School Daze #2

I write this piece for two reasons. 

I’m still deeply impressed by it almost 20 years later.

If, perchance, the one written about reads this, then I wish to say thank you.  I have no idea who you are, but you made an indelible impression on my life.

I was sitting in on a lecture (at the teacher prep class) called The Art of Teaching.  The instructor was giving her presentation on the subject and doing a very fine job of it if I must say. 

She went through the three ways of getting to the students—heart it, see it, do it.  Which, by the way, I had not known about at all. 

Being the good teacher that she was, she incorporated all three ways of learning into her discourse, finishing up with a live representation. 

On the table in front of her she had the following: plate, knife, spoon, washcloth, bread (in a bag) jam (in a jar with a lid on), and peanut butter (in a jar with a lid on).

The lesson?  Make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Our instructor asked for two volunteers from the class of would-be teachers to come up there and teach her how to make the sandwich. 

To simulate the knowledge gap between the teacher and the student, our instructor did not allow herself to ask questions, but rather did as she interpreted the instructions given to her.

Our two volunteers began tentatively.

“First, get two pieces of bread out of the bag.”

Our instructor looked at the bag, which was still fastened closed, and finally started ripping at it, squashing the bread inside in the process.

One of the volunteers said, “No, take the twisty tie off first!” 

The instructor looked at the bag again and pulled at something other than the twisty tie.

“No, there, that thing!  Untie it!”

She fumbled and fumbled while the volunteers waited.

Finally, she pulled two misshapen pieces of bread out.

The volunteers were learning and gave a little more detail on the next task, telling their ‘student’ to unscrew the jar lid (she tightened it for a while), take the knife and put some peanut butter on the bread.

Our instructor grabbed the knife, sharp end first, and jammed the handle down in the peanut butter. 

“Oh, no!  You hold that end with your hand,” one of the volunteers said, and frantically looked around.  Whereupon our instructor turned the knife around and squeezed the handle, making little tendrils of peanut butter slide out between her fingers.   A few nervous giggles ran through the crowd as our instructor, after a brief pause and looking expectantly at the volunteers, dug out a huge glob of peanut butter and proceeded to paste it on the bread.

So far, the volunteers were getting the concept taught, if not in a rather zig zag way.

“Ok, next open the jam jar, take the spoon by the handle, and spoon some jam on the bread.”  This delivered with a bit more confidence in approach and style.  Our volunteers were doing better.

Again, our instructor looked a bit perplexed as she looked first at her peanut buttery hands and then at the jam jar.  She hesitated, ever so slightly, and in that instant my peripheral vision picked up a movement to my left side and a bit behind of where I sat.

“Stop.”

With one syllable of mercy, an end was put to the tense debate waged within our minds and to the impending disaster that could play out at any moment in front of us.

Our instructor stopped, hands midair, and held her pose while a new volunteer made her way out of the row of seats she was in and up the aisle towards her.

When she got to the table, she picked up the rag and in a quiet, and perhaps the kindest tone I have ever heard, told the instructor to extend her hands in front of her. 

She gently took each of them in her own and cleaned them off.  Next, she took each of the utensils and cleaned them up. 

When she had finished, she put the rag to the side, stepped back, and told the volunteers they could continue.

Her quiet kindness—her unwavering loyalty to the one under her charge—brought the moment front and center in supreme clarity to me. 

THIS. 

This was the true example of The Art of Teaching.  Because this, I realized, is the same thing I read in a certain Textbook that we are to do.  We are to lift the burden from the shoulder of the one oppressed.

No, we don’t give the answers, or try to slip around the problem in an easy way.  No, our Teacher doesn’t do it that way for us either.

But when we see those innocents in our care with a smudge of distress on their brow, be it from a math problem that has them momentarily confused, a scuffle out on the playground that has made its way into the classroom, or just a plain ole bad attitude that they really don’t know why they have, we help them clean up the mess they are in and direct them into a way that has a better end.

We let them know that we care about the lessons, yes, but more.  We care about making the road as easy as possible for them, like our Teacher does for us.

We aren’t dictators in an authoritarian role dealing out the power play to our satisfaction.  Because in that situation, we will always be frustrated at the seemingly dimwitted students we have, and we will never have the respect we are so anxiously trying to retain. 

No. 

We take their hands into our own.  We hold them gently, firmly, and with unwavering loyalty in such a way that they know we will never purposely let them drop.

Thank you, whoever you are, for teaching this to me, over there in that Michigan classroom.

My Best Girl

She came to Kansas 30 years ago to teach 3^rd & 4^th grades at our little country school.

And just like that, a new world was ushered in for this Western Kansas boy.

But, she made it very clear from the onset that she was in this to teach, not for other things.

She would not get married just because lots of teachers end up getting married where they teach.

Neither would she marry a Kansas boy. 

She had her reasons for this, and they were good reasons.  I could completely identify with them once I traveled to her home state of Mississippi for the first time; I knew from that point on that the fight to claim her was going to be a difficult one. 

Little by little, one chip off at a time, her guard came down.  Until, if I was lucky, I would hear her honk as she went by on her way home from school, late in the evening.

And then one day I got a birthday card from her. 

I was stunned.  Was this for real?  Or was she playing jokes.

Again, bit by bit, the scene changed for both of us.  Although, I am quite confident if she could go back and do it over, she definitely would not be impressed with the ways I tried to impress her then.  I was desperate though, and at the time, I’d sacrifice my public image for a glance from her.

And really, if I got that glance, what did public image matter?  Because once the eyes meet, the heart is never happier and doesn’t care really, what others think.

My world began to take on dimensions far beyond my comprehension.

I found out about farm raised Mississippi catfish, deep fried out in the yard.  I ate so much of that stuff I was sure I’d be sick.  But I found out you don’t get sick from it.

I came in contact with that warm southern hospitality, and I’ve never been the same.  Even though it will never be native to me, I hope that in some small way I can pass it along to those I am with.

My first taste of Chinese food was with her.  And I know that having her there made it taste just like it was supposed to. 

I became immersed in family.  Family gatherings that lasted for days, not hours.  At first, I was gulping down the queazies, not sure how I was going to endure this whole thing when she told me what to expect.  But I soon learned that her family is the kind you would rather spend days with, and not hours.

Fried Okra and her are one and the same.  If we are lucky, tonight we’ll order a dish of it and snack on it together.

Because of her, I found gentleness in myself that I didn’t know I had.  And, God help me, I hope I can continue to learn more of it as life goes along.

I see satisfaction in the everyday things of life.  Whereas my life demanded the ultra before I met her, I now know that life can be happy with everyday life. 

I see her in each of our children, and rejoice that because of her, they have every chance to make it in life.

Twenty-six years ago, today.

My Best Girl.  Forever.

Better than I was,

More than I am,

And all of this happened,

By taking your hand.

School Daze #1

Let’s be clear.  Very clear, in fact. 

I shudder at some of the things that I tried, and I shudder more when I think of what I put those folks so dear to me today through.

If there happens to be any aspiring teachers that read this, I can furnish you names of my school board during that time; I’m sure after your visit with them, you will be duly recommended to a path dissimilar to what you are about to read.

There.  I feel better now.

*****

It’s soon going to be 20 years ago that I went to the east door of the John Deere mechanic shop where I had worked for the previous 7 years, and lingered. 

I lingered for quite some time.  I had found a home there, coming in green as a gourd about mechanical issues, and, thanks to the kindness of the folks I worked with, had become somewhat adept at that which I knew nothing of earlier.

I lingered because of the friends I was going to leave behind.  I knew, even then, some of those friends didn’t think this new venture was going to work, and expected me back within a year, maybe two.

I lingered, even though there was no one else in the shop, and breathed in deeply of the smell of cleaning solvent, brake and parts cleaner, grease, oil, stale exhaust fumes, and the companionable smell of Sam’s cigarette smoke.

Finally, I pushed the door open, and walked out to my truck, now heavily loaded with all my tools and accompaniments of the trade that I had acquired through the years.  It stopped me in my tracks as I looked it over, realizing that I had started with nothing.  No tools, and no money to buy tools. 

I still have most of those tools today. 

But let’s not get off the subject.

I got the books from school room I was to inhabit for the next 5 years and took them home with me. 

As near as I know, I think I had set foot in a classroom like this once, since I had left there 14 years previous.

There was a very distinct feeling that I was back at square one again, just like the beginning day at John Deere. 

I knew nothing about it, and I had no tools with which to ply the trade.

The books I took home had all I needed to be a good teacher.  However, I didn’t know how to interpret them.  There were things that I understood easily, and then some things that made no sense whatsoever. 

Like proportions. 

And DO’s.

And IO’s.

Or, have mercy, transitive verbs.  And what in the world was an indirect object pronoun?

I looked down at my still grease stained fingers with white scars shining through here and there, reminders of the days just vacated, as they clumsily paged through those books and almost rang the bell right then and there.

But it was interesting reading.  At least the science books.  And it seemed like a little light was beginning to shine, way down in the distance.  I was beginning the think of ways to talk about this stuff with . . . I guess with my students.

My school board bought me a ticket to Ithaca, Michigan for a Teacher’s Prep class that consisted of 3 days of intense preparation, after which I was supposed to be ready to face the world of a schoolteacher with confidence.

They said all kinds of nice things to me there, like, “Oh, you are going to be a natural at it,” and “Yeah, since you are married, you already have a big jump on this.”

And I sucked it up and believed them.  Maybe even pushed my chest out a bit.

Until they had a workshop going, and asked all the students of that class (of which I was one) to come up to the chalk board and diagram the sentence written there.

“Come with me,” I hissed to my good wife.

I found the subject, and next the verb. 

And then that was it.  The rest of the sentence blurred off into total obscurity. 

I hunched up against my good wife in what I hoped was a gesture of affection to those seated and  looking on from behind us and whispered, “What’s that word?,” and pointed, sort of, from my waist, and sort of, with my thumb let’s say, in what I hoped was a very discreet action on my part.

She, being of a very kind and generous nature, surprised me senseless when she said, “Well, what do you think it is?  Do you think it is a pronoun, preposition, or . . .” 

I’m pretty sure I saw her make a supreme effort to hide the smirk twitching at the corner of her beautiful lips.

I was pouring sweat in a room full of females, and it wasn’t because I was some hot dude by their standards. 

This was a setup, and I knew it. 

Or maybe it wasn’t. 

Maybe, it was a precursor of what was to come, and I needed to meet it head on, with the wonder humility of a child.

Because in the end, that’s what I was. 

I was a student with each of my students.     

India #6

I made a mistake, there in New Delhi, at 2 in the morning.  But as soon as I saw the impending disaster of my mistake, I quickly corrected it and didn’t make it again, the whole time we stayed in India.

My Dad instinct kicked in, once the happy reunion was coming to a close, and I started looking for transportation.  Funny thing was, I had no clue where we were going for night, but I guess I thought if I could nail down a taxi, at least I could be of some use and still fulfill some of my responsibilities as Dad. 

So, I looked for the taxi signs. 

There weren’t any.

Next, I looked for cars that denoted themselves as taxis.

There weren’t any.

Finally, I asked Bryce for directions as to where the taxis normally parked.

There weren’t any.

When Bryce nonchalantly started weaving his way through the milling throng, I discovered my mistake, and like a good Dad ought to do, I hitched up my bags and followed along obediently after.  For the rest of our stay, I followed after, and it was the best thing I could have ever done.  I learned more about India that way, and a lot more about being a Dad.

We approached a sort of meeting place, although the casual eye would have never picked it out as such and were immediately accosted by no less than 5 would be taxi drivers, all clamoring for our business.  I think I mentioned in the last post on India that the motel was 7 miles, but I looked back in my notes and saw it was 7 kilometers.  Bryce had come to the airport from the motel on taxi, in the same size vehicle as the ones bartering for our business, for approximately $.84.  The fellow who wanted to give us a lift was asking in the $25 range. 

And he wasn’t bashful about it either, because he saw all these white faces and how weary they looked and all the bags.

But.  He didn’t know that Bryce knew Hindi. 

And.  He didn’t know Bryce knew a bit about taxi fares. 

It’s true that $.84 was on the cheap side for that area, but the guy taking Bryce to the airport knew that is where the big fish were, maybe even whitefish if he was lucky, so he was willing to go at a loss one way. 

But $25 (2000 rupee) was decidedly too much.

“No,” Bryce said, “You are way too high.  I’ll pay you 1000 rupee, and even that is way too high.”  (Around $12)

“Oh no sir, your bags are very heavy, and we will need to take a bigger car.  2000 rupee.”

“No, if you can’t do any better than that, I’ll go find another man who wants to do it for me.”

“2000 rupee, sir, 2000 rupee.”

“Okay, see you then,” and Bryce started walking off.  I was incredulous.  It was getting on to 3 now in the morning and here we at least had a ride.  If the rest were just as high, I figured we should take this and be on our way.  I was tired.

But it was a ploy. 

“Wait, how much you pay?”  And Bryce sauntered on . . . “Sir . . . “

“1000 rupee, and even that is way too high.”  (Still sauntering on and not looking back even as he spoke his offer.)

“Okay, come on then.”  (He had been gruff and a bit growly during the exchange, but as soon as the deal was made, our driver turned into peaches and cream.

For a bit.

As soon as we had started moving, he abruptly changed demeanor.  “Wait, (slowing) you tell me 2 kilometers.  This is 7!  1500 rupee” 

And I know Bryce had told him 7, I had heard it myself and was rising up in defense.

Bryce was getting torqued off, and it was getting later.  In the end he told him to get going and do it for 1200.  The guy sort of had us over the barrel at that point because we weren’t at the airport anymore.

The amazing thing was, he didn’t know how to get to the motel address Bryce gave him and ended up asking Bryce to put it on his phone so he could follow along on Bryce’s gps.  Finally, Bryce even had to tell him were to turn on top of all that. 

And then the final cusp was when, after he finished unloading a couple of our bags, (we had unloaded the rest) he asked for a ‘gift.’ 

I wasn’t sure if Bryce was going to explode or not.

The motel proved excellent; although as we walked in, through the ever-present metal detector that no one paid any attention to even though it beeped on everyone that went through, I got my first glimpse of what smog really is. 

For, as we walked down the hall to our room, and said hall being no more than 75 feet long, I noticed the lights at the far end had a very blurry and hazy look to them.  I asked Bryce what the deal was with them. 

“Smog,” he said. 

I still marvel at it today.  It was so hazy everywhere because of all the fires and vehicles that this soon became normal in my mind, but I could realize then, why Bryce often complained of throat irritation over there. 

Lessons from the Body Shop Man

I was fairly glum sitting there in the body shop, waiting for the owner to show up.

I had just bashed in the back of my truck, otherwise detailed in the post ‘Five Finger Discount.’

Now, I had a bashed in truck and I was way behind on my schedule on top of it all.

My eyes hardly took anything in as they roamed over the dusty waiting room, but they eventually rested on a plaque that stated the owner had been in business for over 20 years.

And that plaque looked to be close to 40 years old.

I was a desperate man in desperate circumstances.  As the saying goes, “Beggars can’t be Choosers.” 

When the owner walked in, I spoke up without any preamble whatsoever to a man I didn’t know from Adam.

“So John, it says you’ve been in business here for over 20 years.  I’ve a question for you.”

“Go right ahead.”

“Have you ever burned out?”

“Yep, sure did.  It’s been well over 20 years ago I did.  Had to find some answers and find ‘em fast.”

“What’d you come up with for answers.”

“Came up with 3 of them.”

“Do you mind sharing them with me?”

“Not at all. 

The first is, ‘You don’t need that work.’”

“What?”

“Yeah.  You are a typical man.  You do exactly what every other typical man does when the phone rings and there is work on the other end of the line.  First, the macho/ego part of you seizes what you think is a good opportunity; you don’t want to lose it or lose any image that you hold of yourself.  So, even though you are currently, say, 3 weeks booked out, and the job is a two day job, you tell the potentially, soon to be disappointed customer on the other end, ‘I think we can work it in by the end of this week,’ if you are at the first of the week, or, if at the end of the week, ‘I think we can get to it by the first of next week.’

And you say all that, having no idea how you are going to work it in, but you are already juggling customers in your mind to make way for this one, even though you promised those customers you would be there this week also.

You have a scheduling bankruptcy on your hands at this point.”

“Okay,” I said, “You are right so far about how I’ve scheduled my work.”

“I know I am. I’ve been there.  That’s why you have to get really stern with yourself when the phone rings and say, ‘You don’t need that work.’

What you are going to need to do, once you leave here, is go home and personally contact every customer that you have hanging and tell them you aren’t going to get to them anytime soon.  Clear the slate; start over.”

I took his advice.  The way I remember, I had 9 customers that I had no plan, really, of getting to their job. 

It was a bitter task.

The second–

“Now,” he said, “take this approach whenever someone calls and wants your business to help them.  Don’t even tell them when you can get to it while you are on the phone with them.  You will waffle every time; and you’ll always short yourself on time.  So, tell them you need to get to your schedule, and you will call them back within an hour to let them when you can get to their job.

Look at your schedule in cold blood.  When you have decided, realistically, when you can get to them, add another several days to that and call them back with the date.”

“But hold on,” I said, “we might be talking 3 months in some cases.  Anybody knows you’ll lose that business if you ask them to wait that long.”

“No you won’t,” he said, looking at me steadily through 20 years of experience. 

“No, you won’t,” he repeated. 

“Go one farther and tell them that you have their name on the date you can get to them, and that if it seems too long, then they should find someone else.  Tell them you will call them a week before that date to see if they have found someone else.

Ninety-eight percent of the time, they will still be waiting for you, and you better be ready to snap on their job just like you said you would, maybe even sooner.

The two percent that didn’t wait on you, aren’t customers you want anyway.  They hire who they can when they can and will treat you the same. 

And . . . here’s something else.  Let’s say it was a $5,000 job you had scheduled for that date. When you call them a week before they tell you they have found someone else, you can count on it, within a day or two, another $5,000 job will call and will fit into that time slot of the one you lost.  It almost always happens.”

“But . . .” I stammered.

“And the third—”

He looked at me, with that firm gaze of his, and said, “God made our bodies to work 8 to 10, maybe 12 hours a day.  It’s okay to work beyond that when the situation demands it, but if you are consistently working more than ten hours a day, you are exceeding what your body/family can handle and you’ll have the same problems at home that you have with your customer base.”

I pondered it all, and realized that probably God had put this man in my way for a reason.  I thanked him for his helpful words, left my truck there, and got on my way home.

I was about 5 miles away from his shop when I thought of it.  I just about turned around to go tell him what I was thinking, but I didn’t.

Several weeks later, when I went back to pick up my truck, I told him, “John, I was 5 miles away from here last time when I thought of something I wanted to tell you.”

“Yes, I’ve been thinking about you and wondering how it’s been going.”  (This said despite the fact that we were complete strangers when we met last visit.)  “What did you want to tell me?”

“You’ve never been poor.  If you had been, you wouldn’t have said some of what you said last visit.” 

“Yes, I’ve been poor.”  And really, no further words were needed.

*****

I’ve used his advice for close to 15 years now, and it holds true; every letter of it.

India #5

I smelled it when we were still several thousand feet up in the air.  It was a medley of hundreds of thousands of outdoor cooking fires, garbage pit fires, warm, humid vegetation just then cooling down from the heat of the day, and pungent incense smoke laced here and there throughout.

I’m guessing I may have even caught my first whiff of Chicken Tikka Masala and Aloo Chili up there, although I doubt I recognized it at that point.

In a word, India.

We taxied up to the gate, and I wondered how this was going to be, getting through a foreign airport, customs, and finally baggage claim.  I had been told New Delhi airport could be a bit confusing. 

But I happened upon a bit of wisdom there on the other side of the world, at one in the morning, their time.  Although that wisdom seemed a bit incongruous, my gut feeling was to go with it.

Just follow the turbans, that bit of wisdom said.

And so I did, much to the dismay of my good wife and sweet daughter.  And not only did I follow them, I started sprinting, just like they were, in an effort to be the first at the top of the line.  My female counterparts weren’t so adventuresome, but I got them to keep up just the same.

Somehow, we hit the expedited customs line, and I looked across the way to see many many turbans looking over at me in a not too kindly way. 

Customs wasn’t a problem, other than the guy wanted to know if the sweet daughter was married, and she couldn’t seem to understand him.  Then her fingerprint didn’t read on the fingerprint machine.  (I think it was because her hands were too clammy or else, I’m suspicious the nice Indian customs man quickly adjusted the sensitivity when he saw a pretty white girl like her coming through.  My fingerprint read just fine.)  But we eventually got it to read, me holding her fingers down harder and the customs agent helpfully showing by touching her fingers also, how to hold them down. 

On to baggage claim.  By now it had been an hour since we had deplaned, but no luggage.  We were standing by the claim that stated our flight number, but I saw lots of turbans by another claim.  I went over there, and viola!, there were a few of our bags, one with the handle completely ripped out and gone.  And finally, all of us, turbans included, found our way back to the original claim to get the last of our bags.

It was there at that claim that my phone rang.  I glanced at the number and wondered why on earth my hedge manager would be calling me at 2 in the morning.  But then it hit me, markets were just closing at home, and he probably needed a decision on something, so I took the call.  When I told him, at the end of the call, that I was talking to him from India, he completely spaced out.  I think we pulled the hedge, if I remember right.

I called Bryce as soon as I had service while taxiing in to tell him we were on the ground.  He had flown into New Delhi and reserved a motel for us all to finish the night out before we flew on to Bagdogra the next afternoon.  He finally answered my call and sounded a wee bit perturbed I had awakened him.  He told me later he had been out like a rock.  I wondered what he thought, being perturbed like that.  Did he expect us to spend the night in the airport whilst he slept in his comfy bed? He said his motel was 7 miles or so from the airport, and that he would soon be on his way; I began to fret that we would have to wait on him. I needn’t have worried; he was the one waiting on us.

We made contact with Bryce again by phone once our bags were collected and he said to look for him by some big pillars.  He said he was as close in as they would let him, but we would still have to walk a distance, and he said to hang on tight to our bags. 

We found the main exit, and were embraced by the throngs of people, all speaking that which I could not understand.  I couldn’t believe the amount of people there.  Hundreds and hundreds, all at two in the morning.  I began to see quite soon that not all were family coming to meet family or friends, but that at least a third of them had other business, and that business in a none too subtle way, was to make money by carrying our bags for us.  Hence the warning from Bryce.  My good wife thinks I got a little too bold and used my elbows a little too freely during that time, but I dunno.  It was either that or we get separated from our bags, each other, or who knows what.  That’s okay, though, heroes don’t always get credit for their heroic deeds, just like I didn’t that night.

It was about then that I had a moment.

We were standing by a large pillar, and there was no sign of Bryce.  A realization began to ooze into my consciousness that, really, I had no proof whatsoever that Bryce was in India.  Sure, I had seen him in his house with other white people, and sure, I had seen some of the countryside roads he traveled.  But, having never been to India myself, and having no clue what it looked like in real life, I realized that it could easily be that Bryce, should he have wanted to, could have played a supreme joke on us.  He could be in Africa or Kazakhstan right now, for all I know, I thought.

And, adding to that moment was something else.  We have traveled some, moderately, I would say.  Airports and their lingo aren’t so strange, be it here in the U.S. or in Europe.  But this airport had no lingo once we left the main exit.  I saw a chain link fence off to one side, but no signs around it, even though people were pressing against it.  Other than that, just people and people, and lots of commotion, smoke, and noise. 

I think Bryce made us go to those pillars for a reason.  I haven’t asked him, but I think it was so he could hide behind the one he was by to spy on us for a while; take in the panic-stricken countenance of his Dad, and the let’s-go-find-him-right-now-even-if-we-have-to-tear-this-whole-place-down look on his Mom’s face. 

It still irks me my good wife saw him first, but that’s okay and probably how it should be.  I heard her shout, “There he is!”, and looked in the direction she was looking.

And there.  Out of the sea of people walked one whom I knew and loved dearly.  He slowly sauntered towards us, lithe and trim, taller, it seemed, than a year ago, and very self-possessed in that milling crowd of humanity.

I stood back a bit and gulped down something that kept clawing at the back of my throat.  I was pretty sure it wasn’t that food that had argued so vociferously earlier on the plane, but whatever it was, was making quite a ruckus of itself as I saw Bryce’s mother fall into his capable arms and then next his sister.  

And then it was my turn. 

It’s amazing what family can do for you at 2 a.m. in the morning in a hot, humid country almost 8,000 miles from home.  Really, I didn’t want to do anything else right then; the journey was over, but I was starting to feel a little tired.

And I hadn’t had a taste of India taxi drivers yet, which everyone needs to have.    

Locked Out

Someday, I’d like to buy me a new Toyota Prius.  You know, one of those little things that runs on both gas and electricity.  I’ll make sure it has the hybrid stickers on it and all. 

I don’t think I have the smarts to do what comes next, but I know my friend Larry does.  So, I’ll take it to him, and he’ll start turning his magic on it.

First, I’ll have him take shell, or cab, off the chassis.  Then, I’ll have him strip everything out of the frame, and start beefing everything up.  Because what comes next for that humble little frame is HUGE. 

Next, I’ll start visiting salvage yards until I find me a 6.4 powerstroke engine.  We’ll delete it, if it hasn’t been deleted already.  We’ll bore it out, say, maybe .30 over and rebuild with high compression pistons and head studs.  Just for fun, we’ll upsize the turbo and put a tune on the whole works. 

I’ll probably have to splurge on the next item and buy it new.  I doubt any salvage yard will have them used.  But we’ll need a racing transmission of some sort or other, ATS would be fine by me.  Now I know more than likely that engine and tranny, hooked together like they normally are, won’t fit lengthwise in that car.

In fact, because of the height and width of the engine, I’m guessing it will need to be mounted amidships. 

But Larry can make it all work and fit.  If he can take a Detroit truck engine, modify the frame and get it mounted in his old 4630 John Deere tractor, and all making it look factory when it was done, then he can do this.  And if he can take that same tractor and route the stack up the side and mount the hood of a 4960 so I couldn’t tell the difference until I was 10 feet away, then he can do this.

Once, when I was on his yard, I noticed the exhaust system on his ½ ton Chevy shortbed truck looked modified.  I told him I was going to roll under and take a look at it. 

I had never seen such a neat job, all ending with both exhaust tips exiting flush and perfectly centered on each side and out the back of his flat bed. 

I commented on the fine job.  He asked me if I noticed where he had shortened the frame.  I crawled under again.  I saw it then, and asked him why he had done that.  He said he wanted a shortbed 1 ton truck, so it was just a matter of getting it there. 

If he can do all that, he’ll be able to get this engine and tranny, or if he needs, a similar tranny mounted in that Prius. 

And the tranny will need to be built; I plan to push at least 800 hp through it when we are done.

I’m thinking we’ll leave the original tires on, even though they will definitely be undersized for what I have in mind.  But, I think Larry can somehow get power to all four tires (cause we’ll need too) instead of just the rear two. 

I’m fairly sure the exhaust coming off the manifold will be directed straight down.  I know, it will be horrible loud in the cab, so maybe we could wye it off right at the manifold and put a couple of modified Thrush muffler’s on and still have clearance between the end of them and the pavement.  I don’t want them showing at all.

We’ll have to do something with the suspension, obviously.  It can’t squat at all.  In other words, I want this to be a sleeper, which in street talk means everything looks original and normal from the outside. 

We may have to make our engine cowling to look like suitcases of some sort for anyone that might happen to look in through the windows. 

It’s probably only going to be a one passenger car after Larry is done with the remake I have in mind.  That’s okay.  But I wish for Larry’s sake it would be two.

Because then he and I would take it on a neat little road trip to Wichita.  On the way there, we’d fine tune the tune and maybe add a little smoke on accel. 

Ah.  Then.  We’d cruise Kellogg and Rock.  We’d find us some kid in a ‘Stang and slide up beside him at the stoplight.

Oh.  Here’s where I forgot something.  We would have speakers mounted inside the side panels and wheel wells that were connected to the sound system.  We’d have a recording of an actual Prius revving its little rice grinder engine and we’d play that at a fairly loud rate up against that ‘Stang. 

I can see that kid’s lip curled up in a sneer as he intently watches the light. 

But that’s all I’ll see of him.  Because the distance and the smoke between us thereafter will be too great for me to look rearwards and make anything out.

*****

This was supposed to be about how we locked ourselves out of our truck one day at Larry’s place.  Might have to save that for another time.

India #4

Having flown into Germany a couple years previous, I was interested to see if Amsterdam compared in any way. 

It did in a number of ways, although the food was a bit blander, if not much the same base.

I was so tired by that point, though, that it was hard to comprehend anything.  I offered to the ladies that I would watch the luggage and they gallivanted away, not to be seen again for at least an hour.  When they returned, they brought some food with them, which was great.  My Coke and chocolate shake diet had my stomach a bit sluggish by that point.  I put away both a warm and a cold version of a low country sandwich that tasted quite good; the pickle that seemed plenty strong. 

But then, I don’t eat pickles.  You wonder why?  They don’t have any food value in them.  You might want to reconsider your own fetish of them in that light.

The 500 plus line was forming to board, and we joined up.  Luckily, for us, we were right behind a sharp looking Indian businesswoman who lived in Chicago and was headed back home for a visit.  She was quite conversational, asking where we were from and was suitably impressed when we told her and the reason for our trip. 

At one point, we both commented on how slowly the line was moving; she glanced ahead and said, “Ah yes, we are getting close to India.  When in India you have to do it their way.”

“Okay,” I thought, “the same could be said about the U.S.” 

But it wasn’t until a few minutes later, I noticed exactly what I had missed in her veiled words.

For the line was moving right along.  Certain folks, mostly some who wore turbans (many of them in fact) and who didn’t believe in getting haircuts or beardcuts, and who seemed of a very religious sort, kept moving along towards the front of the line, whilst we stayed planted where we were.

In fact, they began to board even before the lady at the desk had announced that boarding was beginning. 

I stood there dumbfounded for some minutes.  I began to look closely for clues and couldn’t obtain any; but then I detected a movement at my side.  

There was a turban there, briefcase in hand.  It was then I began to catch on.  For beside the line to board, was another, almost indistinguishable single file line. 

Mostly turbans.

They moved slow enough not to arouse suspicion.  I studied the turban beside me closely.  I had every opportunity to, because one of the clues of the on-the-move turbans was never to make eye contact with anyone, including the lady at the boarding desk now gone crazy with the swarm of turbans around her.

For about as long as it took to type that last paragraph is how long my turban friend stood beside me.  Then he eased forward and into the main line a bit in front of me.  In another same amount of time, I saw him ease out of line and up beside again.  Soon he was gone, out of sight, and down the jetway as the lady at the desk screamed, “Please respect the boundaries of the boarding lanes and do NOT board until I announce it is time to board!  This is a safety issue!”

Many, many turbans eased on by and down the jet bridge before we were officially invited to board the plane.

*****

That flight, from Amsterdam to New Delhi, was one of the most miserable I’ve been on to date. 

The plane was old and very loud.

The temperature seemed to hover in the mid fifties the whole nine hours.

It had been dark for the whole flight from Detroit to Amsterdam; our layover in Amsterdam was 3 hours and shortly after takeoff, it got dark again. 

It was like a 3-hour day and 20 hours of darkness. 

I slept for 45 minutes, and that was it. 

Along about 7 hours into the flight they came by with food that was decidedly of another culture.  I think they were trying to acclimate us for where we were going to land. 

I looked forward to trying this food, because Bryce had told us in such raving reviews how good the food was over there. 

Something was wrong though.  My first bite had a personality to it I wasn’t used to, and commenced to argue against the command I had given it to be swallowed.  Each time I tried to swallow, it rose up against my wishes.  An argument of half chewed food against swallow commands at the back of one’s throat has serious potential to do harm. 

I hurriedly came on the scene and told those squabbling two to stop or else.  The food didn’t give up then, though, for as soon as it landed in the lake of Coke and chocolate shakes, it commenced to speak for itself again. 

Several more visits and finally a time out had to be imposed on it or things could have turned sour in a hurry. 

Oh, and the turbans. 

They kept using the bathroom.  Sometimes as many as five were standing there waiting.  I passed it off as prayer time for them, but finally decided the urgency seemed great enough with them that they were passing their time in there in other things than prayers.

I was deeply disappointed in the food.  I couldn’t imagine how I was going to spend the next several days existing on that stuff, but I tried to block it out as much as possible at that point, and besides, they had just announced we had 30 minutes to prepare for a 1 a.m. New Delhi time landing. 

I sure wondered where I’d first see Bryce, and what he would look like.

Vacuuming

The other morning, I vacuumed the house. 

I realized several things in the process. 

One, vacuum must not be my favorite word, because its muscle memory hasn’t been engraved into my fingers; it doesn’t type easily like some other words that one of my niece’s keeps a sharp lookout for.

Two, well, I might as well quit numbering them right now, because there a number of things I realized.

I realized I have vacuuming down to a fine art.  It’s taken a few years of hit and miss and different vacuum sweepers to get here. 

I use a plug in that is central to every area that needs to be vacuumed. 

I have also learned on which side of the room to start in order to prevent cord problems. 

I like to start by the entry way and work over into the living room.  This gives only one dead pass when I have to move into the dining area.

Some folks, including certain women I live with, say my next action is uncalled for.  As soon as I get to the dining area, I stop the sweeper (vacuum is too hard to type) and remove all the chairs from the table and carry them to the kitchen. 

The womenfolk don’t do this.  They pull each chair out with one hand while trying to maneuver the sweeper with the other hand, attempting to sweep under the table with quick little darts of the sweeper.  They do quite well in balance and making it look graceful and all, but there are a lot of wasted motions in the process. 

Once I have the chairs moved out, I’ll vacuum along one side of the table, then I’ll shut down again and push the whole table over and vacuum along the other side.  I feel vindicated in this process; it is effective, efficient, and enjoyable.

There are no crumbs or bits of thread that can escape this approach.

But I realized something else the other morning.  And the realization, made during the last 10 years’ time, became a certainty this morning.

There is one more room furnishing that I move from the dining room each time I vacuum. 

For years I have questioned the legitimacy of this piece of furniture each time I move it.

The other morning my questions were put to rest.

Because I’m sure if it were not in its usual place, I would be off kilter each time I enter the room. 

Because it gives a sense of time and place, even wellbeing, if you will.

*****

When we built this house, I had a moment of epiphany.  In fact, you might say I sort of designed the whole utility around it.  Now to be clear, my wife designed this house, because when it came to getting it all down on paper, I completely fizzled out. 

But, for some reason, I had the utility in my mind’s eye.  I would have it a large utility.  This was easily accomplished by using up the extra space from the angle that our house sits on to the garage. 

I wanted lots of light.  Not for myself, no.  I had a plan in mind for someone else.  The light issue was settled.  We put 6 cans in the perimeter and one flushmount in the center of the room.  That together with two windows on the west wall to let sunlight in did the trick.

It needed a deep sink.  Deep enough to get my elbows down in to scrub without dislocating too much water to other areas and without dislocating an elbow by hitting the side of a too small, too shallow sink.  Deep enough to do small loads of laundry in by hand.  Deep enough to brine a turkey in the night before Thanksgiving.  I talked the sink idea around with the plumbing place I normally buy from.  They thought they had heard of such, but it took them a while to find one like I was thinking and the color my good wife wanted.  I situated it on the west counter, clear on the left-hand side. 

Next, and to the right of the sink would be counter space where garments that needed extra scrubbing after the sink soak could be scrubbed.

That followed by the washing machine, on down to the right.  So far, the motion would all make sense; sink, scrub, washing machine.

The dryer fell into place neatly beside and to the right of, the washing machine.

The next item took some doing.  I knew about them but hadn’t really seen them.  And when I found out the cost, it took some real bravery to pursue my idea.  But I pushed through with it, because it seemed like a nice idea, especially for the love of the one I was doing it for.

I found what I was looking for at Lowes.  But since we don’t have a Lowes close by, I had to have it shipped in.  It was the neatest ironing board combo that fit into the wall.  It had a wood door that we stained the same color as our trim.  When opened, the ironing board folded out and down, and a light switched on to brightly illuminate the work area.  It had a safe storage area to put your hot iron when you were done, and a timer for the light.  I built this ironing board into the wall to the right and at a right angle to the counter previously described. This way, when the clothes came out of the dryer, they went to the ironing board for ironing, and then on around the circle to the right to a closet with a hanger bar in to hang newly laundered and ironed clothes. 

That whole room seemed like the neatest thing since ice cream.

I think . . . the ironing board built into the wall has been used . . . maybe ten times. 

It doesn’t stand a chance.

Because the piece of furniture that sits over in the dining room, the same piece of furniture that I move each time I vacuum, is an ironing board, and on it sits an iron, 24/7, pretty much 360 days of the year.  It even stays there when we have company over.

But like I say, something wouldn’t be right if it wasn’t there.  It gives a sense of wellbeing, if you will.

India #3

If I ever have any extra time in Atlanta airport, it seems I end up in a little corner of it, off to one side. 

I say I’m largely unresponsible for this.  My feet seem to get me there by their own design.  They must pick up a little extra vibration in the floor and make up their mind to go check it out. 

And just like that, there will be a black boy sitting at the piano in the far end of that narrow café.  He’ll be wearing a light tan suit, with a perfectly matched kerchief in the pocket, and a dough hat.  His slacks, on the leg working the pedal tone, will be hiked up a bit and I’ll see that his socks match up with the rest of his outfit. 

Except I don’t do well with those kind of thin excuses for socks; I’ve tried them, and they always end up lower than I’d like in a couple of hours.  They sort of turn into an ankle sock when they shouldn’t be.  And so I’ll stand there for a few minutes, and marvel at his socks.  Because while his right foot works the pedal tone, his left foot works out the tempo in such a crazy, happy-go-lucky tango.  Sometimes his heel taps it, sometimes his toe taps it, sometimes his whole foot runs flat footed up and down. 

And his socks stay right where they are supposed to stay. 

And his music is fantastic.  But then, I don’t know what piano music is really supposed to sound like, so who knows?

I may have stayed there longer if I hadn’t received an urgent message on my phone from my good wife.

It seems she thought our trip was in tatters.  Although we were in Atlanta airport, with tickets on through to right up against the Himalayas, she seemed to think it was a no go.  Perhaps with good reason.  For, while she and her sweet daughter were killing time by walking to and fro upon the face of the dirty carpet and linoleum, and in conversation as women usually are when walking to and fro, one had thought to take her sweater off and handed her passport the other one.  And evidently the conversation was of such nature that neither remembered what actions were taken after that, and now the passport was missing.

The immediate panicked decision from one of them was to retrace their course and look on the floor for it.  But then one of them said it would probably already be stolen and the other said they couldn’t remember where they had walked. 

As a good stalwart husband and father ought to do in such situations, I did nothing.  I was sure my quiet attitude would calm down the frazzles, and sooner, rather than later, rational thought would return to one of them.  (Because it had departed me a few minutes ago.)

And it did.  One of them suggested they look through all their stuff again, and there it was, down in the bottom of the purse, smiling smugly up at them when they opened it. 

*****

We met some folks in Detroit airport, just before we boarded to skip over the pond, that we knew. 

I totally forgot about them ten minutes after we boarded.  If I had remembered, maybe it would have tempered my actions. 

Then again, maybe not.

Because stuff happens on a plane when it’s dark.  Especially when you have hours left to go and it seems like you’ve been couped up in the middle of the middle row of seats, and the guy beside you is gently snoring. 

It worked out to be about 3 in the morning, Kansas time when it started happening.  I hadn’t slept a wink yet; my sweet daughter had caught a couple of snoozes on the other side of my good wife who lounged up against me, sleeping the blissful sleep of a matronly woman such as her. 

There was a show on the screens on the back of the seats in front of us.  I wish I could remember the name of it, but maybe it is better I don’t.  Because if I did, I’d probably go watch it and every rerun there was.  It had something to do with three guys who set up challenges for each other involving cars, time limits, and terrain limits.  It all seemed innocuous enough.  Until they started handing out punishments to each other when they failed to make the goal. 

One scenario was in Africa, in desperately hot temperatures.  One guy’s car failed and he worked frantically to get it going.  Of course, since it was a show, I’m sure he doozied it up on purpose, especially with folks on airplanes at 3 in the morning in mind.  His punishment for loosing the race was that he had to where a turtleneck sweater for the rest of the day in his unairconditioned car in Africa.  For some reason, the recording camera was in his car the rest of the day and we were privy to every one of his groans and absurd comments.

I started to laugh.  At three in the morning though, it’s mostly an insane giggle that shakes and bakes and morphs into outright guffaws, tears, and sniffles, interrupted by the occasional aftershock chortle.  The sweet daughter woke up and stared at her old man incredulously. 

Until she saw the screen.

Pretty soon she was doing the woman’s version of what I was doing. 

The matronly woman who lounged up against me stirred herself.

She awakened enough to see part of what was going on and then quickly convinced herself to go back to sleep. 

But with the daughter and I on each side of her carrying on, as she later said, sleep seemed impossible. 

And she soon got a little grouchy at us.  Because the thing kept circling on us.  We’d just have it under control, sweat and tears wiped away, and we’d have to give it another go.  She later told us there was a lady across the aisle that had watched us and finally gave a look that said we were all but gonners. 

I suppose we were mostly gone. 

And I seriously wonder where those folks we met back in Detroit were seated in that plane.  I hope at least 31 rows either front or back of us. 

I never did see them again, which may be proof they witnessed our debacle and didn’t want anything to do with us after that.