enjoy coming home from wherever and dropping into my recliner. I love listening to my music in stereo in the living room. I love dropping into my bed at night and waking refreshed in the morning. I love my neighborhood, my yard, my flowers, my car. With this much adoration, I imagine you're thinking that I must have lots of worldly things that make my home plush and appealing. That's not the case at all. When I moved into my home almost twenty years ago, I bought all the furniture I needed, and I have bought almost nothing since. I love my home because it's my home. I once lived in a tiny garage apartment, and it too served very well for home for a while. I'm a homebody. In fact, I'm such a homebody that I'm glad I have the gym and my substituting job at the local college to make me get me out of the house occasionally. When I was teaching high school and was still married, the family sometimes scheduled trips at which time we planned to leave right after school so as to make the most of the little time we had. Almost always, although time was precious, I would insist on going home for a few minutes before we left. It was almost like "touching base" in a game. The songwriter has written, "Home is where the heart is." Well, my heart is indeed at home.

Funny Bones III

Here we go again with two more of my favorite cartoons. First of all, you must know that I am not a coconut eater. I love whole coconut chunks but don't care for shaved coconut. Once in the Florida Keys, I actually tasted coconut milk which was very nice. However, I agree with Charlie Brown in this cartoon.




This cartoon reminded me of the health care debate. I was reading an article today regarding the misinformation that was disseminated during the long period of debating universal healthcare for Americans. I sat in church one Sunday listening to a gentleman behind me misleading a lady who was agreeing with his every word. At least, we can laugh with these two ladies.

The English Class Rap

I'm not deeply into Rap music, but I can appreciate it as I was the inventor of Rap. You don't believe me, eh? Well, when I was teaching middle school years ago, I was frustrated trying to teach my students about English grammar. How do you engage students with inanities such as punctuation, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, etc., when their hormones are going beserk? The only solution I could see that might work would be tying grammar to something they did like: rock music. I never went very far with it, coming up with only three jingles, but boy did it ever work. I would get the class clapping, and then I would teach them: "A gerund, a gerund, is as cute as can be .... It is a verbal noun. It ends in I-N-G." That took care of gerunds. Now for participles: "A participle is a verbal adject'uv: it asks which, how many, or what kind 'uv." Finally there was my rap for learning the verb "to be." It must be sung to the tune of "Obla Di, Obla Da," a Beattles song of the period. "Am, is, are ... Was, were, be ... being been, OMPH (shouted). Now you know the verb to be." Again! (and repeat). I have even used these raps with my college students. It still works. Admit it -- you like it!

Separation

From 1999 to 2004, I enjoyed a friendship with a Dutchman from Amsterdam. Jos and I had connected online and discovered that we had many mutual interests, strong enough that he agreed to fly over here for a visit. Trusting our instincts, we decided the first visit should be for two weeks. When those two weeks flew by, we decided his next visit should be extended to three weeks. Eventually he was coming over for 90 days, the maximum time he could visit on a visa waiver. I also made five trips to the Netherlands during that period of time and saw Europe as I had never seen it before, as a non-tourist who went to the grocery store as well as visited the sites of the Netherlands plus one trip down into Belgium. When Jos would visit here, I began to hook him up with a friend who owned a tutoring agency. I worked at that agency as a tester, going into homes and doing assessment tests to determine what help students needed. My boss was an avid golfer as was Jos. As for me, I had played some golf but always got more excited about finding balls than scoring low. Besides setting him up for golfing, I also took him to visit Florida sites, and we even took one trip to the mountains of North Carolina. As we became better friends, I began to notice that three or four days before Jos' departure for Amsterdam, he would seem depressed. It was certainly not strange as we always enjoyed each other's company a great deal and dreaded the separation. What was strange was his diagnosis caused by the separation we would endure until the next visit which he called pre-partum depression.

Language Magic

My mother-in-law was the epitome of the malaprop user. She was an Italian lady, straight from the old country. She was verbal, loud, animated, and wonderful. She was also the best grandmother my children could ever have had. But, back to her use of language, which was both confusing and delightful. Once she came in and reported a strange phenomenon. According to her, "I saw three twins today. I think they were triplets." Another instance of her confusing word choice occurred when she told me she was a great admirer of Marlo Brandon. I never probed her to learn whether that was Marlon Brando or Marlo Thomas. It didn't matter. After my father-in-law died, "Mama" eventually ended up as our responsibility and moved into our neighborhood. Just after she moved down, I took her over to meet friends of ours who lived nearby and would be good neighbors to her. As we went into the house, the friend's dog, Patsy, came into the room, sniffed at my mother-in-law, sat down on the floor and began to scratch and lick herself. Our hostess was embarrassed as the dog continued to clean her privates while we tried to get acquainted. Finally, the hostess said, "I don't know what's wrong with Patsy. She never scratches like this" to which my mother-in-law replied: "Don't worry. It's only human for dogs to scratch."

The Diary of Tommy Cooper

In 1954, I was chosen to play clarinet at an all state high school music clinic in Rock Hill, SC. Little did I know that that workshop would provide me with an idea that would last to the present -- keeping a journal. At the close of the workshop, each participant was given a little one-year diary. It was difficult to write more than a few lines, but I began. At the time, I was 16 years old and in my junior year in high school. From that tiny journal, I "graduated" to a 5 year diary which provided more space for writing. During the time I wrote in that journal, I was in college. Then I discovered a journal that offered a page for every day of the year. Those provided me space for documenting my early years of marriage. Finally, I learned to use a computer and to this day, I journal every day on my computer. Since I retired, I write whenever I have an idea during the day or when something happens that is worth remembering. I have transcribed all of my journals into my Journals folder, and I back up these journals every three or four days. The question now is what am I going to do with my journals? They are personal and are the story of me. I'm glad I've kept this record of my life, my childhood as a young person with very low self esteem, my college and military years when I began to emerge, my marriage which proved to be faulty when I admitted after twenty-three years of marriage that I had fought being gay for as long as I could remember, my divorce, and my emergence as an honest human being who could accept my strengths and my weaknesses. From Tommy to Thom.

Cancer Redux

I had my first cancer scare when I was 54 years old. I was teaching full-time and had learned after a routine PSA test that I had a fast-growing form of prostate cancer. The recommendation was for me to have radical surgery, which I did. Of course, I missed quite a bit of work during my recovery and returned to my classroom only after I had regained most of my continence. The cancer made me realize that life might not be as long as I had thought so I applied for retirement and retired four months after I had the surgery with credit for more than thirty years of teaching.

My second bout with cancer occurred not quite ten years later and had nothing to do with the previous cancer. This time it was non-Hodgkins lymphoma, and the cancer was in my chest. I had learned of the cancer after going to my physician when my neck swelled up. The diagnosis was to have chemotherapy and radiation. I agreed to both and found myself twice a week at St. Anthony's where the doctors and nurses there treated me with loving care and encouragement. Following the chemo, I underwent the radiation, and it too was administered with tender-loving care.

I am now a cancer survivor. I look back at both scares and realize that I didn't let it turn me into a negative person. I was the eternal optimist during both "sieges" and believe that is the reason I am alive and well today. I walk about thanking God many times a day for life and health. I believe strongly that when it is my time to die that I will be ready.

Sincerely yours,

One of the most used words in a social context is the word "sincere." We have traditionally used it as a complimentary close in personal and business letters. It's meaning is clear. The use of the word means that you are not being false in any way but are writing, in the case of a letter, with no hidden intent. In other words, you mean what you say. The same applies to the oral use of this word. When someone says they sincerely believe that they are going to be successful, they truly believe it. I learned years ago, certainly before I read about it in Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol, that this word takes on even more clarity when its derivation is revealed. "Sincere" is derived from two Latin words: "sine," meaning without, and "cera," the Latin word for wax. It seems that, in the days of Roman and Greek classical architecture, some columns were made of wood. The more expensive the wood, the fewer flaws or holes it contained, caused by decay or insects. However, in order to conceal some of the flaws of imperfect wood, wax was sometimes poured into the holes so that the wood would appear more unflawed. Therefore, the perfect wood columns were sine cera, without wax, and therefore more stable and worthy of the classicism they illustrated. Would that we could count on the "sincerity" of many of today's politicians who appear to campaign quite insincerely, "not without wax."