tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5634260656159961102024-03-05T01:14:06.370-05:00A Long PatienceAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.comBlogger183125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-37516397722320472952012-12-26T09:22:00.001-05:002012-12-26T09:23:31.763-05:00Fun Resolve<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">How's this for a New Year's resolution?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>I resolve to review, edit and republish Surfacing, and to write its sequel for publication by July, 2013. And have fun doing it.</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Right? Very simple. To the point. No chance of me being able to wriggle out of it by using vague language. Like "Write a book" or "Write".</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I thought so.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A long time coming, I think.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I have this habit of straying from the things I love to write in order to write the things I think I <i>should</i> write.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I had forgotten the ease with which Surfacing was written, relatively speaking. It was fun. It flowed nicely from conception to finished piece. But then, afterwards, I vanished. I got myself into this spiral, creatively. I considered Surfacing to be a "test" of my resolve. I told myself <i>If I write it, then publish it, I will have proven that I can be a serious writer.</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On a subconscious level I was telling myself "Write the kids book to prove I can write, and then go on to write <i>serious </i>novels."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">What I missed was that the entire point of writing in the first place was to enjoy it. To have fun. Surfacing was <i>fun</i>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Rewriting it will be even more fun. It will clean up problems found in the first printing, and make it a better springboard for its sequel.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i> </i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>I can't wait for 2013 to start. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>I can't wait to have fun again writing.</i></span><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-72845171835760033162012-04-24T16:17:00.000-04:002012-04-24T16:17:33.304-04:00CurtainFor some time now, we've been sharing our home with two new siblings. Well, they're not <i>new</i> siblings to each other, of course. They're new to us<i>.</i><br />
<br />
They are a sister and a brother who face the extinction of their family. The dismantling of what they have come to know as their family, anyway: a fractured thing, broken to pieces by the carelessness of those who call themselves parents.<br />
<br />
I won't be judgmental, though. It's not my place. I'm sure - in fact I <i>know</i> - that this is painful for everyone and that they are fully aware of what they've done. I need not go on about it.<br />
<br />
We're not sure where this is headed. We're not sure where we've come from, either. We've endured six months of disorienting confusion as if being led around a carnival fun house with blindfolds. If this were a staged drama, it would resemble <i>Six Characters In Search of an Author.</i><br />
<br />
The expurgated synopsis (sorry theater folks for having to do this) goes something like this: six strangers show up at the rehearsal of a play in search of an author to finish their stories after having been abandoned by their previous author and left incomplete. In a nutshell, it's a wonky story about abandonment, the ego and the nature of reality. The kind of play they'd have you dissect in high school English that would force you to hate theater forever.<br />
<br />
The story of our current sibling visitors is precisely that: a wonky story about abandonment, the ego and the nature of reality. The stage being the Maine courts, our house, DHHS offices. The characters being innocent children, well-meaning bureaucrats, duplicitous biological family members, and a couple of crazy folks. You can guess which roles Corrine and I landed. <br />
<br />
It's almost a tragicomedy. It would be a full-out farce if children's lives weren't the center of the plot.<br />
<br />
So we're waiting. In a week or so a judge will decided how this <i>stage</i> of the children's lives will end, and in which direction their <i>new</i> story will take. Will he decide to send them back to their original author, or to someone else?<br />
<br />
We don't know. We have no read on this at all. And no say.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-49716831671432027792012-04-23T10:09:00.002-04:002012-04-23T10:23:07.284-04:00The Biggest Bitch I KnowI'm not really one you'll find expounding on the problems in my life. Not without a heavy dose of exaggeration and humor and self-effacing wit. To be honest, I'd rather not have everyone know about the <i>true</i> nature of how I'm feeling at a given moment. I'd much prefer that everyone know I'm doing great.<br />
<br />
I <i>am</i> doing great, to be sure. I have a multitude of blessings, in fact: starting with a partner who is just the right combination of June <i>"Ward, I'm very worried about the Beaver"</i> Cleaver and Gunnery Sergeant <i>"You had best un-fuck yourself!" </i>Hartman. She coddles me and dotes on me when I don't deserve it; she will grab me by the balls and kick my ass when I need it. She takes in stray horses and abandoned children and somehow makes it all work.<br />
<br />
There are my younger children, who are a bundle of high-octane joy; and there are my older children who have somehow managed to thrive despite being asked to live with some not-so-great situations.<br />
<br />
Both of my parents, and my in-laws, are alive and healthy, something I cannot say for my two best friends, who have seen their mothers pass away within the last few years. I can't imagine the grief and emptiness they had to confront in order to soldier on the way they have. <br />
<br />
My siblings are alive, and happy, and living their lives - like me - vicariously through their children.<br />
<br />
And just this weekend I reconnected with friends I've had for the past 15 years.<br />
<br />
Life really, truthfully, is good for me. I can't complain. And I won't.<br />
<br />
But I'll be damned if I'm not having to deal with something that scares the hell out of me.<br />
<br />
Here's the set up: A year ago I woke up in the middle of the night with your garden-variety winter cold: congestion with a little bit of a rattle in my chest. Nothing anyone hasn't experienced a hundred times in their life, right? Except, as it turns out, the blocked sinuses triggered a dream in which I was suffocating. I woke up with a racing heart, sweaty palms, and this overwhelming fear that I could not catch my breath.<br />
<br />
I sat up immediately, which woke up Corrine. I mumbled something about being okay when she asked, and I hurriedly put on clothes while trying to catch my breath. Breathing in deeply - I was filling my lungs with air, I could tell - but still feeling like that wasn't enough.<br />
<br />
If you've ever had an anxiety attack, you know what comes next, don't you? Feelings of terror. Of dying. Of your heart exploding or your lungs collapsing. Each bad image followed by something worse, yet in the back of your mind you know you're in the grips of something irrational.<br />
<br />
<i>Wait. I'm healthy. I don't have a heart condition. </i><br />
<br />
Yet, you can't possibly countermand the overwhelming power of fear, not when it's the first time you've ever experienced something like this.<br />
<br />
<i>Well, no, you don't have a heart condition...THAT YOU KNOW OF.</i> <br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> </i>I couldn't get my heart rate down, I couldn't catch my breath. I couldn't stop from shaking or pacing or feeling like I was about to pass out.<br />
<br />
Corrine knew what was happening, and her voice helped to settle me a little. Just enough. <br />
<br />
I won't enumerate the various steps I went through that night - including an embarrassing trip to the emergency room where they told me I was fine. I <i>was</i> fine, just experiencing an anxiety attack (a first for me) brought on by asthma (another first).<br />
<br />
What anxiety did to me was nearly crippling. It adversely affected my college class work (I missed two finals, a final paper, and lots of class time); I couldn't eat; I slept in a recliner fretfully for two weeks, waking up every hour or so to drink hot tea; and I slipped into probably the worst bout of depression I've ever experienced. I thought of the end of my life, of death, of despair. I couldn't watch sad movies, or movies with death in them. I was short with Corrine and the kids.<br />
<br />
I went to the doctor, who knew right away what was happening, of course, and prescribed some medicine to help cope with the anxiety, inhalers for the asthma, etc. It helped, and after a month or so I can say I was back to "normal." <br />
<br />
Until this past week.<br />
<br />
I experienced another near-crippling anxiety attack during yet another average winter cold. All over again. Well, to a degree. Having lived through it once, this time I knew what to expect. There was no heart-racing, palm-sweating episode this time. Just the gut-punch of terror, and now the depression.<br />
<br />
The added twist this time is jaw-clenching at night, which seems to have triggered a bout of TMJ. TMJ being when you overwork the muscle that connects your lower jaw to your skull so much that it feels like you've been chewing on a shoe for a week. It feels tight and I'm incapable of opening my mouth as wide as normal without feeling pain. And of course, someone who has a fear of suffocation will naturally hit the panic button if he can't open his mouth to breathe. Hey, like I said, fear is irrational. When does anyone need to open their mouth that wide to breathe??<br />
<br />
But it's there. The fear. Regardless. And the accompanying anxiety, which has finally, mercifully, subsided. Now the depression has hit, like the tsunami that it is: wiping out everything in its path, sucking the debris of goodness and joy out to some mental sea.<br />
<br />
I put on a brave face, of course. I bet this weekend our friends in Vermont didn't notice how I had to basically puree my food because chewing kills me. Or that I was not my usually jovial self. How, at one moment, while watching their extremely lovely young daughter read to my wife, the bottom fell out and the blood drained from my face. Suddenly all I could focus on was what my <i>own</i> daughter's life would be if I was gone. How would she cope. That's depression for you, folks.<br />
<br />
It is the biggest bitch I know.<br />
<br />
I did have a great time, getting out with Corrine, alone, to see some great people. Actually, it was great therapy. Enormously therapeutic. That's what you do when you deal with depression. You have these wicked swings, you breathe through them, and try to even your emotional keel. <br />
<br />
And I will work back to normalcy like I did a year ago, after some time. I know it. I have way too much goodness in my life to be throttled like this, to be captured and held down. That's what I bring my mind back to when I feel desperation.<br />
<br />
Anxiety is a funny thing. Funny in a "queer" sort of way, of course. It's a lesson in the power of the mind, in the mysterious way the brain works - or doesn't work, I suppose. But also, a lesson in the value of the blessings in one's life. I shudder to think what my life would be like having to face this without them.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-56192198324616730882012-04-03T16:38:00.001-04:002012-04-03T16:38:23.704-04:00Fruit for Thought<span class="body"></span>
<br />
<span class="body">As I was perusing my old philosophy notebooks recently (as I'm often found to be doing, now that I'm on a mini college hiatus and yearning to go back) </span><span class="body">one particular quote attributed to Aristotle popped out at me. It vibrated in the margins of my notes </span><span class="body"> the same way a solitary birch can shimmer in a forest of firs and elms.</span><br />
<span class="body"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span class="body">Wishing to be friends is quick work, but friendship is a slow ripening fruit</span></i></blockquote>
<br />
There are countless platitudinous throw-aways to friendship out there. You see them all over Facebook. Those infernal placards posted by your friends dripping with Leo Buscaglia, and as trite as a Hallmark movie featuring a child sitting in a field of dandelions on a sunny day in August while drinking lemonade with her grandmother.<br />
<br />
Blech.<br />
<br />
I like Aristotle's take on it. A very simple statement. Uncluttered. Unadorned by sickly sweetness. He puts it right out there: getting friends is a hell of a lot easier than keeping them.<br />
<br />
Like you, I count many people in my life as "friends", when applying a very broad definition. But I can truthfully say that really only a few fall into Aristotle's ripe variety. A friend that has been around for awhile, whose friendship has lasted on the vine, so to speak without falling away.<br />
<br />
I think the Big A was suggesting that it's natural that we humans desire the closeness of a companion, but that we hazard failure if we don't make the time and effort to let it mature. And really, how many friendships can you recall that have been long lost to inattention? To "life" sweeping us away from them? When the graduations and the marriages and the births and the promotions far outweigh (so we believe) the diligence necessary to maintain friends.<br />
<br />
Like the viticulturist who nurses his vineyard, the work is daunting and time-consuming, in a world where slamming down 30 bucks for a bottle of wine is a hell of a lot more convenient than doing the work itself. The implicit attitude here being "Why would I work so hard at something that I can get so easily at my local grocery store?"<br />
<br />
I've certainly made quick work of my share of friendships, so understand that I'm not throwing green apples at glass houses here.<br />
<br />
I do have a couple of good, ripe friendships to my credit. Friends I've known now for many years and whose company - regardless of the distance between us - I savor. So naturally I've wondered why they've stood the test of time and not all those others, and the answer actually just now came to me as I write this.<br />
<br />
In those few instances they - like me - worked to cultivate the friendship, not the friend. It's a subtle difference, but it's an important one. They didn't want <i>me</i> to ripen ("get better with change") they wanted the friendship to.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-73075676154238981962012-03-30T11:01:00.000-04:002012-03-30T11:01:36.531-04:00These Damn Yankees Are for You<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0asU3xXRq5Qng1ab9545BYfqhAXOw1xIiO1iAmGfGYHt_LLRNsyITDknwydh5bRCAT02TzbLvUgK2T-AZpQ1cBhHQbSKhFM8TsnTLEGtWNUgiEwA98iWDME5W50kK0WUAX5EPTlUUwbcc/s1600/552426_371637932867999_100000653852591_1204261_2098173979_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0asU3xXRq5Qng1ab9545BYfqhAXOw1xIiO1iAmGfGYHt_LLRNsyITDknwydh5bRCAT02TzbLvUgK2T-AZpQ1cBhHQbSKhFM8TsnTLEGtWNUgiEwA98iWDME5W50kK0WUAX5EPTlUUwbcc/s1600/552426_371637932867999_100000653852591_1204261_2098173979_n.jpg" /></a>Right around the time I turned 30 I was living in St. Johnsbury, Vermont. On a whim, one evening after work, I rode with a coworker to the auditions for a community production of N. Richard Nash's <i>The Rainmaker</i> (the Broadway hit that was eventually turned into a movie starring Burt Lancaster and Katharine Hepburn.)<br />
<br />
I'm not sure why I decided, that night, to swallow my fear and to audition. I suppose it probably had to do with this latent desire to perform on stage, to tap into that long-lost-but-never-forgotton childish of all childish behavior: playing pretend.<br />
<br />
I'd been in one production in my life before then, a small stint in the musical <i>The Music Man</i> staged at my local high school when I was 18. I had no lines and therefore nothing to risk or to lose (except a friend or two who thought theater was for ... those who were confused, let's say).<br />
<br />
I never got up the urge to do it again, though. Not until <i>The Rainmaker</i> that is.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to St. J some twelve years later, and to the old creaky boards of the Lyndon Town Hall stage. I was hooked that first night of rehearsal and have been in a number of community productions since.<br />
<br />
Tonight, <i>Damn Yankees </i>will open on the same stage where <i>The Music Man</i> and some 18 other community musicals have been played.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6ZeNi-wjQgO3yUYuJWoX8JpQ8I-5JLI3wGPJ48m-etFZ2esuERInnZpm-TKmeUTfnK5wxeh_jAQu8fZ80I1p1bgYQmg5qcubqG80xW7-qc58vMm_Xps_Y8oJGEzQTtJAnXSJYiocDOue/s1600/541061_371211642910628_100000653852591_1202968_1184278278_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD6ZeNi-wjQgO3yUYuJWoX8JpQ8I-5JLI3wGPJ48m-etFZ2esuERInnZpm-TKmeUTfnK5wxeh_jAQu8fZ80I1p1bgYQmg5qcubqG80xW7-qc58vMm_Xps_Y8oJGEzQTtJAnXSJYiocDOue/s320/541061_371211642910628_100000653852591_1202968_1184278278_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
I have to say, I'm proud to be a part of this one. There is simply nothing at all like the gathering of local talent to put on a few nights of entertainment. The sacrifice of time is probably the hardest. Students in the cast (the backbone of every community show) have had to sit in the back hall doing homework between scenes; the adults: well, we've had to scurry from work three nights a week, forsaking our families at home. My own sacrifice includes leaving my wife to fend for herself in a house with four small children while I get to go play pretend. I owe her a medal. And a back rub.<br />
<br />
But we who do this understand that sacrifice, and so do our families. Otherwise, we wouldn't do it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXAW3MUcMdKUMWOKJ0H9dxhJHOeW1Lxs30gTs2uCdlKcvGgQ5BnjMIRDCAglIVv5-RrtVgPKJZ8nCP4gHa6_TJRohItDf-ZJV2frWLnwdTDi__8PSC5CcRZWiH9OYiqZVfcUsfW8Jr-54/s1600/542704_371211832910609_100000653852591_1202973_642612992_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivXAW3MUcMdKUMWOKJ0H9dxhJHOeW1Lxs30gTs2uCdlKcvGgQ5BnjMIRDCAglIVv5-RrtVgPKJZ8nCP4gHa6_TJRohItDf-ZJV2frWLnwdTDi__8PSC5CcRZWiH9OYiqZVfcUsfW8Jr-54/s320/542704_371211832910609_100000653852591_1202973_642612992_n.jpg" width="212" /></a>To the community, these people are giving a gift. Of time, energy and talent. For the cost of a movie ticket, folks can see homegrown pretend-players; budding stars and aging veterans like myself; musicians; directors and stage hands, all of whom live right next door to you.<br />
<br />
Where else but in your local community theater productions can you enjoy this kind of experience? I can't think of one.<br />
<br />
For selfish reasons I want my friends there, to feed off your energy. But I want the friends of my cast members and crew there as well, especially those of the high school kids in the show. So that they will be inspired to keep doing this, and not wait until they're 30.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9gXGAKe2Bbi-HSOzJQecsU1FQGDshdWIkKvUr208LxzNKVHUiNpTu7e2q8Ef9SaRcyRdmiUL-TgTlgSx1BySy3q1dxmPzmpFK-S5P_RtMeYwDJg7nrlMZkhH4tmiR_hNNATWubWQEU8X4/s1600/562513_371211762910616_1184898085_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9gXGAKe2Bbi-HSOzJQecsU1FQGDshdWIkKvUr208LxzNKVHUiNpTu7e2q8Ef9SaRcyRdmiUL-TgTlgSx1BySy3q1dxmPzmpFK-S5P_RtMeYwDJg7nrlMZkhH4tmiR_hNNATWubWQEU8X4/s320/562513_371211762910616_1184898085_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwAk1Ft6ohVCl7nVLSeO1I5eio6ykxXSUCq0Z1zKC-UdFcTtt8YwfnzkcwUkWUncqFCFVONzQ93pyFjQZ84aLq441bXtms-R7aLKjxOltzih2zj0-4GFpfc14CEXBhM7aXNC8T2kweV9eZ/s1600/541900_371211816243944_100000653852591_1202972_169455004_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwAk1Ft6ohVCl7nVLSeO1I5eio6ykxXSUCq0Z1zKC-UdFcTtt8YwfnzkcwUkWUncqFCFVONzQ93pyFjQZ84aLq441bXtms-R7aLKjxOltzih2zj0-4GFpfc14CEXBhM7aXNC8T2kweV9eZ/s320/541900_371211816243944_100000653852591_1202972_169455004_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUnoc9RqT8HunbzBVHbAD_rvQPjVfnba9doFWcMpU9ldLBKEo-Ui42gDWH2D2ipHXyf-Pf6s77ZTKcXKU985goFUdsd9qW3xUjZJFn0OQMXEWOZUS6FK1Gt54NXlEa7J4EV9DrRNQR5lf/s1600/561285_371211686243957_100000653852591_1202969_1333924472_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigUnoc9RqT8HunbzBVHbAD_rvQPjVfnba9doFWcMpU9ldLBKEo-Ui42gDWH2D2ipHXyf-Pf6s77ZTKcXKU985goFUdsd9qW3xUjZJFn0OQMXEWOZUS6FK1Gt54NXlEa7J4EV9DrRNQR5lf/s320/561285_371211686243957_100000653852591_1202969_1333924472_n.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOKOxdesuAdnhjlKTy3_SsP1tC-bW2KtGblsJHzYq0RNo4sfvokBkYrMcUmQ2k7ze5l2mQ5PGoubcRNfeieMT9o21H_gG9EIYDG13G6F8QnMJk2X5QA_Vgp9JTg0XHaLKscH83blTANwX/s1600/389216_371635936201532_100000653852591_1204248_747787151_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhOKOxdesuAdnhjlKTy3_SsP1tC-bW2KtGblsJHzYq0RNo4sfvokBkYrMcUmQ2k7ze5l2mQ5PGoubcRNfeieMT9o21H_gG9EIYDG13G6F8QnMJk2X5QA_Vgp9JTg0XHaLKscH83blTANwX/s320/389216_371635936201532_100000653852591_1204248_747787151_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTCzyokdwfjtiGplUihyjf_E9UXDNgrvJqNVOGpxcFHIPRkmn47VtJHij2gZZX2gt2zXLBz3kskB-_j2WrEwwLCMT8JiRoZ03xtSDLXmvVWJU2H00pMn4q-zLtOKOn7SZ6ZjIGo42XqEQ/s1600/534657_371635266201599_100000653852591_1204234_1378078041_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQTCzyokdwfjtiGplUihyjf_E9UXDNgrvJqNVOGpxcFHIPRkmn47VtJHij2gZZX2gt2zXLBz3kskB-_j2WrEwwLCMT8JiRoZ03xtSDLXmvVWJU2H00pMn4q-zLtOKOn7SZ6ZjIGo42XqEQ/s320/534657_371635266201599_100000653852591_1204234_1378078041_n.jpg" width="212" /></a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLsN7n9WhUECiBZvRA7E8_kejkJTcgUQPjjYzxgbg61kgdgxBHAyFvF-aCrycWMRqUQ10X1j8vlTsxpEXStc6YdfWT7bkT5TXrOtkV34xoWorr3fG2G4FauVwqlGGMsh2hsA5OKe2t0fj/s1600/534429_371635689534890_100000653852591_1204243_891073219_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWLsN7n9WhUECiBZvRA7E8_kejkJTcgUQPjjYzxgbg61kgdgxBHAyFvF-aCrycWMRqUQ10X1j8vlTsxpEXStc6YdfWT7bkT5TXrOtkV34xoWorr3fG2G4FauVwqlGGMsh2hsA5OKe2t0fj/s320/534429_371635689534890_100000653852591_1204243_891073219_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMyRT-o2f2Lx5ECkl_C_L7mOsvlv8wqZzfL8YVtaQBetSITGse6MKip3qSeIrDHNnewHJoTOEEPR5W6AMZfslyElg4Es2LI_nVoeUwMa_gIR9r6iK9mI2bukjOjPa3VX4arpM0f4AvK8j/s1600/535156_371635226201603_100000653852591_1204233_726120443_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMyRT-o2f2Lx5ECkl_C_L7mOsvlv8wqZzfL8YVtaQBetSITGse6MKip3qSeIrDHNnewHJoTOEEPR5W6AMZfslyElg4Es2LI_nVoeUwMa_gIR9r6iK9mI2bukjOjPa3VX4arpM0f4AvK8j/s320/535156_371635226201603_100000653852591_1204233_726120443_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJxavEuJEpao0THUf7JG-4x9ce9nOqkU4nF2Dyw8FUOkuRnJUrv4U2KGOxgGHt6W7hSIH14IE4C9fTvzBv1xkRPYtU3I56TY3slk5Yfb8Zq76ecEnKpe7GRBm-BSj6VCTdjNROoqzgA5QG/s1600/535608_371636056201520_100000653852591_1204250_1913223743_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJxavEuJEpao0THUf7JG-4x9ce9nOqkU4nF2Dyw8FUOkuRnJUrv4U2KGOxgGHt6W7hSIH14IE4C9fTvzBv1xkRPYtU3I56TY3slk5Yfb8Zq76ecEnKpe7GRBm-BSj6VCTdjNROoqzgA5QG/s320/535608_371636056201520_100000653852591_1204250_1913223743_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjctruO2bS96pmpRx1Rv7M4gp6Yo59lPTs9FzKzAhvqShAPJgD0fJKuWjJ5JtEE5gK-3HQqMgIi-4qW1O_h_M9G4PaGZ2YbIlURy3ix50y_60VpL7XWnvyFINMrlj2AUtqIXhmMhe4BlNSu/s1600/543322_371635872868205_100000653852591_1204247_885160603_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjctruO2bS96pmpRx1Rv7M4gp6Yo59lPTs9FzKzAhvqShAPJgD0fJKuWjJ5JtEE5gK-3HQqMgIi-4qW1O_h_M9G4PaGZ2YbIlURy3ix50y_60VpL7XWnvyFINMrlj2AUtqIXhmMhe4BlNSu/s320/543322_371635872868205_100000653852591_1204247_885160603_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYGjwaPHY2_IhT8sOjgA-4Yfe40gadwX0Zb6Ji0SCpzYBXueZYYl0Jfys-JVK8JeLXOUd3fgA1yrQxMPRfrlT_BAXIWh-Y2SzAaSoT2ZYgKIen-TRZcnmGhDW_TGtNlF8urQGi88Nbousq/s1600/544553_371635736201552_100000653852591_1204244_1164090577_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYGjwaPHY2_IhT8sOjgA-4Yfe40gadwX0Zb6Ji0SCpzYBXueZYYl0Jfys-JVK8JeLXOUd3fgA1yrQxMPRfrlT_BAXIWh-Y2SzAaSoT2ZYgKIen-TRZcnmGhDW_TGtNlF8urQGi88Nbousq/s320/544553_371635736201552_100000653852591_1204244_1164090577_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKKbtn8mRcesCQtWFHb082_lbUlC1ol1smBpEHJTx22PQvQzJfid6uJdvlvwEYXagdUZqmeea3uGb-OXXG2mtiYwo8_UI0mj3vyHmGmgsKv8m-auTot-VdC4eSH_c9pT17dHnmlY2Jkfu6/s1600/551611_371209996244126_100000653852591_1202945_1145062050_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKKbtn8mRcesCQtWFHb082_lbUlC1ol1smBpEHJTx22PQvQzJfid6uJdvlvwEYXagdUZqmeea3uGb-OXXG2mtiYwo8_UI0mj3vyHmGmgsKv8m-auTot-VdC4eSH_c9pT17dHnmlY2Jkfu6/s320/551611_371209996244126_100000653852591_1202945_1145062050_n.jpg" width="315" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5nILfGPG7SNbvUbkOXQNBA6vKRPikpTc14CSnzDc0gAcmKiMh8qg5v9tF7M904sg00LDDn6mQh9R9IJxzcgd5D4spVU1Ed0LFgDDoH6WjVxUW17z44yNqakYDB57kapLQ1L_YpLm0FM2B/s1600/551650_371635172868275_15445176_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5nILfGPG7SNbvUbkOXQNBA6vKRPikpTc14CSnzDc0gAcmKiMh8qg5v9tF7M904sg00LDDn6mQh9R9IJxzcgd5D4spVU1Ed0LFgDDoH6WjVxUW17z44yNqakYDB57kapLQ1L_YpLm0FM2B/s320/551650_371635172868275_15445176_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdWyxY1JtoKnVNNhnOSOTIKnd8ZfmM0e6SQCy24P70LI918hVtXrgkg0qkBVzhpsW2NhTCukBYc37hUCweKCuOmtvr_a9GL3ol0bLVo5NprTfla0FAQa1wDxEOgwaOCH7qYGdY3fWt-drX/s1600/551963_371637566201369_100000653852591_1204252_506955238_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdWyxY1JtoKnVNNhnOSOTIKnd8ZfmM0e6SQCy24P70LI918hVtXrgkg0qkBVzhpsW2NhTCukBYc37hUCweKCuOmtvr_a9GL3ol0bLVo5NprTfla0FAQa1wDxEOgwaOCH7qYGdY3fWt-drX/s320/551963_371637566201369_100000653852591_1204252_506955238_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLn3_bDZZLJkbtg1xeuCsSXFqA-U5ElLcQZhOTKraIikxEU2G-GrjVToJXCgXIPh7MayyPIJGIMpYuMfK8RckbEwxajpugMWsvzzsIVJ_0ivRtGH0OBNQs_2PFRwJ5rF1KxjLYY-c8ATJ/s1600/554608_371635506201575_100000653852591_1204239_747664744_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLn3_bDZZLJkbtg1xeuCsSXFqA-U5ElLcQZhOTKraIikxEU2G-GrjVToJXCgXIPh7MayyPIJGIMpYuMfK8RckbEwxajpugMWsvzzsIVJ_0ivRtGH0OBNQs_2PFRwJ5rF1KxjLYY-c8ATJ/s320/554608_371635506201575_100000653852591_1204239_747664744_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkm6pQUYLi8p_p-icFJhZotq8MocaJlDub6MIQL2ULxQGehD80i8BqmQzUtROcT34SXYpbrVajL_4p9Fk_Wxr0wzRBBs1QBPCgK1iZ4AHKM2-fg6CELY8HFwsKKd3F04vGe7-RGN6bgRB/s1600/557639_371635412868251_100000653852591_1204237_800910650_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEkm6pQUYLi8p_p-icFJhZotq8MocaJlDub6MIQL2ULxQGehD80i8BqmQzUtROcT34SXYpbrVajL_4p9Fk_Wxr0wzRBBs1QBPCgK1iZ4AHKM2-fg6CELY8HFwsKKd3F04vGe7-RGN6bgRB/s320/557639_371635412868251_100000653852591_1204237_800910650_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR8byZgD00UHpudHccUtlek_a_6vKsxXsjeqYQidxmWGcyvrDmsH7m0RSSajLrTPXpyG1pVTy4rQoAAD3TsQyNhUd3emJfH5fb28xbtrTUunJUhbDZMis_yZdnekp3WbVZqa0UlliBebCC/s1600/560703_371635602868232_1376639435_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR8byZgD00UHpudHccUtlek_a_6vKsxXsjeqYQidxmWGcyvrDmsH7m0RSSajLrTPXpyG1pVTy4rQoAAD3TsQyNhUd3emJfH5fb28xbtrTUunJUhbDZMis_yZdnekp3WbVZqa0UlliBebCC/s320/560703_371635602868232_1376639435_n.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6X8ykY65WshFeh8zFsbPFAwoQl9ltbyUm_8AKU0UPyPxqfS-H0YTIosqpt14Ztx73AiKr1euNVcBiK3c7qR5yL-SpQiZxaSTfKfPtzO94jxkb-YVSTJ7CqQI-7mN8POFbW3Rd6kt-H6_0/s1600/562606_371635662868226_100000653852591_1204242_1283914255_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6X8ykY65WshFeh8zFsbPFAwoQl9ltbyUm_8AKU0UPyPxqfS-H0YTIosqpt14Ztx73AiKr1euNVcBiK3c7qR5yL-SpQiZxaSTfKfPtzO94jxkb-YVSTJ7CqQI-7mN8POFbW3Rd6kt-H6_0/s320/562606_371635662868226_100000653852591_1204242_1283914255_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzPOnTQTiB1KLdyE5MJVFf2Z5VhSX3Obh6pBKZxaPM29L_vVMi8Y7NNwFHzS7O-hddvG9zoqnaoRMUJjT6vIMCL_iKvvctQqofonG0WIexLrI5W2_z-dVHfzV_gBfQ0ir9yclj46vOQ96/s1600/562823_371637722868020_100000653852591_1204256_1943822071_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOzPOnTQTiB1KLdyE5MJVFf2Z5VhSX3Obh6pBKZxaPM29L_vVMi8Y7NNwFHzS7O-hddvG9zoqnaoRMUJjT6vIMCL_iKvvctQqofonG0WIexLrI5W2_z-dVHfzV_gBfQ0ir9yclj46vOQ96/s320/562823_371637722868020_100000653852591_1204256_1943822071_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-30854414910396009322012-03-28T14:04:00.003-04:002012-03-28T14:04:53.740-04:00Werewolf Zombie Vampire LoveI'm going to write the next best-selling series that will then be made into the biggest box office series ever.<br />
<br />
Here's the premise: teenagers bitten by werewolves become zombies, but only - you guessed it - during a full moon. If they survive and feed on 10 other teenagers, they become vampires who cannot be killed without - you guessed it - a wooden stake to the brain.<br />
<br />
The only cure?<br />
<br />
You guessed it.<br />
<br />
A mother's love.<br />
<br />
Or blood sausage.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-72261613630483423162012-03-26T10:05:00.000-04:002012-03-26T13:04:33.811-04:00Educate MeWe have two children graduating from high school this June.<br />
<br />
Two.<br />
<br />
FML.<br />
<br />
Both are highly ranked in their class, have worked very hard, have diligently attended to their scholarship throughout the last 12 years of their lives. We couldn't be more proud or more profoundly awestruck by their intelligence and their talents.<br />
<br />
Both applied to an assortment of colleges and have worked since the beginning of this school year at getting applications filed, forms filled out, essays written, guidance counselors met with, visits conducted. Now, after a flood of acceptances, reality is sinking in fast.<br />
<br />
My wife and I did not sleep much last night, burdened by the realization that our children are now facing their first, real, cold, hard test of life: money does indeed make the world go 'round.<br />
<br />
Here is the infernal reality that all parents of college-bound students have had to face that we now, ourselves, are facing: despite the straight-As, the extracurricular activities and the participation in year-round sports; despite doing "all the right things" that colleges tell their students they "must" do if they want to be accepted to their school, it really all comes down to who has the money to afford it.<br />
<br />
If our daughter, to use an example, were to go to her top school, she would need to come up with about $49,000.<br />
<br />
A year.<br />
<br />
If she were to work a full-time job while attending - which many, many people have been forced to do - she could make roughly 20 grand. That's a 10-dollar-an-hour job, or roughly the average that college students make. So, that would leave a balance due of $29,000.<br />
<br />
So, you might be asking, "Why the hell does she have to go to her top school? Why can't she go to a cheaper school? Maybe her priorities are not in the right place?"<br />
<br />
My response?<br />
<br />
Why the hell does my child have to settle in the wealthiest fucking country in the world, a country in which upwards of $700 billion is spent on defense but a paltry 3 percent is given to educate its children?<br />
<br />
My children have worked as hard as any. They've made the grade. They've proven themselves to be bright and willing to do what it takes to get into the best schools. And they're being told they can't go because, well, they just don't have the green.<br />
<br />
Never mind. My countrymen are much more interested in what the Kardashians are wearing for a bra size.<br />
<br />
My apologies.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-77431204607209784322012-03-16T11:58:00.001-04:002012-03-16T11:58:04.189-04:00Friday Free-For-All<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:RelyOnVML/>
<o:AllowPNG/>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves/>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>X-NONE</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:DontVertAlignCellWithSp/>
<w:DontBreakConstrainedForcedTables/>
<w:DontVertAlignInTxbx/>
<w:Word11KerningPairs/>
<w:CachedColBalance/>
</w:Compatibility>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="267">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="59" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-qformat:yes;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin-top:0in;
mso-para-margin-right:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt;
mso-para-margin-left:0in;
line-height:115%;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:11.0pt;
font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif";
mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri;
mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast;
mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri;
mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;
mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";
mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gabrielle asked Corrine if Fallon’s baby was born yet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No,”
replied Corrine, “She has to stay inside Fallon for a while longer so she can
be healthy enough to come outside.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gabrielle said, “Why? We got her a hat.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
++++++++</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not uncommon to hear me practicing the solo that I sing
as my character in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Damn Yankees. </i>I
play the Devil and during my song I have to laugh sinisterly. <br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the car or walking around the house, I sing it over and
over</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i>I see Bonaparte a mean one</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">If ever I’ve seen one</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And Nero fiddling through that lovely blaze</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Antoinette, dainty queen, with her quaint, guillotine</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">HA HA HA HAAAAAA!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Those were the good ole’ days…</i></div>
</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From outside the bathroom the other morning I hear Bailey,
the Red, whose speech difficulties make him fairly incoherent on the best of
days, belting out:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(A very long incoherent verbal jambalaya</i> )<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />HA HA HA HAAAAAA!<br />Those DOOD
DAAAAAAYS!!!!</i></div>
</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
++++++++</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Griffin, clutching his hand and bending his wrist toward
himself, informed his mother and me “When I do this, it hurts my knee.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, I tried. And he was right. <br /> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
++++++++ </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The governor was at the high school last night conducting a <strike>blathering, ignorant bluster of nonsense </strike>town meeting at which there were maybe a hundred folks in attendance. Clearly some of them were <strike>drunken, toothless backwater sheep</strike> partisans, given the sound of applause I heard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On his way from the music room to the forum I was standing in the hallway <strike>doing nothing, lost in my own reverie of self-importance</strike> waiting for rehearsal to start. I had a coffee <strike>brandy</strike> in one hand, my other hand deep in my pocket <strike>use your imagination</strike> when, for a split second, he looked like he was going to <strike>call me a liberal, pinko, commie bastard</strike> shake my hand. Instead, he <strike>waddled like the penguin that he is</strike> kept walking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I wanna punch the Marden's commercial lady really hard in the juice pouch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
+++++++++</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before this same incident, I passed a former acquaintance who still, after six years, acts as though I shit in his coffee. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I wanna know is: <i>how in the hell did he find out? </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
+++++++++</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>My<b><i> I AM SPARTACUS!</i></b> Moment of the Week</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled up beside a woman stopped at a light in Auburn this week. I was singing Good Ole Days to myself, as I'm apt to do most every day (see above). I turned and noticed that she was looking at me, laughing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As she accelerated ahead of me at the light change, I spotted her child in the back seat pulling a used diaper from her diaper bag.<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>HA HA HA HAAAA!</i></blockquote>
I sang, my head thrown back, eyes rolled back into my head.<br />
<br />
You know. Sinisterly.<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-70168564952711493582012-03-14T11:57:00.001-04:002012-03-14T11:59:37.782-04:00Red<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvgd6fhvKGmoQ6gLhcWFxRAAIiVbyRgpIBCG1_E5ioa8QSyninf0yNIW18VYSThKE4ztn3y9qmAJAPiaKqqJNtY2QKLcBs15JoMlBmGCoZOKKUq96Y6TGmatWVI1xsDS7WVstzzaCAYz0/s1600/bailey.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNvgd6fhvKGmoQ6gLhcWFxRAAIiVbyRgpIBCG1_E5ioa8QSyninf0yNIW18VYSThKE4ztn3y9qmAJAPiaKqqJNtY2QKLcBs15JoMlBmGCoZOKKUq96Y6TGmatWVI1xsDS7WVstzzaCAYz0/s400/bailey.png" width="256" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lately, I’ve been wrong, I think. About my approach to the
Red. Bailey’s “special” nature has given rise to an assortment of challenges for
us as parents, and there isn’t a day that goes by that the latest manifestation
of his condition doesn’t send us into an emotional free-fall. I’ve never
shrugged and scratched my head over a child more than I have with this boy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the very heart of my dilemma is a single burning
question: do I, as his father, treat him differently because of his background
and his diagnoses?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it fairer to Bailey that I give him preferential
treatment? Or will that lead to a harder life for him once he is grown? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The facts of Bailey’s condition often collide with people’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">perceptions </i>of Bailey’s condition. A
perfect example is how school administrators took his early diagnosis of mental
retardation and ran with it, opting to throw him exclusively into a classroom
with children who were clearly MR. In this manner, Bailey started school – his very
introduction to learning – by modeling children who were fed, who could not
speak at all, and who had to be changed. After we met him for the first time,
on the drive home, I turned to Corrine as I drove and said “There’s no way that
boy is retarded.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As it turned out, we were right. We advocated for his
inclusion in mainstream classrooms where he could be among children his own
age. And the immediate effect was like watching a hatching chrysalis.
Everything about Bailey grew: his vocabulary, his confidence, his sociability.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lately, however, he’s regressed, the absolute reasons for
which escape us. We have our suspicions and we’re taking steps to eliminate
certain elements from his life that seem to be the cause of distress for him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it doesn’t resolve a lingering doubt that I have about
my parenting approach to him. I am tough on Bailey. I enforce the same kinds of
restrictions on him that I do his younger siblings. I can be harsh at times,
even. Gabrielle and Griffin respond to
this. They learn that there are consequences to poor behavior and (for the most
part) learn from the experience.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But they also respond to my love, too. As most children will
do, they both soon forget a particularly harsh lesson learned, and are climbing
up into my lap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With Bailey, not so much. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He repeats the same offenses again and again, and creates
all new kinds of ways to act out. Meanwhile, my overtures of kindness and love waft
by him like a kind of ineffectual breeze.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So maybe it’s time that I give in and surrender to the
notion that while he is not retarded, he certainly is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">different</i>. That his type of personality, combined with the mess of
jumbled history he has been forced to endure, requires a separate plan for him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am not afraid to say I have failed, or that I am wrong. I
am afraid of the dark, however. And right now, it’s suffocating me.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-41441455963931145302012-03-12T16:52:00.001-04:002012-03-12T16:52:41.237-04:00ClownI used to write a column for a newspaper I worked for, back along. In it I indulged readers in an obviously exaggerated accounting of my life, much of which had to do with members of my family.<br />
<br />
Now, let me just say that I readily admit that I tread along the edge of a knife. While what I wrote certainly caused some in my family to blush, I was always cognizant of feelings and privacy and the such, so I deliberately did two things: I stretched the truth to the limits of its elasticity and I made sure I said nothing that would be hurtful, mean, or degrading.<br />
<br />
It was, after all, a column of humor. Please insert quotations around <i>humor</i> if you've read these past columns and now find the use of that word to be a dubious claim.<br />
<br />
Here's a quick life lesson. I wrote from a desire to talk about my life, but found that I could not be honest. Not really. Think of those who use humor as a way to deflect. This was a lot like that. There was no way in hell I was going to wrote "seriously" about my life the way I (secretly) wanted. The serious parts stayed buried in the richest literary soil from which healthy stories could be grown.<br />
<br />
I danced in that garden wearing a big red nose and a pair of fat shoes.<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-83360685771994306722012-03-11T10:23:00.000-04:002012-03-11T10:25:06.379-04:00CriticsLately I've been thinking about writing again, for the first time in awhile. Discouragement about the value and quality of my work means that I've excluded myself from continuing. I've given myself the excuse of not soldiering on because __________ and because of _____________ which logically led to _____________...<br />
<br />
<i>ad infinitum</i><br />
<br />
There's a way to work through this, I know it. I can't <i>not </i>write. I've established that by the sleeplessness, the constant nagging desire to be writing. So that means I <i>have</i> to write. Which means I <i>have </i>to find a way through this equally persistent nagging self-doubt.<br />
<br />
I read projects of mine that are in various stages of completion and I'm encouraged by how strong the writing is. There is a kernel of value there, I just need to pick a project and plunge in.<br />
<br />
I feel like the petulant child in constant search for validation.<br />
<br />
Lately, I've been involved in a local production of <i>Damn Yankees</i> and I may have stumbled onto the solution to my writing doubts.<br />
<br />
If you've ever performed before a live audience you know how harrowing it can be. Before you, from your perspective, is a room filled with critics. People naturally are grading your performance. Current and wannabe actors sitting in rows of theater seating who are looking up and thinking "I would do that differently" or "He's flat" or "He's rushing his lines."<br />
<br />
The actor knows this. The solution is to focus on a fixed point at the back of the room and project to it. In this way you acknowledge there is an out-of-focus blob of people there and that's it.<br />
<br />
So it must be for the writer, I believe. The potential reader is the envious wannabe, let's say. The potential readers are all those others who you know can turn a better phrase, craft a better story. By focusing on him or her, you're giving credence to your own delusional assumption that they are reading your material and ripping you apart. Instead, I need to focus at the back of the room. A fixed point that blurs the reader, and therefore diminishes their importance while not completely eliminating them from the equation. (Let's face it, we <i>need </i>the audience to feel that edge of fear that propels us on. As it goes with writing.)<br />
<br />
I do believe in the quality of my writing. I think it has a place somewhere, that there are readers who take from it something of value. And I acknowledge at the same time that there are people known to me and unknown who are superior writers.<br />
<br />
I applaud them here, and then put them out of focus.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-21135461907997030842012-03-09T08:29:00.000-05:002012-03-09T08:29:01.869-05:00Equate ThisOf late, I have been doing a lot of math.<br />
<br />
My oldest announced recently that she is expecting in July, therefore making me a grandfather for the first time.<br />
<br />
There's that. Please add five years to my age.<br />
<br />
I turned 44 last Saturday.<br />
<br />
There's that, as well. That's another year added (duh).<br />
<br />
My oldest son and oldest step-daughter are both graduating high school in two months, each finishing in the top 10 percent of their class, and each headed to college in September.<br />
<br />
There's that, too. (Five more years there)<br />
<br />
My wife began taking college classes to become a certified midwife, fulfilling a dream she's had since before her first marriage.<br />
<br />
Anyone I know who decides to follow a dream takes 5 years off my age. It's a pride thing. It makes the heart feel a little younger.<br />
<br />
The girl we've been foster-parenting will more than likely be reunified with her mother in a couple months. I can't express to you here what my heart says about this other than to equate it to how I felt when I watched E.T. die while Elliot sobbed.<br />
<br />
I fear there will be no magical bicycle ride to make it all better. For her sake, I hope I'm wrong. With all humility I can say that what we give her is better. There. I said it.<br />
<br />
This will age me by ten years, easily.<br />
<br />
I'm in my local community musical <i>Damn Yankees</i>, which premieres in three weeks. I play Applegate, a.k.a "The Devil." I love the part. I get to sing a solo with a walking cane and just enough soft shoe choreography to make me not look moronic. I love being back on stage. I love being Satan. What does that say about me?<br />
<br />
Doing what you love for no other reason: that's five years back for me.<br />
<br />
My wife and I have decided that our adopted son, Bailey, will no longer be allowed to visit his biological aunt. It seems she's been telling him stories about how we "stole" him from his real mother (whom he's never met). Not to mention the fact that each time he visits her he comes back a behavioral miscreant who needs to be reprogrammed to act human again.<br />
<br />
This is a wash. On the one hand, we're closing the door on the last remaining biological family member who ever showed love for the boy. On the other hand, we're closing the door on access to a part of his life that, according to his physician and therapist, causes him more regression and confusion than he can handle. <br />
<br />
I went ahead and spent a goodly amount of cash for a home digital recording studio so that I can begin composing music. I haven't done this for nearly 20 years.<br />
<br />
Doing something everyone else thinks is irrational: give me back five years.<br />
<br />
My oldest son, for his 18th birthday, decided to get a tattoo.<br />
<br />
Add five.<br />
<br />
The tattoo turned out to be the title of my first (and so far only) published book. He had it done in a graduated blue on his arm. It looks fucking awesome, man.<br />
<br />
That's 10 back for me. <br />
<br />
Recently my two youngest, in the span of ten minutes of each other, hugged me and said they loved me, something I hope I never get used to because the surprise of it is like finding a one-hundred-dollar bill in a back pocket just when you need it most.<br />
<br />
With everything I perceive to not have, I realize I have in abundance that which I need.<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-34051867765396442682012-03-08T16:24:00.001-05:002012-03-08T16:24:31.989-05:00Getting back to thingsIt's been too long.<br />
<br />
Time to reconnect, to get back to the thing I love most, and that's writing.<br />
<br />
This is a small step, but a step nonetheless....Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-77316247848156586912010-05-11T08:31:00.000-04:002010-05-11T08:31:10.856-04:00Griff, Gab & B<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLt0cBKgU9SOHsLE-EgUtnbiqxGF_op7rk87gERWP2fMYW1kUNZ8OjGhx-k9ay8yQtfGj6UxsIQ1ppOjB1OcC2UbuyoRKoAy2WmiUKxm4ULnpZ6qcmiG10G-Vm_B-PhLCtBAchJVHgwFr/s1600/gab_griff_bailey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcLt0cBKgU9SOHsLE-EgUtnbiqxGF_op7rk87gERWP2fMYW1kUNZ8OjGhx-k9ay8yQtfGj6UxsIQ1ppOjB1OcC2UbuyoRKoAy2WmiUKxm4ULnpZ6qcmiG10G-Vm_B-PhLCtBAchJVHgwFr/s320/gab_griff_bailey.jpg" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-1201343983347677882010-04-30T14:17:00.000-04:002010-04-30T14:24:51.054-04:00Before The JudgeWe took Bailey to court Thursday, as part of a required hearing related to his case. It was not related to the adoption process but rather just another stop in the legal process for a neglected child. The state mandates that the Department of Health and Human Services meet on a regular basis with the court system to ensure he is getting adequate care at the hands of the state, who is legally his guardian.<br />
<br />
Bailey can say he knows more about legal proceedings than the far majority of 6-year-olds he meets. Not that he would say anything, or that he even understood where he was. He was merely enamored with the district attorney's bow tie. Bailey has a neck tie and wears it all the time. The bow tie was, to Bailey, the best friggin thing he's ever seen, and insisted we buy him one.<br />
<br />
Bailey wore a dress shirt beneath a sweater, a pair of blue jeans, and his favorite shoes, the ones he always puts on the wrong feet in the mad rush before leaving, even if he's the only one in a mad rush to leave. Corrine cut his hair a few weeks back, trimming away the hedge-like scramble of red hair from his ears and neck and eyes. Whereas before he looked hip, modern and cute, he traded up for handsome.<br />
<br />
<br />
We drove to Augusta, to the district court office building that resembles somewhere you'd pay your phone bill. Nothing austere or courtly about it, actually. (As a reporter I used to cover criminal and civil courts and the buildings I entered were grand, gothic-looking structures that I was certain were built that way to make criminals pee themselves.)<br />
<br />
We were met there by Bailey's ad litem, Bailey's case worker, the DA/bow tie man. We were led down the center aisle of the court room and directed to sit in the gallery in a pew. In fact, the entire room had a churchy feeling to it. The judge's dias was raised like a pulpit. The judge wore a flowing robe. I prayed that I didn't have to go pee. Corrine and I sat on either side of our red-head, to snatch him if he made like he was going to rush the judge. Or go for the bailiff's gun. Both of which are quite possible with Bailey. Fools may rush in. Bailey sprints like a bastard, at everything. Food, children, tractors, parades, beds, chickens.<br />
<br />
The judge entered and we were commanded to rise, and Bailey obeyed. The judge then commanded us to be seated, and Bailey obeyed. And then Bailey announced his revelation that the judge had a "real tie" (not a bow tie like the DA.) Thank God Bailey doesn't speak English. Although it did sound like "He's a Guy!" not "He's got a tie!"<br />
<br />
Either way, the judge did not hear him, or chose to not hear him, which judges are apt to do. I once covered a case in which a defendant called the entire proceeding a "shit storm" and the judge didn't even blink, showing the kind of restraint I am famously not known for. I would have convicted him on the spot.<br />
<br />
Corrine was as nervous as I was, I think. Nervous that Bailey would act up, or that the case worker would suddenly say he was no longer available to adopt, or that the judge was going to know the registration on our van was six months expired and would arrest us. Hey, they hold sway for a reason. They're judges. Come on.<br />
<br />
Bailey did not act up. In fact, the judge began by commending us for taking Bailey in. I got all choked up. I got all choked up even before that, when he looked up from his bench at us and said "Mr. and Mrs. Turner?" We've NEVER been called that before. It's always "Jesus Christ, it's you guys" or "Here comes trouble."<br />
<br />
But he did, on the record, commend us. And he then spoke briefly with Bailey, asking if he was in school "Aye!" and in what grade "Aye?" and if he liked school "Aye!" Bailey, in case you missed it, is an Irish pirate. The judge didn't seem to care, either. Irish pirates apparently are not illegal in Maine. Maybe because they only plunder their noses. Well, OUR Irish pirate does anyway. And boy he finds gold EVERY TIME.<br />
<br />
And so, Bailey got high marks for courtroom behavior. The judge didn't even have to use his gavel on him (which I was disappointed about actually. A judge HAS to use his gavel, doesn't he?)<br />
<br />
But in reality, I could not help but feel very sad at the whole ordeal. Bailey will probably never know what he has gone through. Our mission in life is to do our best to blunt the boy's bitter past, hoping that the neglect he suffered through becomes so distant that any thought he has of it feels more like a bad dream. Yes, he is paying for the sins of his biologicals, as we call them. He can't speak, for starters. Well, not very well, anyway, but we're working on that too. But the fact that he has to go to court every so often means someone somewhere really fucked up big time. These meetings before a judge are just perfunctory really, to make sure Bailey is getting what he did not get. That he is no longer in the situation that he found himself when he was an infant: abandoned, abused, neglected.<br />
<br />
The levity of this was brought home with the judge's parting words. He thanked us for making his day. We were his first case, and to be able to jot in the case file that Bailey was moving ahead with "good people" meant that in short time he could stamp "DISMISSED" on the file. An ironic word, if you think about it. The final legal stamp that this boy gets also sums up the very reason he was brought to court four years ago in the first place. He had been dismissed then, too, by his mother. Back then, the word meant abandonment, pain, and confusion.<br />
<br />
Now, the word means inclusion, love, and hope.<br />
<br />
PS: When the judge first read the docket number, he also read Bailey's full legal name, his biological name, the one he hates. He shouted "Bailey Turner!"<br />
<br />
And he didn't even get arrested. Irish pirates rule.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-63420552668069627532010-04-22T09:13:00.000-04:002010-04-22T10:13:44.059-04:00Bailey<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">If all goes as planned, we will go before a judge on or around May 23, and officially Bailey will become our son.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Not a small thing, to be sure. A heady responsibility, in fact. To take into our home someone else's child, and legally make him our own. And while he has been living with us since last November, and therefore already seems like "our" son, to make it official is scary. We snip the ties he has to the State on that day. There is no turning back. There's no "official" guardian in some 10x10 office in Augusta to whom we can turn and seek refuge if something goes wrong.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">He will become dependent on us for all things. Including our resolve to raise him as we do our other children: with love and affection, but with a mind to discipline.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Which brings up an interesting conundrum. In the last six months, the prescribed time frame required of us, under state rules, to house Bailey, we have noticed a disturbing trend. Because of Bailey's history, of abuse and neglect, the tendency of some is to over-compensate. He is showered with affection and gifts from a biological aunt, for example. He is coddled by others when, in the same breath, our other children are disciplined. He is doted on and taken places, given things, while his two younger siblings (our two youngest children) are ignored.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I don't exaggerate. Bailey very quickly, upon entering our home, became a pet, not a boy who needed a family. He was celebrated, elevated, purred over. To his detriment. And to the detriment of our efforts at creating a parent-child relationship with him. Like any child, Bailey saw this treatment as being natural, and therefore expected it. And when he would return to us from, say, his biological aunt's or from one of our own family member's home, he expected the same treatment from us.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">We don't praise Bailey more than the others, we don't expect less of him because of his past. We have deliberately treated Bailey as if he took his first breath with us. He is disciplined when he does wrong, and he is praised when he does well. (He does many things well. In fact, he does many things experts claimed he would never do...)</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
So Corrine and I, when we put Bailey in timeout for whacking Griffin, or for stealing keys from Corrine's purse, feel like bad parents. There is a part of us that flinches when we have to scold Bailey, because we-more than any others in our family-know his history. We know what he has gone through. And there is that moment's hesitation when we wonder if we are contributing to a long history of "abuse."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Bailey, we have found, is very much a typical 6-year-old boy. He can be mischievous, curious, delightful, moody, exuberant, tired, excitable, stubborn, and introspective. But he is extremely loving. He is not retarded (as his diagnosis reported), he is not incapable of learning at his age level (as his diagnosis reported) he is not unable to play well with "normal" kids (as was reported), he thrives in an assortment of educational settings (contrary to what was reported).</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Bailey is a boy. With a past. But that is the past. And while it certainly has affected his present, it has not defined him. To a person, Bailey has made phenomenal progress since being placed with us. The most-often heard remark from state officials, case workers, former teachers, and those who have worked with him, is "Wow. He's doing so much better..."</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Bailey has needed structure, not gifts. He has needed direction, not a parade of well-meaning adults treating him like a broken toy.</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">In a month he becomes Bailey Turner, legally. This is the day he ceases to be a statistic, or bound to his past, or treated like anything other than a 6 year old boy with a truly caring family. Within the fold, not above it.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-37681486044360523962010-04-20T18:32:00.000-04:002010-04-20T18:32:42.311-04:002013<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"></span><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">At the end of college, in the spring of 2013 (if all goes as planned), I will have earned a BFA in Creative Writing and a BA in Philosophy. And no job prospects. But I'm not going to college to get a job, as odd as that may sound. I intended on sharpening my skills as a critical thinker and a creative writer. Writing is my job now and will be then.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">But, I need to make money too. That's the reality. If I write the next Great American Whatever, then a "job" won't be necessary. But I don't write with that in mind. It would stifle me more than I'm already stifled creatively. It's all I would focus on. I would be trying to find the commercial angle to my ideas.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">So I've decided to think seriously about teaching. Wow that sounded like "settling."</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Okay. Teaching is something my father did for 40 years. Well, teaching that led to becoming a principal then a curriculum director. Anyway, my point is, I respect teachers and teaching. I don't mean to make it sound like I'm considering it professionally as a "fall back" like it's some sort of menial task. Like falling back on chocolate when you've run out of vanilla ice cream.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">It would be a challenge. Especially at 45 when the great majority of teachers would be in their early 20s. I would be old enough to be their father, and old enough to be my students' grandfather. If I taught kindergarten I mean.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I would teach at the secondary level. Probably English. Or "Philosophical creative writing" given my major.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I don't know. I'm just babbling at this point. I've put the idea on the menu. As an option. We'll see.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-27441663537942412242010-04-19T09:54:00.000-04:002010-04-19T09:54:23.295-04:00Back To It<span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Forgive me Father. It's been three months since my last blogfession.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I ventured out here again after several weeks and noticed my last post was about my daughter's birthday, on January 16th!</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ouch. Boy have I been lazy with the whole blog thing. My excuse? Life, I suppose. Full-time college, adopting Bailey, Fallon is graduating in June, Corrine rescued four horses and has turned our back yard into a paddock, I turned 42, I was in a play with Corrine...</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Among others.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Hardly worth skipping my blog duties, I know.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Speaking of being in a play...</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvo_LrWXQoM_VzDvvNbOJlHcpxUqjkOYzTnEyFuZbcUJq3E1bS-JD5-eQH2VatVHYIF2Z_vtf1FKPnlXXlKeBjMRB0iFzCT0NmSSovfVmAZ99sC5G2isGbx8hSXuNBro9JwrrVBroJW5u/s1600/corrine_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPvo_LrWXQoM_VzDvvNbOJlHcpxUqjkOYzTnEyFuZbcUJq3E1bS-JD5-eQH2VatVHYIF2Z_vtf1FKPnlXXlKeBjMRB0iFzCT0NmSSovfVmAZ99sC5G2isGbx8hSXuNBro9JwrrVBroJW5u/s320/corrine_2.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;">Corrine and I auditioned for Enchanted April and both got parts. The show ended yesterday afternoon and was a fantastic experience. From beginning to end, a wonderful excursion away from the busy-ness of our daily lives. The last time we spent time on stage was in 2005. It was time to get back on.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Actually, I did not want to audition. School was keeping me busy. I was traveling an hour to school each morning and an hour back in the afternoon. I had homework each night. The last thing I needed was to crowd it with nightly rehearsals.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I took Corrine to auditions and the second I walked in the door, the director implored me to audition as well, and I did. I'm a sucker for theater. I couldn't pass it up, despite feeling very uneasy about just how impossible it would be to do a show on top of everything else.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">I'm glad I did. Working with Corrine was what I needed I think. Well, I <i>know</i>. To be transported away from our lives just for a few hours a week has had a healing effect I think. We both have lamented all winter the fact that we don't get time together.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">What was amazing about the show, however, was just how wonderful a job Corrine did. This was her first lead role, one she shared with another actress equally (it's a show about how these two English women, in dying marriages, conspire to vacation in Italy).</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpz5ULfDx7Lou-ccvpXHg4Vrnsignn1KGWIGtrNDGevix-yRgTS-ahItkwhB8-O6sIeyw4DaPKoUsFMJHlIpWJHF5BZOHN2bBCxNBpGGZKI5qjhQjbAFV66FsG2w8Ks3W_RXHub1IgWH0/s1600/corrine_9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpz5ULfDx7Lou-ccvpXHg4Vrnsignn1KGWIGtrNDGevix-yRgTS-ahItkwhB8-O6sIeyw4DaPKoUsFMJHlIpWJHF5BZOHN2bBCxNBpGGZKI5qjhQjbAFV66FsG2w8Ks3W_RXHub1IgWH0/s320/corrine_9.jpg" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Corrine was nervous from the beginning about such an enormous role. She was on stage for the majority of the show, and she nailed the part. I was and am proud of her. The recognition she has received for her portrayal of "Rose" was well-deserved.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Now, it's back to Earth. School ends in less than a month. I have the summer off, hopefully to get back to writing. I look forward to it. But I will miss my nights with Corrine. I guess we'll just have to conspire to escape more often. Just her and me.</span></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-9795853291293612882010-01-16T06:26:00.000-05:002010-04-19T08:28:19.963-04:00She turns 18 today<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><b>Fallon Paige Turner</b><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">18 Years Old Today</span><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNY26KzqzkS43j4lg8drphGt4WHiWq5lOSh2-r0gWAewxPMURFW9ydKHdUNoPGHyLk92d5enQ1Spi0bolmXtQPd7qWyd6vgTy2rVdBGhgtGubTAdhzhNzbG5-149aoWLyDnMaA-l_dn84/s1600-h/fallon_18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNY26KzqzkS43j4lg8drphGt4WHiWq5lOSh2-r0gWAewxPMURFW9ydKHdUNoPGHyLk92d5enQ1Spi0bolmXtQPd7qWyd6vgTy2rVdBGhgtGubTAdhzhNzbG5-149aoWLyDnMaA-l_dn84/s640/fallon_18.jpg" /><br /></a><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqCVUyisGqZKqEnwO2Fj4Gyh454iWLQNtsZY0C_hbfgQxKJR2tGJszlT4ricWfKMy1m68F6dyW_fPZgx5Po0bdb2rfdkWE1XFyEC66riToHaGliMVvYixTeT9d7wQPa2hDh7VougSvto/s1600-h/fallon_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEqCVUyisGqZKqEnwO2Fj4Gyh454iWLQNtsZY0C_hbfgQxKJR2tGJszlT4ricWfKMy1m68F6dyW_fPZgx5Po0bdb2rfdkWE1XFyEC66riToHaGliMVvYixTeT9d7wQPa2hDh7VougSvto/s640/fallon_2.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvHBF_8U_IKXruOg63JXeVRzVa7UWkMjeCIGmIQQzJU0IIDJOFg25oXoxRbZPLA_-lQVM_uah1CAGk4rfGxxhdPXxpodCLIvI5lspjkTJ5r2KS5-l4mH5FV3jvv6pJiW3hhyphenhyphenlEq-PtjGw/s1600-h/fallon_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvHBF_8U_IKXruOg63JXeVRzVa7UWkMjeCIGmIQQzJU0IIDJOFg25oXoxRbZPLA_-lQVM_uah1CAGk4rfGxxhdPXxpodCLIvI5lspjkTJ5r2KS5-l4mH5FV3jvv6pJiW3hhyphenhyphenlEq-PtjGw/s640/fallon_1.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwGy8HDnZtMen675P6tBkpj2YJgCe7MTBQxewIeh_9vZx7Wxl3KWUsiuX-xyT0c7uwwfYPl1Ft6GfiRRW4ctQyXEYWEcMDazTQ_IvSvpgft2drvCA2Idr6Oaj99L_-6vwNCYFtBd-Nmo/s1600-h/fallon_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhwGy8HDnZtMen675P6tBkpj2YJgCe7MTBQxewIeh_9vZx7Wxl3KWUsiuX-xyT0c7uwwfYPl1Ft6GfiRRW4ctQyXEYWEcMDazTQ_IvSvpgft2drvCA2Idr6Oaj99L_-6vwNCYFtBd-Nmo/s640/fallon_3.jpg" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvbhNwLaHD0nI3jyd4qYfDRhWiNy0dSUR_0kgGyH52nWYK4moyoslGxEbxXYV46NPfya_uMnKu08Yt7cY8r0cXkDpuXsrihNe3mjx4TQwdI9MJQO95DE9Itegqf8r9fbln_-iTVpUdHM/s1600-h/fallon_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvbhNwLaHD0nI3jyd4qYfDRhWiNy0dSUR_0kgGyH52nWYK4moyoslGxEbxXYV46NPfya_uMnKu08Yt7cY8r0cXkDpuXsrihNe3mjx4TQwdI9MJQO95DE9Itegqf8r9fbln_-iTVpUdHM/s640/fallon_12.jpg" /></a><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwAnRJcFboae9127xMUJzgE_Fbuf4IzlVilAbkRMRUf0XEw_ms-QoMnvxTWE-_Ey3BuepcUd6HGOzwVzzF19rDFYtGXD_VoPjBgZkISr8aSCiK7oUn4wpCiyPjcKY5EFD3cQU_wXvgjjc/s1600-h/fallon_15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwAnRJcFboae9127xMUJzgE_Fbuf4IzlVilAbkRMRUf0XEw_ms-QoMnvxTWE-_Ey3BuepcUd6HGOzwVzzF19rDFYtGXD_VoPjBgZkISr8aSCiK7oUn4wpCiyPjcKY5EFD3cQU_wXvgjjc/s640/fallon_15.jpg" /></a><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-39144269480523530142010-01-05T11:38:00.000-05:002010-04-19T08:28:19.973-04:00Little Brother, Welder Be<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><i>For Alice, to her brother</i><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHmVI2wLWjSuPQ9tvxhGj-9I_BwZLaDE6oQ2eMtk4OIASkOitIYHrFdoBzEPIYR3ZkJMQYUMgpPsjCIYxmKxCItuhaRnJXp7x1orl9kys5tPOVVbrWOnQTbQaOT0Y-ynKMVtuYRDLMhs/s1600-h/shelly_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicHmVI2wLWjSuPQ9tvxhGj-9I_BwZLaDE6oQ2eMtk4OIASkOitIYHrFdoBzEPIYR3ZkJMQYUMgpPsjCIYxmKxCItuhaRnJXp7x1orl9kys5tPOVVbrWOnQTbQaOT0Y-ynKMVtuYRDLMhs/s640/shelly_3.jpg" /></a><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;">Little brother, welder be<br />Fire your torch<br />Just for me<br /><br />Heat the shop and strike the hammer<br />Cut a form<br />And raise a clamor<br /><br />No one joined a seam like you<br />So one more time<br />There's work to do<br /><br />Little brother, sailor be<br />Just a kid<br />When sent to sea<br /><br />Around the world you went and back<br />Learned a trade<br />A cracker jack<br /><br />Returned a man, firm and lean<br />Torch in hand<br />And acetylene<br /><br />Little brother, welder be<br />Ply your trade<br />Again for me<br /><br />Weld a shape from a sheet of metal<br />The form of a box<br />Then let it settle<br /><br />Then you and I will climb inside<br />Lock it shut<br />So we can hide<br /><br />Some will say your life was wasted<br />Better served<br />If other fruits tasted<br /><br />A banker, a king, a richer man<br />They would insist<br />But they misunderstand<br /><br />That my brother, you see<br />Was richest when<br />A little welder, he<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-43327714007918900332010-01-04T08:27:00.000-05:002010-04-19T08:28:19.983-04:00Beware the Shit Spreaders<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">How can I measure writing progress? I try not to, to be honest, because I then become inevitably obsessed with volume which is something I despise. It goes back to my days as a newspaper reporter.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I was often criticized by newspaper editors for not producing x-amount of news copy per week. Their argument: the news "hole" had to be filled and I had to contribute my share. I earned a paycheck, I was told, for the number of column inches I spat out each week. I was chronically below the mark, and was called into my editor's offices frequently. I had one such editor say I wasn't a "self-starter". Another said I was a "good writer" but a poor reporter.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I would agree with the latter. In fact, I once got into an argument with a fellow reporter who had just been hired and whose weekly output soon became the newspaper's benchmark for success and against which all reporters were measured. This guy wrote five to six stories a day. He was the immediate darling of the paper.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">At a conference one weekend we all sat around the lunch table chatting about - what else - the news. He continually tried bringing the conversation around to the latest glowing remarks he received from our editors about the fine job he was doing. (He was a notorious self-aggrandizer) We ignored him. At least, we tried. But after awhile, you just can't ignore a pile of dog shit sitting in front of you.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">"I'm surprised the guy before me complained of nothing to write about," the pile said. "It's really his own fault he got fired. He just wasn't a self-starter."<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Now, the rest of us around the table liked the former reporter covering the northern beat. He was a good kid, smart, fun to hang around. His firing had shaken us all up.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The pile had crossed a line.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">"I mean, come on. How hard is it to produce three stories a day up there? I do five in my sleep," he said.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">"And it reads like it, too," I quipped.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">"Excuse me?"<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">"You heard me," I said. "Your stories read like you wrote them in your sleep."<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">"This coming from the guy with the worst production in the entire newspaper," Mr. Pile said, smugly. Apparently the editors had been busy sharing their frustration with me to anyone who would listen, and Pile thought he had something on me.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Now, before I say anything else, let me be clear. I don't have an overinflated view of myself as a writer. I believe I was a solid reporter. I was not prolific, and I was not the best writer either. <a href="http://www.patriotsdaily.com/author/dan/">(Read Dan Snapp's column here. I worked with him at a newspaper and I feel he's the best writer I've worked with.)</a><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I've moved to fiction and feel the same way: I've got talent, but I'm not the best. I stopped trying to be the best when I realized that it's about improving yourself, and not a competition. <br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">So, back to the Pile.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The Pile was one of those types of reporters who bought into the notion that more was better, and therefore measured ability on the amount of words he wrote, not on the quality. He was the type who would go to selectmen's meetings and squeeze five stories from it when one average-sized story would suffice. His articles were about road salt purchasing or how to deal with mailbox vandalism or where to put the new public ice rink. Important to about a hundred readers, but not worthy of five anemic, cliche-dripping articles.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I call these types of reporters "shit spreaders" because they're obviously trying to fill a daily quota, not trying to write quality stories people can really benefit from. I covered a selectmen's meeting once in which an hour was spent arguing about a local farmer's manure-spreading activities. The selectmen used the term 'shit-spreader' no fewer than 20 times. It was the biggest waste of an hour of my life. My editors insisted I write the story separately, however, to my utter astonishment. I kept the term shit-spreader in the article, out of protest, forcing the editor to have to read every word so that the profanity didn't make it into print.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Since then, any article I read about the mundane, the inane, the insanely irrelevant, I call a shit-spreader. A story written to fill a quota. Read your local paper. I know you know what I'm talking about.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">So back to Pile. He was a real shit-spreader. He wrote 20 to 30 articles a week, and maybe one or two were legitimately worthy of print.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">So what does this have to do with my writing today?<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Well, I've noticed I keep falling into the habit of checking my daily output as some sort of indication of how well I am doing. It gets me down, I become dejected, and inevitably depressed.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I need to stop shit-spreading. Writing to meet a 5-page quota, because when I re-read those five pages, they really stink. But when I go over the half-page that I struggled to produce, it's flawed, but it rings true.<br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I can fix flawed. I cannot do anything with a pile of shit except flush it. <br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-2106270605047384242010-01-01T09:42:00.000-05:002010-04-19T08:28:19.994-04:00A New BlogTo change the pace, and do something entirely different...<br /><br /><a href="http://allthatsheis.blogspot.com/">http://allthatsheis.blogspot.com/</a><br /><br /><br />Come over, become a member, comment if you'd like.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-35789369048789963692009-11-26T09:46:00.000-05:002010-04-19T08:28:20.005-04:00Our Seven Wonders: Truly Thankful, Truly Blessed<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQ_aJ5Oacy5wiwt6tKBCvdAtTFaL7QQTBpaUNIAK1KKlNWzXnOc1Vh9C0tjgfO0c0qFL_LQl0nuRoikRjqjnR0-t5RHXgrWkwYx7J7-8o9Oxk_6pqxYU7JmIpz4wjgaOsFPah9vlzW2I/s1600/fallon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 392px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfQ_aJ5Oacy5wiwt6tKBCvdAtTFaL7QQTBpaUNIAK1KKlNWzXnOc1Vh9C0tjgfO0c0qFL_LQl0nuRoikRjqjnR0-t5RHXgrWkwYx7J7-8o9Oxk_6pqxYU7JmIpz4wjgaOsFPah9vlzW2I/s400/fallon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408424403132126578" border="0" /></a>Fallon Paige<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUKQCfglHUivocYs-49jTA0o2OiL1cHXjGU69cv7CsoDSSA-MDNKo7n4_ZfpHl-fxa7vI65-pLnl93dmrFxrgu9mTBYdYuoq1W5OrYojD5vFRSbIVqoBkCx6OBzTJCTq5juGI8JZcW0o/s1600/harrison.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 276px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtUKQCfglHUivocYs-49jTA0o2OiL1cHXjGU69cv7CsoDSSA-MDNKo7n4_ZfpHl-fxa7vI65-pLnl93dmrFxrgu9mTBYdYuoq1W5OrYojD5vFRSbIVqoBkCx6OBzTJCTq5juGI8JZcW0o/s400/harrison.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408424303835304674" border="0" /></a>Harrison Scott<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwuu20P_jx1KuJJHtwt10QyzyaxJYwTBTxL8lFM9cQrmNOstL1rWCnisJ5IoDjSSzk-1TSv851eN2WL-oQFCKDNbH1WPEfj96SLJCIMHh1cB3cWq6h4O-mgoNacfaUL6DN13fJqMZBAts/s1600/alyssa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 390px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwuu20P_jx1KuJJHtwt10QyzyaxJYwTBTxL8lFM9cQrmNOstL1rWCnisJ5IoDjSSzk-1TSv851eN2WL-oQFCKDNbH1WPEfj96SLJCIMHh1cB3cWq6h4O-mgoNacfaUL6DN13fJqMZBAts/s400/alyssa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408424239186884434" border="0" /></a>Alyssa Jean<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4rixyjq9gAwtR_m_8aG5EtBeOepAM-t3OJxqb1Dbub6XbLDu1eQPZNMhMBKuOBstDKr7-u0WasOyJ3x-NaJha5lmJVtf0aebRrsmCBJTSMlwZdkNOO6F04imGDN2VFnJ2ujvgpkakqM/s1600/ty.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN4rixyjq9gAwtR_m_8aG5EtBeOepAM-t3OJxqb1Dbub6XbLDu1eQPZNMhMBKuOBstDKr7-u0WasOyJ3x-NaJha5lmJVtf0aebRrsmCBJTSMlwZdkNOO6F04imGDN2VFnJ2ujvgpkakqM/s400/ty.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408424167114599826" border="0" /></a>Ty Gabriel<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmx0XxEG9oK-timJjWuXojVNX7Af_XaiMnPwN8dLkyZtkM4etmvbkYYGz7Ua2Ke-aYFYkrHJIxUrQ1GlWCDt7eaGEaqugO9mGDUXUqpXWBdAAH-PRmc0I7aCSnx6WVChuiS1K3zT4kBO4/s1600/bailey.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 302px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmx0XxEG9oK-timJjWuXojVNX7Af_XaiMnPwN8dLkyZtkM4etmvbkYYGz7Ua2Ke-aYFYkrHJIxUrQ1GlWCDt7eaGEaqugO9mGDUXUqpXWBdAAH-PRmc0I7aCSnx6WVChuiS1K3zT4kBO4/s400/bailey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408424094740341218" border="0" /></a>Bailey Orrin<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiVqmbHUW-2w3npTJx6UfX1e9hvNiTL0xt2XYuUZzzLAcVAyrvIqDHRlcU3I0LkDvwMrypI5xgXfX0EqcOuRqWKCbSoBqnNyny4izLDQBlV3aRSnLRdaKSQA0v3jvqJnQRof_zRJUxFU/s1600/gabi.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimiVqmbHUW-2w3npTJx6UfX1e9hvNiTL0xt2XYuUZzzLAcVAyrvIqDHRlcU3I0LkDvwMrypI5xgXfX0EqcOuRqWKCbSoBqnNyny4izLDQBlV3aRSnLRdaKSQA0v3jvqJnQRof_zRJUxFU/s400/gabi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408424019834911282" border="0" /></a>Gabrielle Marrae<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9MDCnKsiTFDc7GrfbqHReXn8HE5Uh5gwUuu8tvz4XdjVM1-Vix_05lNo18XLTyiGSywpY4yxkMesa2inxDCMFwd-UMmN21kNZ-MCHr9xnhBWQ-iyOJRaDiyPbuyEmdJfLYx1Cuy8Po0/s1600/griff.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF9MDCnKsiTFDc7GrfbqHReXn8HE5Uh5gwUuu8tvz4XdjVM1-Vix_05lNo18XLTyiGSywpY4yxkMesa2inxDCMFwd-UMmN21kNZ-MCHr9xnhBWQ-iyOJRaDiyPbuyEmdJfLYx1Cuy8Po0/s400/griff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408423950325014290" border="0" /></a>Griffin Alan Kent</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-65049307338225685312009-11-22T14:23:00.000-05:002010-04-19T08:28:20.015-04:00Meet Mr. B<div style="text-align: justify;">Today, Bailey came to our house to live full-time, capping three months of transitioning that included several drives to Winthrop where he lived with his foster family.<br /><br />The state requires a transition period, during which we were able to gradually introduce ourselves to him, and him to us. He latched on immediately, began calling us Mumma and Dadda from the start, and has always called our home his own. He came to our house a few times, for overnights. And a couple of weekends.<br /><br />Because of the ease with which everything has gone, we were able to speed up the transition.<br /><br />He will have to live with us for six months before we can legally adopt him. A state requirement. But as far as we're concerned, he's ours now.<br /><br />Corrine served a brunch for everyone - Bailey's foster family and their adopted son, who is Bailey's biological brother. Corrine's parents came, as did her brother and his family. All of our kids - except Ty - were here as well.<br /><br />The coming days, following Thanksgiving break, will be a process of getting him into a school. We have a meeting with the local school district about the details on Tuesday. His is a peculiar case that needs the assistance of special education in order to meet certain developmental needs. We are treading in unfamiliar waters here. As his new advocates, there are more questions than answers. What does he really need? What should he be getting? How do we ensure that he's not treated just as a source of income for the local school district?<br /><br />It's an ongoing education for us. But what isn't in life? We're ready to tackle it, that's fir sure.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Q_wCfEFVy3sf44juBunuXcs7Yyyf6MbpsOx0BMClDSvI4mZLtcG3mYbXwUWeu542cApL7nsWx-8iNlFPULXSUokqDqDHLCCEKiqasIqPVIF4fF2rObpKfR3vojC5lGVfqVOEHZHTqNo/s1600/PC250009.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Q_wCfEFVy3sf44juBunuXcs7Yyyf6MbpsOx0BMClDSvI4mZLtcG3mYbXwUWeu542cApL7nsWx-8iNlFPULXSUokqDqDHLCCEKiqasIqPVIF4fF2rObpKfR3vojC5lGVfqVOEHZHTqNo/s400/PC250009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407012194390627906" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUKcRs6aTJ_dpNV57Ac23XW5CH7QPkxJJrtOcB-dVHNyk7GffnWc6WKTkLvT1GRjXnXnZvW2v_VHUiczusO8gXQd_OKcj2Ya-wWKxGgBgWI9v7W03U-_MFK-3JK9yAUD-Baa6FQNGmE1U/s1600/PC250002.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUKcRs6aTJ_dpNV57Ac23XW5CH7QPkxJJrtOcB-dVHNyk7GffnWc6WKTkLvT1GRjXnXnZvW2v_VHUiczusO8gXQd_OKcj2Ya-wWKxGgBgWI9v7W03U-_MFK-3JK9yAUD-Baa6FQNGmE1U/s400/PC250002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407011967950681970" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Z2WDompHeZxTNGloDFymqdf7TOwwz6qQB0tJQ9URM79gZFQUtyzlLxztdxrw4A7KBDbLRDlioB3M_K8MtChB9lAGty4f6Fa6Kz2sp_sGGR4UpxsFl9eDI4viQAh76OCvLFaW5e9HE7E/s1600/PC250004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Z2WDompHeZxTNGloDFymqdf7TOwwz6qQB0tJQ9URM79gZFQUtyzlLxztdxrw4A7KBDbLRDlioB3M_K8MtChB9lAGty4f6Fa6Kz2sp_sGGR4UpxsFl9eDI4viQAh76OCvLFaW5e9HE7E/s400/PC250004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407011324990221682" border="0" /></a><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-563426065615996110.post-60066739878191349742009-11-05T06:53:00.000-05:002010-04-19T08:28:20.029-04:00The Courage to Write<div style="text-align: justify;">Corrine had a great idea yesterday. Why not turn our experiences in adoption into a short memoir? From a man's perspective - a father's point of view? Start from about a year ago when we took four weekends of classes together, and finish when B is legally ours, which would be sometime next June (if the current schedule holds.)<br /><br />I loved the idea. It makes perfect sense, in fact. I'm a writer, a father, a man, and I think I could easily fill a couple hundred pages on the subject. I think people would read it, too.<br /><br />Now, before you spew coffee through your noses this morning, please understand the motivation is NOT to profit off the adoption of our son. If you're a writer reading this, you're smiling. Because you know only about a half a percent of writers actually make money from their writing.<br /><br />This is not a get-rich-quick scheme, Alice.<br /><br />Corrine's argument (I was skeptical at first) went something like this: "Do you know how rich we could get off this!?!?"<br /><br />She's a hustler, that girl of mine. Always checking the angles.<br /><br />Actually, what she said was that a story about the adoption of a child, from a man's point of view, would be a welcomed change. People associate adoption with women, I guess. Or with sentimentality. Or with things like feelings and emotions. You know, stuff guys don't really have?<br /><br />And God knows men are not sentimental creatures. Well, unless we're watching Brian's Song or Field of Dreams or The Natural.<br /><br />I, on the other hand, am a well of emotion. A veritable spring of gushing sentiment. I can cry on cue, almost.<br /><br />So, I agreed with her. A little memoir about my feelings and experiences with adoption. I've started scribbling notes. Some ideas about theme. It can't be just a chronology of events. That would be boring. There has to be a thread through it. What would it be? Well, I can't determine that now. It will expose itself in due time.<br /><br />And as I sat jotting initial thoughts down, pieces of my life started creeping into it. Things not specifically associated with the adoption itself. Things about being a father, about having a father. Some funny anecdotes of my childhood. And poignant scenes, too, like when Fallon was first born.<br /><br />And after about an hour of this brainstorming, a fear crept in. If I'm to write about my feelings, and if the sphere of storytelling continues to expand so that it includes Fallon, and Harrison and my parents, etc. ... how much do I put in? Naturally if I write about parenting, then it stands to reason I would have to include Fallon and Harrison's mom, from whom I am divorced. Do I include the sordid details of the divorce, too? And will she balk at the idea of her being in a memoir?<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ahhh</span>, the bogeyman has paid a visit. The age-old dilemma of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">memoirists</span>: can you be true to your story without violating the trust of those who share a life with you?<br /><br />Now, listen. I'm not saying I want to write bad things about these people. But, you know, there are things in my life (as there are in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">everyone's</span> life) that are painful. If I am to be honest - and that's what a memoir is, honest - then I need to include some events that may or may not reflect too well on myself, and therefore, not too well on my loved-ones.<br /><br />How far is too far? Do I need these people's permission to even include them? Do I change their names to protect them? But then again, let's be real, people will know who they are, I mean, come on.<br /><br />This is not a tell-all. It's not an expose. It is, however, an exploration of my feelings about parenting, in a broader sense, and as it relates specifically to the adoption of a child. Naturally, I don't live in a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">vacuum</span>. I interact with other humans, many of whom have helped shape my personal history. Including (significantly) my first wife, my parents, my siblings, my children.<br /><br />Do I tip-toe, for example, around my divorce? Do I delve into the specifics (scandalous, many would say - sorry, but that's a part of my life, too) or do I just say "Voila! one morning I woke up I was divorced)? This passage of my life affected my children both positively and negatively. And it called into question (in my mind) my skills (or lack thereof) as a father.<br /><br />The thing is, some parts of my life, when exposed, will not reflect very good on me, but it will reveal me as a human, with flaws, particularly as a father. It will also delve into my relationships with my own parents, some good, and some bad. That's the whole point of this. No one wants to read a story from a guy who comes across as having nothing wrong with him, who has made all the right choices and lives a trauma-free life.<br /><br />Yuck.<br /><br />So back to the memoir. What <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">was</span> a great idea yesterday is now scaring the hell out of me. Which means I have to do it. There's no turning back. I've been presented with a challenge: to be brutally honest about who I am as a human, a father, a man, with all the blemishes, but within the context of this adoption. People I know may or may not embrace it. I will have push back, I'm sure. Resistance by some who will insist that either my version of events is flawed (and therefore a big fat lie), or that I have no right whatsoever to mention them.<br /><br />Oh boy.<br /><br />Deep breath.<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00830525553830638384noreply@blogger.com5