tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75974660070456262072024-03-19T00:06:06.946-04:00Dad at the ChalkboardFatherhood, Marriage, Education, Writing, Books, My thoughts...forgive the clutter.Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.comBlogger167125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-3803631477721065702011-08-04T23:41:00.000-04:002011-08-04T23:41:24.970-04:00My Review of Freshwaterboys by Adam Schuitema<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.litstack.com/"><img border="0" height="89" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nVMJFoZEnPtayGUKJixYwNopXTFsSkZdeNQdo9szIDwa_h3mn1hc7r2eVWHk1yXu8Imy4erW8o4q91vgmKAxuDfbx0KUN7q4GwrZmi8cuJqFBVWL-PkBp7hXdEuCthmvh1_sOi8DqxzV/s320/litstacklogo.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Well, Litstack went live on Monday and my first review went live today. You can find my review of Adam Schuitema's wonderful collection of short stories<a href="http://litstack.com/?p=130"> here.</a><br />
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Freshwaterboys is a fantastic read that I heartily recommend.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Freshwater-Boys-Stories-Adam-Schuitema/dp/1883285402/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1312515431&sr=1-1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmT7k4Yme5I7M22zKfi7fFXuGHGF-RMzf5hCzqQXWVE5rLVk9bOCqYwumdG11FrD7OgPBQAq9CvkifOt8wZHOXfNqXJH_NHAyA5LLMr6cwrb_EZVwufCkhOepyRM1-JVXYKsucwYKA4b1R/s200/Freshwater+Boys.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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You can also find a short blurb about my favorite novel as a fourteen year old. You can find that <a href="http://litstack.com/?p=258">here</a>. My entry is number four.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Stephen-King/dp/0451169514/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1312515473&sr=1-1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQEHnx3Tt35IzEogddxMinqjQwbqD0P8jOuStlWabzX46aS7T8sylOxTGHvYk7CLximq7Wd-sTpmyTCOOl7l70uEd9pnxppqg_uNDlqGcuKvLwL4X_7kHCIR3AjlUEtLcWuP-LYJaaSaHN/s200/it.jpg" width="143" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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GO check out LITSTACK. Not just my stuff, but all the content. I am very fortunate to ave been asked to fall in with some amazing writers. My time at LITSTACK will be time well spent. Same goes for you.<br />
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Stay thirsty, my friends...Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-89940355383551652092011-07-07T08:17:00.001-04:002011-07-07T23:03:42.027-04:00A Life Ended Far Too SoonThere is something morally repugnant about someone being "taken before their time" as the saying goes. Not that we can truly know when someone's "time" is "supposed" to be up, but we can nevertheless feel shock and anger at the height of the unfairness of a life lost at a young age, under circumstances that are <i>anything</i> but natural.<br />
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Early Saturday morning a good friend lost his brother in just such a manner. Chad Richard Litchford, a thirty-one year old father to be and a combat veteran of tours in Iraq and Afghanistan, was killed when his truck, which he had pulled over to the side of the road because it was having mechanical problems, was struck by a vehicle being driven by an allegedly drunk driver when it drifted over the white line and onto the shoulder. The truck slammed into Chad's truck and moments later his life was ended.<br />
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I was fortunate enough to have met Chad a few times. I recall speaking with him and listening in a kind of awe as he recounted to my stepfather and I some of his stories from his time in Iraq. He spoke of dangerous environments and daring actions with a casual air, as I would of a typical day in the classroom where the greatest danger I face is maybe having to take a late lunch. He didn't put on airs or puff out his chest. He was doing his duty. It was as simple as that.<br />
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The absurdness of what happened early Saturday morning on an anonymous stretch of Texas roadway cries out for understanding, for some sort of acceptable clarity. How can it be, we are left to wonder, that a man can spend years in some of the most dangerous and violent of places on the planet, where the very uniform he voluntarily donned each day made him a target of violence, that a man who was willing to lay down his life to protect the flag I salute each morning with my students, to protect the very freedoms scores of men and women who had gone before him had given their lives to enshrine and protect, did not face his final moments on a field of battle, but on a deserted Texas road.<br />
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Not at the hands of a confirmed enemy he had been trained to engage.<br />
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But at the hands of a citizen of the very country he fought to protect, whose mind and driving reflexes were most likely dulled by excessive amounts of alcohol and the lateness of the hour.<br />
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We cry out for understanding...but there is none to be had. Sometimes life simply defies any attempt at understanding.<br />
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So we remember. We remember the life of a man who served his country, willingly and repeatedly. We remember the life of a soldier, a brother, a father, a son. We remember the laughter, the fun times, a history shared and yes, even the tough times. We remember that we were privileged to have known this man. We wrap our arms around a family that is in pain, that struggles to deal with the hole that has been punched into the fabric of their reality. We remind them that they are surrounded by many who are ready at the drop of a hat to do whatever they need at this difficult time.<br />
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Though Chad's time on earth may have been short, the memories of his life will not be. The memories of those who we have lost stay with us. Though we age, they do not. The joy and the pain, the laughter and the tears, the good and the bad. Our memories become a part of our soul, stitched there to remain forever. And though life will continue to swirl about us, though events will still occur for which we have little or no understanding, the memories that become a part of us will never leave.<br />
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My thoughts and prayers are with the entire Litchford family.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqt8hZz8aE7OEmwVnb7ry9qoxwhjitNqhzu3ZIIh4SouOZCl4kNVaalFGIRZhBxX6sokMOHAQtrf7cAXffRa-OPCEXl9mHCckvOwLyOIwJ738ZmzEHGrw_mRneUXnZvVuUunOF9Kixn3W/s1600/chad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwqt8hZz8aE7OEmwVnb7ry9qoxwhjitNqhzu3ZIIh4SouOZCl4kNVaalFGIRZhBxX6sokMOHAQtrf7cAXffRa-OPCEXl9mHCckvOwLyOIwJ738ZmzEHGrw_mRneUXnZvVuUunOF9Kixn3W/s1600/chad.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Chad Richard Litchford 1980 - 2011</span></div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-91730134151523798432011-06-25T00:30:00.001-04:002011-06-29T16:14:32.031-04:00It's Nice to Have Talented Friends - S2JVoxI have many talented friends. Some I have known for years, some I have met only within the last year or two.<br />
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One of those i have met recently is an awesome guy named Sean. He is one of three of a talented group called S2JVox. They combine one female and two male voices to create beautiful music. They have a facebook page and a twitter page. Check out the videos below and give them a follow. You won't regret it.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Ct-bDTN9yT4" width="425"></iframe><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/6VZK5-CR_ko" width="425"></iframe><br />
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They also have their own YouTube channel. Find it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/user/S2JVox#p/u/2/6VZK5-CR_ko">here</a>.<br />
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Go check them out. Tell them the Chalkboard Dad sent ya!Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-22579557222111761082011-06-23T23:53:00.001-04:002011-06-24T18:17:57.396-04:00Homecoming<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The following is my entry for the <a href="http://bestdamncreativewritingblog.com/2011/06/20/bdcwb-flash-fiction-challenge-2/">Best Damn Creative Writing Blog's second Flash Fiction </a>challenge. I hope you enjoy it and as always, welcome any comments you might have.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18BmWM7w7-6i42pBkMqQogIjpFXWPzXi8srUL4-wZcf0iFy2tADgXzfN09WXTGbCYTednem6PypUo4l7PXcDVkjGYdopZxKgONc_iI3etnxd6nK3r6VHxFribgqE7MTipZ8_JjnQHGicx/s1600/field-road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj18BmWM7w7-6i42pBkMqQogIjpFXWPzXi8srUL4-wZcf0iFy2tADgXzfN09WXTGbCYTednem6PypUo4l7PXcDVkjGYdopZxKgONc_iI3etnxd6nK3r6VHxFribgqE7MTipZ8_JjnQHGicx/s320/field-road.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first thing I become aware of is the feel of the rocks. I look down at my feet and note with some alarm that they are shoeless. I flex my toes and feel the pressure of several small stones that I am standing on. My eyes rise slowly and follow the path of a dirt road, dotted with the same small stones and pebbles. From my vantage point the road seems to stretch on into forever in both directions, a landscape resigned to sameness.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I begin to walk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Standing tall on either side, a wall of corn stalks moves with the road, a perfectly parted sea of green. A gentle breeze stirs the long leaves, the sound of rustled pages in an old library. I look up into a sky of clouds, an iron gray shield through which the sun is powerless to penetrate.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It suddenly dawns on me to wonder exactly where I am. I have no memory of where this road began or even how I came to be on it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I continue to walk past the stalks of the whispering corn plants. There is no other sound. The clouds move slowly overhead. I walk for a time. It is impossible to know how long exactly without the benefit of the sun. The landscape around me remains unchanged, the corn my sole companion.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Still, I walk.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That’s when I spot a figure standing in the road up ahead. Too far away to make out a face or any other defining characteristics, the figure stands still in the middle of my road. Anxious to speak to another person, to find out where I am, I pick up the pace, my bare feet sending up small puffs of dust that the constant breeze tosses into the corn behind me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I get closer the figure’s face comes into focus.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">What I see stops me dead. I stare, the only action I seem capable of.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The man in front of me, perhaps sensing the shutdown of my mental circuitry, closes the gap between us. Impossibly he stands before me.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Josh?” I whisper, shock robbing my voice of any real strength. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My brother nods and smiles.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My mind screams that this cannot be. The last time I saw my brother’s face was when I said my goodbyes, when I laid that photograph of the two of us at the old lake house when we were kids beside his still body as it lay in its casket, clad in his finest military dress uniform.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Josh…how…” I begin, trying to make sense out of what my eyes tell me I am seeing.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Suddenly the clues fall into place in my mind, like so many dominoes pushed by an invisible hand. Understanding floods my soul with a peace so complete no words ever uttered on this Earth would ever do it justice.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My long lost brother raises his arms, tears beginning to spill from the corners of his hazel eyes.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">“Welcome home, brother.”</span><br />
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</span>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-58071401601006981462011-06-19T22:50:00.002-04:002011-06-19T22:51:06.440-04:00Happy Father's Day (It's the DAD Life)<div><br />
As Father's Day 2011 comes to a close I leave you all with a great video.</div><div><br />
</div><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="295" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/DOKuSQIJlog?fs=1" width="480"></iframe><br />
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</div><div>Word.</div><div><br />
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</div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-39172961170252295752011-06-05T15:19:00.003-04:002011-06-10T15:46:26.175-04:00The Twenty-Six Year Old Hug or Why One Should Never Laugh in a Deserted Funeral HomeAt around 4:30 AM on Monday, May 30, 2011 my grandmother died.<br />
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If it hadn't been for the keyboard, I would have missed what occurred at 9:45 AM on Friday, June 3, 2011.<br />
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That's when, five days after she died, my grandmother spoke to me for the last time.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
On Thursday morning we were sitting in the auditorium at The Peanut's school, waiting for her kindergarten farewell concert to begin. My mother was going over the funeral plans with The Wife, my mother-in-law, and me. 'Nana', as we have always called her, is a deeply devoted Christian woman. She had been ill for a long time so death's approach was not exactly a surprise. When she discussed her impending funeral with my mother, she told her that she wanted several hymns sung at her service. The only problem with that turned out to be that there was no piano or organ available for Mom to play at the funeral home. My mother-in-law, who has been taking piano lessons for a year now, offered us the use of her electric keyboard so Mom didn't have to lead everyone in singing the songs A Capella. <br />
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Friday morning, the day of the funeral, I drove over to my in-law's house to pick up the keyboard and its three piece stand. I loaded it up in the back of my car and drove over to the funeral home. I pulled up the winding driveway and parked the car right at the front entrance. A kindly old lady in a day-glow yellow shirt and interestingly checkered pants met me at the door. She was expecting me and I was ushered into the viewing room.<br />
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I was surprised to see that Nana was already in the room. No flowers or anything yet, just her body, resting in a chestnut colored casket. I registered her presence then got to the task at hand. It took me about fifteen minutes to get all the pieces out of the car and assembled correctly at the front of the room, to the left of the casket. For the first ten minutes, the woman in the gods offending bright yellow shirt sat and watched me, as if afraid to leave me alone with the body, sure that should she turn her back or leave the room I would leap up from my spot on the floor, sharpie marker in hand, and draw an evil handlebar mustache and matching pointy beard on nana's restful face. She just sat there and watched me. No conversation, just the optical scream of her shirt and the regularity of her short, quick breaths.<br />
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I finished putting the stand together and just needed to attach and screw in the keyboard itself when the phone in the office next door began to ring.<br />
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"Will you be alright if I go answer that?" she asked me.<br />
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I assured her that I would. I even put the screwdriver down and made sure she saw my empty hands to put her at ease. She nodded and shuffled out to take the call. I had the keyboard attached and screwed safely in place three minutes later.<br />
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My task complete, I walked over to Nana's casket. She lay there peacefully, arms to her sides, dressed in a beautiful purple beaded dress that I recalled her wearing to my wedding. I stood in silence for a moment, just looking; the only sounds in the room the quiet hum of the air system and the faint murmuring of the telephone conversation in the other room. A lump began to form in my throat, a feeling of sorrow at her passing mixed with the relief that she was no longer in pain. Her face so calm and tranquil, she could have been in the middle of the world's most soothing dream.<br />
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As I turned to go I placed my hand on her arm. It happened the second I touched her cool skin.<br />
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I was suddenly and overwhelmingly flooded with memories. The onslaught was as sudden as the burst of water from the copper end of a kinked garden hose that has just been loosened. Childhood memories I had not thought of for years, decades even, came rushing back. I stood there with my hand resting on nana's arm, floating in a sea of forgotten memories. Then one specific memory dropped into place and I was taken back in time.<br />
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<i>I grew up in Marcus Hook, a small borough in the southeast corner of Pennsylvania, about twenty minutes drive south from Philadelphia. About five blocks from my house stood one of the last remaining vestiges of a staple in the lives of children in twentieth century America. A penny candy store. Our penny candy store was called Bonsal's. The dim, one roomed shop, its interior lit by a single, sickly light bulb hanging from the ceiling was my childhood Mecca. It was presided over by the indomitable Mrs. Margaret. Every child who grew up in Marcus Hook from the 1950s to the 1980s knew Mrs. Margaret. The 1980s was the decade when I was an active patron at Bonsal's, near the end of the run for both the candy store and for Mrs. Margaret herself. She looked to be in her late seventies. Frizzy white hair sprung out on all sides, surrounding her aged face. Eyebrows, freshly applied every day in two stark, black lines above her watery blue eyes. Her lipstick, a deep red, almost a blood red in my memory's eye, often staining her teeth. Every day but Sunday, there she stood behind the massive glass counter, dressed in her trademark white blouse and plaid skirt awaiting the orders of scores of children, their faces pressed against the glass, eyes drinking in the sight of a smorgasbord of sugary confection. Ordering etiquette, much like in the shop of Seinfeld's Soup Nazi, was to be closely followed, lest one be fixed with an icy, irritated stare. Her nicotine laden voice would call you to attention and you would place your money on the glass counter top, then step back and call out your order, pointing out your choices with tiny, dirt stained fingers. Mrs. Margaret would slide the wooden panels at the back of the case back and forth as she filled your order, placing your carefully considered choices into a tiny, brown paper sack.</i><br />
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<i>One day in the summer of 1985, two friends and I were desperate for a trip to Bonsal's. There was only one problem. Our pockets were as void of cash as space is void of oxygen. I ran across the street to see if I could bum any money off of Nana, who was always very reliable when it came to the giving of small amounts of cash. I walked into the house, enjoying the comfortably familiar squeal of the floorboards as I entered. I went to her room to find her sound asleep. I began to turn away in disappointment when I noticed her purse on the floor next to the bed. Open. A veritable open invitation to my sugar starved, preadolescent brain. Desperately trying to channel the feather soft steps of a ninja I walked across the small room and knelt before her purse. Sitting right on top was her wallet, a lime green pouch with tarnished clasps, a time traveler from the 1960s. At this point we no longer had simply an open invitation. I was now facing an outright demand that I just help myself. I opened it as quietly as I could and pulled the two sides of the wallet apart. Lying at the bottom, resting atop a few pennies and a pack of gum, Andrew Jackson stared up at me with a noble expression, his wavy hair arranged magnificently atop his green head. The firm hand of conscience held me back for all of a second or two before I snatched the twenty dollar bill up, closed the wallet, and made my way back outside to my friends, a conquering Hannibal, moving money instead of elephants. In our joy no one bothered to wonder aloud if twenty dollars might have been a sum TOO rich to take. All we saw was mountains of candy, a summer's supply, all in one fell swoop and within our grasp.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>Our euphoria carried us over to Bonsall's in no time at all, the fifteen minute walk seeming almost instantaneous. I pushed the aging green door open, the tiny bell at the top announcing our arrival. Mrs. Margaret was sitting behind the candy case on her stool, leafing through the pages of a magazine. I do not recall any surprise on her face when I placed the twenty dollar bill confidently on the glass top, no inkling of the plan which I am sure began to form in her mind as soon as I laid such an exorbitant sum of money before her. For twenty minutes she filled our order, my two friends and I discussing what we wanted and what quantity we wanted it in with the intense care and concentration of battle field generals preparing a daring assault. When we finished ordering we walked out of the candy shop, eight brown bags bursting to the brim with a king's ransom in candy. We were the lords of all creation.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>For a time.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>We went to an abandoned lot close to home, which we called The Process for reasons I never knew, and sat under a tree and tore into our haul. We did not linger. We all wanted to get home before our parents so we could hide the evidence. No realistic explanation for possessing such a large amount of candy could be figured out so we decided as a group to go with deception. We split the candy three ways. Naturally since it was "MY" money that we used, I was entitled to a slightly bigger share. I walked home on top of the world, a smooth operator with days of sugar laced goodness before him. I walked right past my driveway. It never even occurred to me that it would have been a good idea to look to see if my mother's muted red Pinto was there or not. She was supposed to be at work and I had no reason to believe otherwise so I didn't even bother trying to hide the bulging paper sacks I was carrying. I opened the silver painted gate to my front yard, raced up the walk and onto the front porch. I opened the front door and my idyll was smashed to pieces before me.</i><br />
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</i><br />
<i>My mother was sitting at the bottom of the steps, still wearing her brown Wawa uniform. I froze in place, exhibits A, B, and C of my crime clutched in hands that were suddenly drenched in sweat. I was caught. Mom didn't even ask where I had gotten so much candy. Apparently, as soon as we left her shop, Mrs. Margaret called Nana and asked her if she knew where I would have gotten twenty dollars to spend on candy. Nana had no idea but one quick search of her wallet, still coated with my invisible fingerprints, revealed the answer. She then got on the phone to my mother who left work to lie in wait for me, a lioness anticipating the arrival of the weakest and the slow. She made me arrange the candy in a huge mountain of guilt on our dining room table, then she sent me up to my bedroom at the back of the house to await my father's arrival from work.</i><br />
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<i>I lay in bed, tears leaking from my eyes, stomach tying itself into knots, waiting for my father to come home, when I knew the bill for my stupidity would come due. And come due it did. He made me throw every last piece of candy away. He didn't let me just dump the bags in the garbage. He made me select each piece and throw it away individually. It took quite a bit of time. I spent the next week confined under house arrest, waking each morning to a day of house chores and a bed time strictly enforced as soon as the sun began its decline into the west. I also had to personally apologize, torture for an eleven year old boy, to both Nana and Mrs. Margaret. For the rest of that summer Bonsal's Candy lost its allure for me. Swedish fish, candy buttons, and bubble gum cigarettes had become the taste of guilt in my mouth, one I avoided at all costs.</i><br />
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As I stood at Nana's casket this memory played out in my mind's eye. If you had asked me to recount it for you a week ago, I would not have been able to. Sure, I would have remembered getting in trouble for stealing some money. But the clarity of the memory I have just shared with you simply was not there, not until I stood with Nana in that nearly deserted funeral home. And then, one final detail clicked into place, as if it was being whispered in my ear by the woman on whose arm my hand still rested.<br />
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<i>About a week after I got off my punishment I was with Nana in her room. We were watching some cartoon on the TV and she asked me to turn it off for a second. Nana was an epileptic and she was often not feeling well so I assumed she was going to ask me to head out so she could get some sleep. But she didn't. After I turned the knob on the TV to off she called me over. She put her arms around me and looked right into my eyes. "Brian, sweety," she said. "I am sorry I got you in so much trouble with your dad. If you wanted twenty dollars to buy candy for you and your friends, all you had to do was ask me. I would have given it to you. I want you to know that I forgive you for stealing money out of my wallet." Then she hugged me tight and I hugged her back, tears of shame and gratitude mixing on my cheeks.</i><br />
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I looked at Nana's peaceful face, life's pain and hardship vanished from it forever. I looked at the woman who twenty-six years earlier had forgiven me for stealing from her and assured me all I had to do was ask and she would do what she could to make me happy.<br />
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'That was Nana,' I thought to myself. 'Caring more for my happiness then the obvious health issues raised by an eleven year boy eating twenty dollars worth of penny candy.'<br />
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That was when I laughed. The laugh was as unexpected as the flood of memory had been. I looked up. The old woman behind the desk still had the phone attached to her ear but she was halfway out of her seat, a wary look on her lined face. I figured it was time to go.<br />
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I leaned over quickly and planted a kiss on Nana's cheek.<br />
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"Thank you for forgiving me," I whispered through my tears. "And thank you for reminding me about it today."<br />
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I gave her arm a final squeeze then walked out into the bright June sunshine, the memory of a twenty-six year old hug filling my heart.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThPdjEUnrKsckaJv-bzpiXLLKNLVbGZyAhfh894KZbxUshOHUbsgull309Ox7uhzfcSw-xIbOQyjBdkgGZjtwZLMtYIc3Uu9ORkW0VR9bm6yV_O-bqEIgQXrvRnQJ2a0883Xj46LXUYxs/s1600/candy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiThPdjEUnrKsckaJv-bzpiXLLKNLVbGZyAhfh894KZbxUshOHUbsgull309Ox7uhzfcSw-xIbOQyjBdkgGZjtwZLMtYIc3Uu9ORkW0VR9bm6yV_O-bqEIgQXrvRnQJ2a0883Xj46LXUYxs/s1600/candy.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-46417207766715368942011-05-30T14:06:00.003-04:002011-06-04T16:17:44.512-04:00The Magic of Books or What I Have in Common With Bastian Bux<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2Yn8IDCrrRMMzw1kgYY2RDpRmrvGr1l42BAqNOc74D7R9BAxwq7T4ADIFtCV1aaTXdpBGTxRt4NJutPI6yUC_8_kB2Vn9TPYEx88aEnEFbQ0b_1Pm8ds1jT9tVVIhqyj7cox2_m1lA-W/s1600/demotivation.us_Books-That-is-exactly-how-they-work_130580980657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj2Yn8IDCrrRMMzw1kgYY2RDpRmrvGr1l42BAqNOc74D7R9BAxwq7T4ADIFtCV1aaTXdpBGTxRt4NJutPI6yUC_8_kB2Vn9TPYEx88aEnEFbQ0b_1Pm8ds1jT9tVVIhqyj7cox2_m1lA-W/s640/demotivation.us_Books-That-is-exactly-how-they-work_130580980657.jpg" width="387" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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I'm sure you've seen the movie. A mouse of a boy runs down an indifferent city street, three larger boys in pursuit. They had recently tossed him into a dumpster because he had no lunch money to give them and after he climbed out covered in garbage, they are trying to catch him to toss him back in. To escape his tormentors he ducks into a dusty old book store, great ratty-edged tomes scattered around, the shop owner sitting in a tall backed leather chair with a large book in his hands. The boy, an avid reader, asks the shopkeeper what book he is reading. The old man does not answer, instead he cryptically warns the young boy to stay away from the book as it is not "safe" as the other books he has read are.<br />
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When his phone rings the old man gets up to answer, setting the book down. The young boy, Bastian, sneaks a peek at the "unsafe" book. He sees a plain brown cover with only two distinguishing features. One is a medallion of sorts, two intertwined snakes, and the name of the book stamped in gold lettering at the bottom. The Neverending Story. Bastian cannot resist the temptation. He grabs the book, leaving the shopkeeper a note promising to return it, and takes off. The old man smiles knowingly when the shop door slams and he sees that his book has been borrowed.<br />
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Bastian makes it to school to find out that he is very late and that the day has already begun. Instead of entering the classroom and taking a late slip, he runs up into the attic of the old school, a forest of cobweb covered bric-a-brac, most of which looks like it would be more at home in the attic of a haunted Victorian mansion than the attic of a public school. Bastian settles in and begins to read this "unsafe" book and soon finds out why the old man gave it such a descriptor. He finds himself becoming a part of the story. Not in a metaphorical way. In a very real way it falls to Bastian to save not only the characters living their lives between the pages of The Neverending Story, but he discovers that he himself is a part of the tale, the only one with the power to save story itself from the destructive forces of The Nothing, the emptiness that is consuming fantasy because mankind has been losing their hopes and dreams.<br />
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The Neverending Story made a huge impression on me when I first saw it and not just because I was about Bastian's age when the movie was released. In a lot of ways I <i>was</i> Bastian. I recall days when I faked an illness so I could stay home and finish a book. When I was in seventh grade, instead of walking to my bus stop as usually required to do, I walked right past it and up to the Thriftway right near my house (where I would later work for one torturous summer) and found shelter in a copse of trees behind the store. I spent two days there, engrossed in Robert R. McCammon's <i>Swan Song</i>, sitting in the crook of a tree, lost in the story. I returned home each day at my normal time, complete with faked homework assignments and fictionalized accounts of a successful day at school. To my knowledge that literary tryst has remained secret from my parents until this moment. Sorry mom and dad (but not really as that is an excellent book). I was never chased by bullies demanding my lunch money and exchanging it for shame and ridicule, but a part of me did, in fact still does, relate very strongly to Bastian.<br />
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I have always loved to engage in story. The vehicle I take to get there does not matter. Be it reading or be it writing, it is not the destination as the old cliche goes, it is very much the journey. When I saw the picture posted above over at <a href="http://thelitexpress.blogspot.com/2011/05/this-is-why-we-read-books.html">The Lit Express</a> I just had to steal, I mean borrow, it. It put me in mind of The Neverending Story almost immediately. The boy, standing on the stack of books, the books giving him the physical lift he needs, looking over a drab wall full of graffiti at a world full of wonder. This is what fiction is for me. Not simply an escape form the real world, but a step up to live, for however short a time, in a world where the only limit to what can occur is the author's own imagination.<br />
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There will always be a part of me that will yearn for the special magic of books and story to not only lift me up above the wall of reality to view those amazing fictional worlds, but to slingshot me clear over, to land me right into the heart of a world my feet have never touched and my hands have never explored.. But until the day when I happen into an old used book store (hopefully not gasping for breath after a footrace from bullies) and find my own wizened shopkeeper with an "unsafe" book in his hands, I will continue to find my way there in my mind. I will let the author's words be that special magic and my own imagination the vehicle.<br />
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I have to go. I just heard a thunderous crash from behind that wall. Time to pick up my book, take a climb up on the stack, and see what it was.<br />
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Should this be the time I do not return, keep reading.<br />
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And keep dreaming.Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-34356641368411989552011-05-24T23:01:00.004-04:002011-05-25T09:22:40.027-04:00Towel Day 2011 or Dude, What's With the Towel?I was a gangly sixth grader when my dad took me to Captain Blue Hen Comics and introduced me to the prodigious talent that is Douglas Adams. I'd told him earlier in the day that I wanted to read a new author and he knew right away what the correct choice would be. We piled into his dark green Ford pickup and made the ten minute drive, the death rattles of the ancient muffler sending vibrations through the floorboards and into my sneakers as we drove.<br />
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We walked into the store, passing wall upon wall of comic books, and made our way to the back where they kept the books. My dad walked straight to the 'A' section and after a moment, plunked a copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy into my eager hands. I looked uncertainly at the cover. A man's hand, thumb extended in the classic "Hitcher's Pose", a green orb with arms sticking its tongue out at me.<br />
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I arched my eyebrow, adopting that look of supernatural disbelief that only insurance attorneys and adolescents can pull off.<br />
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"Trust me," he said. "And don't panic."<br />
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I took his advice and bought the book. I carried it with me everywhere. I devoured it in two sittings. Then I proceeded to read it again. A "concerned teacher" (who was clearly living in his own Long, Dark Tea Time of the Soul) at the private school I attended forbade me from bringing the book into his class and encouraged me to throw it away with great haste as it was written by an <b><i>atheist</i></b>, the word atheist uttered in the same sort of voice one might expect to hear the neighbor next door use to describe the time when Ted Bundy, the Unabomber, and Boy George crashed their twelve year old nephew's birthday party.<br />
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I didn't listen.<br />
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Twenty-five years after my first reading, Hitchhiker's still makes me laugh. Over the years Douglas Adams, very much true to form, gave us a great trilogy...in five books no less. Each one a continuation of a most intelligent, bizarre, hysterical story.<br />
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Adams died on May 11, 2001 of a heart attack. He was forty-nine years old. Two weeks later a group of his fans declared that May twenty-fifth was to be called Towel Day. Fans of Adams were to bring their favorite towel with them wherever they went. They were to bring it and keep it close, to work or to leisure activities, for the duration of the entire day. They have repeated this practice every May twenty-fifth since that day, and in ever increasing numbers. If you are sitting there wondering 'Why towels?' it is clear you have not read any of Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's books. At this point I suggest you get yourself out of your chair, throw on some shoes, run a comb through your hair, grab your car keys (pay no attention to that big yellow bulldozer in your front yard), and procure the books for yourself immediately.<br />
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I will be displaying my towel proudly today. I hope that you will be as well. And should you find yourself suddenly confronted by an infinite number of monkeys who want to talk to you about this script for Hamlet they've worked out...well then just keep in mind the two magical words fixed on the cover of the most wholly remarkable book in all the known universe...<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">For those of you still wondering. "Yeah, but...why TOWELS?" I leave you with the words of the man himself, from chapter three of the first in the "trilogy of five", The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffd966; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><i>The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels. A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitchhiker can have. Partly it has great practical value — you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble‐sanded beaches of Santraginus Ⅴ, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand‐to‐hand‐combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindbogglingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you — daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffd966; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 25px;"><i></i></span></span><br />
<div style="line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffd966; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><i>More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have “lost”. What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is, is clearly a man to be reckoned with.</i></span></div><div style="line-height: 1.6; margin-bottom: 15px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffd966; font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><i>Hence a phrase that has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in “Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There’s a frood who really knows where his towel is.” (<span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Sass</span>: know, be aware of, meet; <span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">hoopy</span>: really together guy; <span style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">frood</span>: really amazingly together guy.)</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"><i><br />
</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; line-height: 19px;">Stay hoopy, my friends.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYhhmo5n8V3O6kTxkfq5aCi-yo09n5EVIN2f5do0QqVYBMOo21b9TL_CqpF3TXPOTfRQZ0a6P5G_6ckB5kINHxe8FQ4MWlCwzqiPwEDgb1_jRnZazvN0k1AYYAeBxPbFcqB5nxna4l2dZ/s1600/towel+day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXYhhmo5n8V3O6kTxkfq5aCi-yo09n5EVIN2f5do0QqVYBMOo21b9TL_CqpF3TXPOTfRQZ0a6P5G_6ckB5kINHxe8FQ4MWlCwzqiPwEDgb1_jRnZazvN0k1AYYAeBxPbFcqB5nxna4l2dZ/s320/towel+day.jpg" width="286" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</span></span></div></div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-87224606500073718732011-05-24T09:25:00.000-04:002011-05-24T09:25:21.624-04:00Quick Review - Short Story Month 2011I have a quick review up over at <a href="http://bestdamncreativewritingblog.com/2011/05/24/ssm-2011-stories-all-new-tales">The Best Damn Creative Writing Blog</a> in celebration of national short story month. Go check it out.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://bestdamncreativewritingblog.com/2011/05/24/ssm-2011-stories-all-new-tales">SSM 2011: STORIES - All New Tales</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Stories-All-New-Tales-Neil-Gaiman/dp/0061230928/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1306243481&sr=8-1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6KSEfcWlwWlfZRA9aOLk_UGoqNsXuy9oTiQGrPYOznGhRRcmLJ7K9TEA35xu0r3koN_LEUVJNLwHFg1AJI68CCD_7_8jSqEA93EbMmboVrpoaX-SDFwR_9XdVqR0zOM5LHvQTEJYGNZHo/s200/stories.jpg" width="132" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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Have a favorite short story collection, or just a single favorite short story? Let's talk about it in the comments section!Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-48375797148624590352011-05-08T00:42:00.002-04:002011-05-24T23:03:47.645-04:00My Wife, A Mother Without Peer<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzdrU-O8Sc4BPK2WCaMWB-qdEJ6hp6OLXDkwu9mtuXLVlyOvy8dbFWrevBNWSMQwaCGh_KilVh7qxG3yi3y67FTcVFBbxb5CZPads43fbUkxd7AffFpHHVM_cqXaBu13IgQ9SOP-DvKhs/s1600/october+017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirzdrU-O8Sc4BPK2WCaMWB-qdEJ6hp6OLXDkwu9mtuXLVlyOvy8dbFWrevBNWSMQwaCGh_KilVh7qxG3yi3y67FTcVFBbxb5CZPads43fbUkxd7AffFpHHVM_cqXaBu13IgQ9SOP-DvKhs/s200/october+017.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">Mother is the name for God on the lips and hearts of all children.</div><div style="text-align: center;">- <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 15px;">William Makepeace Thackeray</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small; line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">Six years ago I witnessed you perform the most amazing feat I have ever beheld another human being accomplish. After nine months of lost sleep, heartburn, tired feet, exhaustion, an aching back and a body that changed on a daily basis, you brought into this world a remarkably beautiful baby girl. You performed this momentous accomplishment with no desire for recognition, no want of any accolades. I remember like it was yesterday. As you lay on that hospital bed, tears mingling with the sweat on your face, holding our newborn miracle, I asked you how in the world you had managed to pull it all off. You looked into my eyes and with a gentle shrug and a soft smile you murmured, "I am a mother. It's what I was meant to do."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">Since that chilly November day, when I didn't think I could ever possibly be more in awe of you, you have consistently shown me that what I had observed was simply the beginning of an amazing journey.</span><br />
<a name='more'></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">You have taken the idea of motherhood and transformed it into a beautiful symphony before my very eyes. You have nurtured, guided, inspired, healed, taught, comforted, coached, counseled, lead. You have done these things and more, all without missing a beat.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">Our daughter has a bright future ahead of her, restrained only by the limits of her very dreams. This is thanks in large part to the image of the strong yet humble woman of faith and devotion that she sees you live out day after day. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">As I sit here, I can close my eyes and see into that future. Our daughter, fully grown and in full possession of her mother's beauty, stands before a sea of people who are listening intently as she makes a speech at her college graduation. Her hazel eyes settle on yours as her lightly freckled cheeks break into a warm smile. She thanks you publicly for your example, for your indomitable devotion to the responsibilities of motherhood. A tear falls to her cheek as she acknowledges that she would not be where she is without you and the incredible example you have always modeled for her. As I sit here...I can see this moment. Lord willing, I know it will come.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">There is a short story called <u>The Gift of the Magi</u> by O. Henry. It is about an extremely poor young couple struggling to find ways to give each other the best, most amazing gift they can for Christmas. The wife takes her incredibly beautiful hair, which she adores, and sells it to obtain a platinum watch chain for her husband's pocket watch. The husband takes his most prized possession, a golden pocket watch, which had once belonged to his father and to his grandfather before him, and sells it to obtain money to purchase a set of tortoise shell combs she had been wanting for a long time. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">The moral of course is that material gifts pale in comparison to the things we do for each other that are born out of love. I love our daughter more than I ever thought it possible for one human being to love another. Were I granted by God the opportunity to grant her one gift, one chance to give her anything in this immense world of ours that I wished, I would fall on my knees and wish for nothing more than the gift that God has already bestowed upon her, the one he gave to her six years ago.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">The gift of you, a mother without peer.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 15px;">Happy Mother's Day, my love.</span></div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-38848317165612198512011-04-13T19:57:00.002-04:002011-04-13T20:18:46.968-04:00Harry the K - Has it Really Been Two Years?Unbelievable. I can still hear the voice, as clear today in my mind's ear as it was pouring out of the radio in the humid summers of my youth. I wrote the following piece the day we lost him. Phillies fans have missed Harry every game since that dark day in DC when The Voice was silenced forever.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Godspeed, Harry the K</div><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">It is cliche at times like this to say that life is uncertain and that it turns on a dime, but many cliches become so designated because they are true.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I, like many of the Phillies Phaithful, watched Matt Stairs crush that pitch last night into the visiting team's bullpen to give the Phills a two run lead. I whooped and hollered as the voice of springs and summers without number serenaded the ball with the immortal call as it soared over that Colorado fence. Had I know it would be the last time I would hear that call live, the rich bass elevated to a higher level in direct proportion to the flight of the ball, I would have paused.</span><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">No motion, no movement.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Just that wonderful voice in my ears, lifting my spirits as high as the baseball that soared gracefully out of the field of play and into the pen.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">But I was not to know. None of us were to know.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">This morning life went on as usual. Eagerly looking forward to an early game at three I began to work on a list of things I wanted to get done before the first pitch. Then, some time after one in the afternoon, life did its dime trick.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Over the Twitter wire...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">'</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">Harry Hospitalized [Updated]: Via John Finger's Twitter feed, Harry Kalas was just rushed to George Washington H.. <a href="http://bit.ly/11TqDC" rel="nofollow" style="color: #ffcc77; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">http://bit.ly/11TqDC</a>'</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I dropped my partially eaten sandwich back onto its plate and started jumping from site to site, offering up fervent prayers for Harry and his family. All sites reporting collapse, rush to hospital, prognosis...not good.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">About twenty minutes later the Twitter wire beeped again...</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />
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</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">'</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffeedd; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span class="status-body"><span class="entry-content">RT @<a href="https://twitter.com/tzolecki" style="color: #ffcc77; text-decoration: none;">tzolecki</a>: Tragic news. Harry Kalas has died.'<br />
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And just like that my life as a fan of the Phiadelphia Phillies was forever changed.<br />
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Life...turning on a dime.<br />
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I was shocked at the depth of sadness I felt for a man I had never met. I sat in front of my laptop, my to do list sitting forgotten on the floor where it had fallen and watched as first Twitter, then Facebook, then sites all over the Internet began to fill with that peculiar mix of anguish and fond memory that can only come with the passing of one that is held so dear. Local television stations reported the tragic news as it broke. Thousands of people, sharing my reaction, sharing our collective loss and remembering the life of a true legend.<br />
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Harry Kalas WAS the Phillies. Someone on one of the local news broadcasts said that players come on go...but Harry Kalas was a constant, a perennial fan favorite. Harry was always there for us.<br />
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When the team was doing well his enthusiasm was contagious. I think we all have our favorite Harry calls when his voice, the joy of victory personified, transported us right into the heart of the game. Every momentous Phillies moment I can remember was always elevated to a higher level when it was called by Harry the K.<br />
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When the Phills weren't doing so well Harry was never one to sugar coat it. When a Phillies fielder would make a perplexing decision or a Phillies pitcher would offer up a pitch to a batter that everyone in the civilized world knew was going to result in a massive home run, Harry let us know...but he did it with class. He did it with the hope that tomorrow, things would turn around. Harry helped me stay with the team in their truly atrocious years simply for that reason. No matter how bad it got, Harry always left me feeling like TOMORROW was the day. The guys would turn it around tomorrow.<br />
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Harry taught me to have 'high hopes'.<br />
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Thank you Harry.<br />
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Thank you for your love of baseball and for sharing it with us so well.<br />
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Thank you for 'Michael Jack' and 'That ball is OUTTA HERE!"<br />
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Thank you for showing us that celebrity and humility CAN go well together.<br />
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Thank you for being the soundtrack of my childhood summers.<br />
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We will never forget you.</span></span></span>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-2845754375059176302011-03-13T18:47:00.000-04:002011-03-13T18:47:02.683-04:00Daylight Saving Time Once Again - With Bibles!<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">As today is the time of year to set the clocks ahead one hour in honor of Daylight Saving Time (Thanks Ben Franklin, for more summer time to be outside) I thought I would pull out a post on the topic written two years ago. Would love to have you opine in the comments. This post was originally written on March 9, 2009.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">DAYLIGHT SAVING TIME...WITH BIBLES!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">As we cruised up the highway on the 40 minute commute this morning, the wife and I were having a discussion concerning daylight saving time. It went something like this...</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> (yawn) I am really super tired this morning.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Hrmm. (While driving and reading a Tweet on the phone at the same time...an activity I don't recommend)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> I said, I am really super tired this morning.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> (Putting the phone down and concentrating on the road before I plunge the three of us into a fiery death) Why is that?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> Well the clock on the dash says that it is 7:00, but the internal clock in my body is telling me it is really 6:00 so I am pretty tired.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> (Pausing to digest the comment) What? That's crazy.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> No, its not actually. It takes the body several days to adjust to the change of time when daylight savings time occurs. I saw it on Oprah once.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The phone beeps. I pick it up, new Tweets and an email coming in. Swerve to miss the car in front of me that was driving too slow. Heart rate increases. Put the phone back down, resolving not to pick it up again while behind the wheel.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> (slightly out of breath from my racing heart) That's silly. The clock said 10:00 when you fell asleep (You read correctly...10:00...PM...I know, right?) and 5:30 when you woke up...same as it always does.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> Yeah but that was really going to sleep at 9:00 and getting up at 4:30, not 10:00 and 5:30.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> (Pausing once again while I try to get my head around this thought) But...it's still the exact same amount of time.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> No, its not...it's an hour earlier.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> But...its still the EXACT same amount of time.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">At this point The Peanut, sitting in the booster seat in the back, breaks out in a rousing chorus of Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds. I am not sure if her knowledge and enjoyment of such a song borders on wisely broadening my daughter's horizons or just bad parenting...but it is the truth.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> Sweety, please sing a song that is not about mind altering drugs...we will be at preschool soon. (REALLY don't want that call)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">The Peanut ignores me and continues her Beatles tribute. I guess there could be worse things.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> It is <b>not</b> the same because my body...Peanut sweety, it's diamonds, not bibles...because my body is used to the time the way it was, not the way it now is.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> (Head reeling at this point) WHAT? Whatever time the clock tells you, that is what time it IS. I went to sleep at 12:18...got up at 6:05...that six hours felt like the six hours all the weeks before it. I don't understand this metaphysical trickery you are talking about. Six hours is six hours!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Peanut:</span> Mommy, why does Lucy like diamonds? Are they like the diamonds you have on your ring?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> Yes, sweety. Lucy just likes expensive jewlery. Brian, I really think more people would agree with me on this than they would with you.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> No way. Maybe it is a male/female thing. Most guys I know don't walk around whining about their "internal clocks" being messed up because of daylight savings time.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wife:</span> That's because most men aren't smart enough to know how to READ their internal clocks. Trust me. All normal people struggle with this when the time changes.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Peanut:</span> Lucy in the sky with bibles...Lucy in the sky with bibles...</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">As you can see, our morning commutes are quite...interesting.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">I would like to pose our morning's debate question to my readers out there. Which side of the fence do you live on?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Are you in my camp where the clock says what it says and you don't need to rely on tricky, mind/time bending excuses for why your body feels off?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Or are you in my wife's camp where your "internal clock" takes days or weeks to reset because it is now confused. (No wonder women can't program VCRs...kidding...mostly)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">If you feel so inclined, drop me your opinion (along with any other comments or backyard BBQ recipes) in the comments section here.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-22753279983085115222011-03-03T23:18:00.003-05:002011-03-03T23:24:33.816-05:00Grooming Future Scribblers or Kids, Writing Doesn't HAVE to Suck!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiJrInjTmOPhCzllPdbvCbSyJQWG2TrNZbT8Podln2ciY8eBSO_46zpH9JO1pZ4UX322OIDWNgCfQnQzhdCUDpBdpzDoCzyzs2RfjTWBqbps4ZGI4dg5jXdq-yfgZq86glgziMf0vjQRuA/s1600/writerkid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiJrInjTmOPhCzllPdbvCbSyJQWG2TrNZbT8Podln2ciY8eBSO_46zpH9JO1pZ4UX322OIDWNgCfQnQzhdCUDpBdpzDoCzyzs2RfjTWBqbps4ZGI4dg5jXdq-yfgZq86glgziMf0vjQRuA/s320/writerkid.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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I have been a devoted fan of writing since my heady days in the third and fourth grades when a few friends and I took pencil to paper to create our own (illustrated!) series of Choose Your Own Adventure stories and Doctor Who fan fiction (chicks dug us...HARD). It is an activity I have continued to enjoy (and even make an infinitesimal amount of money at) ever since.<br />
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Because of this long lasting affection for the written word, I take particular joy in the teaching of writing to my class of fifth graders. They come to me in late August, almost always completely united in their collective hatred of the craft I myself enjoy so much. If given a choice between writing a page long story or having a few cavities filled, many of them would gladly pull up the dentist chair, attach the little blue drool-bib themselves, and open wide.<br />
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With the fervent desire of the rabidly fundamentalist, I see it as my duty to change as many of these minds as I can over the course of the school year. To get my students to see writing not as some brutal holdover from the medieval torture chamber days, but as a worthwhile, artistic (they don't call it language ARTS for no reason), and dare I even suggest it, FUN, way to express themselves.<br />
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While the task may sound Herculean, it is not always so. The biggest hurdle to overcome is front loading the basics of grammar, form, and structure for the students. I cover these, and constantly review them over the course of the year, but the main thing I try to impart to the kids is a love for the ART that is writing. We work a great deal on figurative language, of infusing life into dead sentences with shots of adjectives, vivid verbs and specific nouns. We practice using sensory imagery, analogies and hyperbole. We experiment with different forms of narrative and even poetry.<br />
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Some years there is large buy in from the class. Other years they fight it tooth and nail. A particular group of kids has its own personality, dynamic and interests. Classes from year to year are as diverse and unique as the prints on your fingertips.<br />
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This year's group has really taken off with their writing. Around October, when I read them the short story <i>The Monkey's Paw</i> and then had them craft their own suspense tales, they have really begun to flourish. Their most recent task was to write a fictional account of a colossally bad day. It had to cover an entire day, from waking to sleeping, and it had to be totally made up. I told them they could use real events if they wanted but I really wanted them to go for fiction. Check out some of the awesome sentences that have come to be in these pieces.<br />
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Remember...these are regular fifth grade writers. Any names you see have of course been changed.<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"I dragged myself up the rough, cold, wooden steps, through the wide hallway and into my crammed room."</span> </b>(Everything I am looking for in this sentence.)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"When Sam tumbled out of bed on a cold, dreary Tuesday he slipped on his skateboard and fell on his head. It started to bruise right away and he just knew what kind of day it was going to turn out to be."</span> </b>(How great is this opening?)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"When I walked into the living room my dog looked very proud of himself. I noticed my math book and my coloring book on the ground, ripped into a million pieces."</span> </b>(This sentence gives me a GREAT mental image. Can't you just see the smug expression on the dog's face?)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"The Pitbull bit off his new shoes, ate and then spit them out like a furry paper shredder."</span> </b>("Furry Paper Shredder. How awesome is that?)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"I flew to my room and screamed, "I WANNA GO TO AUSTRALIA!" so loud I think Pluto heard me and blew up because the next morning on the news it said that Pluto wasn't a planet anymore."</span> </b>(I love this...absolutely love it. The Pluto news is FIVE YEARS OLD! I have no idea where this come from but it is AWESOME!)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"While we were there, three humongous eighth graders stole our phones and our money and beat us up. After they left, we looked like broken toys."</span> </b>(Most of us have been there. Would that we could have channeled the fighting spirit of Ralphie Parker when faced with our own Scut Farkas.)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"I had a very horrible, terrible, no good, very bad day! It was the worst day of my life! It was so tragic that I would rather live in Afghanistan with a battle going on then go through it again."</span></b> (wow...deep)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"Then I went back downstairs and my cousin was cackling like a donkey all morning because she saw me trip over my own feet."</span></b> (I have never actually heard a donkey cackle, but I applaud the effort!)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"I tried to get to the bathroom to wash my eyes out but I tripped on my skateboard and landed in a puddle of dog vomit. It was still warm and had the chicken in it from last night."</span></b> (Over the top gross...but descriptive, which WAS the goal)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"After Melvin released his foot from the puddle of duck poo, which felt a lot like warm pudding, he went to the bathroom to wash his feet."</span></b> (Again...gross...but descriptive)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"The teacher walked up to me, giving me the stinkeye."</span></b> (Any sentence that correctly uses stinkeye earns automatic kudos)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"She started to scream at me again. I wish all adults would talk they way they do in the Charlie Brown cartoons."</span></b> (Waaa..Wuh Wuh Waaah...Waaaaaaah)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"One day Hans woke up in his bunk bed as usual. He was on the bottom bunk and his younger brother had taken the top. He woke up to something dripping on his face from the mattress above. It smelled like asparagus. It was YELLOW! IT WAS PEE!!!!!!!"</span></b> (You have to love fifth grade boys. I preserved the original writing's caps and excessive use of exclamation points because they render the whole scene that much funnier to me. You can hear the narrator's voice rising as he realizes what is happening. Priceless.)<br />
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The last four examples are included not because they are exceptionally descriptive, but because they made me laugh out loud when I read them. The best part of teaching writing is reading gems like these...<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"At the end of the school day I had loud, horrid, stinky gas. I DISGUSTED myself!"</span></b> (If you are thinking a boy wrote that, you are incorrect)<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;"><b>"While I was tumbling down the stairs I noticed that my dog had bitten a hole in my shoe."</b> </span>(I love the visual this sentence gives me)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"I put my dollar in the snack machine but nothing came out so I shoved my hand into the machine. It got STUCK! Mr. H went and got all the other teachers to come laugh at me."</span></b> (I love when I make cameos in student writing. And she knows this is EXACTLY something that I would do...)<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"I put on some new clothes and went over to my friend Arthur's house. When I got there I knocked on the door and his dad let me in. There was McDonalds trash everywhere on the floor! That kid eats McDonalds every day because his dad is too lazy to cook!"</span></b> (Really praying that this is a fictionalized detail)<br />
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I saved the best for last. These last two lines were the close of an excellently funny and descriptive piece. They are my favorite not just because they were a superb way to end the piece, but they show a clever sense of humor that far exceeds its ten years of experience on this earth.<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"Two days later his father sued my parents for everything they have. And he WON! Me and my family lived on the cold street for two days until I wrote this brilliant story and became a millionaire! The end."</span></b><br />
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I hope you enjoyed reading these gems as much as I did. Drop me a comment, let me know what your favorite one is. Looking forward to seeing what you pick!Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-24205782155407469642011-02-26T14:35:00.001-05:002011-02-26T16:41:24.693-05:00The Duck Defines Me - The LieI don't know why I chose the occasion of my first Crusader Blogging Challenge to write a fictionalized account of myself waking up on a mysterious beach and hallucinating a conversation with a duck. It just happened.<br />
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I am sure that says something about me, but I am not sure what. If you have an opinion, comments are open.<br />
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I got a lot of positive comments about my strange entry. Thanks to those of you who read and commented. Comments are to bloggers what crushing unions is to Tea Party funded governors (What? Too soon??).<br />
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So what was the lie? While it is true that The Peanut had a rabbit, we did NOT name him Mr. Creosote because, well, that would be gross. If you are unsure who Mr. Creosote is, check out the YouTube video below. Before you do, a word of caution. It is very, very...unsettling. If a staggeringly fat man who vomits...a lot...disturbs you, perhaps you should pass on the video.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/aczPDGC3f8U" title="YouTube video player" width="490"></iframe><br />
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The Peanut actually decided to name the rabbit Herbert Neddinger.<br />
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And no...that is NOT a lie.Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-59114072183468096152011-02-21T13:30:00.003-05:002011-02-21T13:45:17.584-05:00Crusade Challenge #1 - The Duck Defines Me<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My entry for the first crusader challenge over at <a href="http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/2011/02/first-crusader-challenge.html" target="_blank">Rach Writes</a> is finished. I had to introduce myself in 300 words or less within the following parameters. I had to tell one secret, one lie, one personal quirk, one annoying habit, one of my best character traits, and one of my most favorite things in the whole world. I also had to work in the inclusion of four words; bloviate, fuliguline, rabbit, and blade. It was a lot of fun to write. If you can find the lie, drop it in the comments section.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><u>The Duck Defines Me</u></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first thing I became aware of was the sound of the waves as they fell upon the shore. Then the smell of salt on the breeze. I lifted my head, cracking open one gummy lidded eye, and winced as a blade of bright sunshine shut it tight. I opened the other eye and sat up.<br />
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A duck sat at my feet, which were mysteriously bare.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Rough night,” it said. Not a question, a statement.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I blinked. “I…I don’t remember.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The duck ruffled its feathers as it hopped over my leg. “What’s your name?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Again, I blinked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I don’t remember that either,” I replied.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The duck snorted. It adjusted its feathers again and fixed me with a disconcerting fuliguline stare.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Don’t remember huh? Well, let me have a go. From that dog-eared Neil Gaiman paperback in your pocket, I can tell you are the kind of guy who always wears cargo shorts just so you can have a book with you at all times. You won’t watch the show GLEE because you are afraid that if you do…you might like it too much. Your tendency to engage in bloviation when discussing things you care about is an annoyance to some. You named your daughter’s fat pet rabbit Mr. Creosote as an homage to Monty Python. You seem to be a pretty even-tempered guy, who always tries to see both sides of an issue. The only thing you love more than ample time to read or write is having time to spend with your wife and daughter. I’d say that about does it.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“But…how did I get here?” I asked.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The duck shrugged its wings and turned back to the ocean.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 12pt;">“Beats me. Ask the spotted hippopotamus behind you.”</span><br />
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</span>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com29tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-52576657247707626152011-02-20T16:08:00.005-05:002011-02-21T22:45:57.287-05:00One Family's Tragedy - A Plea For Help<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5brhA0DZKB5O2bA5GJ_nQxL7voCpsMv3z2M0-dxvwRepBX3UYT9iNjX58IT6BcxkKvCq-l0xaMr469L8ab7FMoEtuqhMNbNh8o3xZ-k80c-mz3VS8bwYOKAS15_i5WKuzbQNXV_lPhB6/s1600/givingredclothheart.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5brhA0DZKB5O2bA5GJ_nQxL7voCpsMv3z2M0-dxvwRepBX3UYT9iNjX58IT6BcxkKvCq-l0xaMr469L8ab7FMoEtuqhMNbNh8o3xZ-k80c-mz3VS8bwYOKAS15_i5WKuzbQNXV_lPhB6/s200/givingredclothheart.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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I have previously written on this blog about the cliche that declares life can turn on a dime. I think a lot of cliches catch on because at their center rests a seed of truth. This seed tends to be a truth that is fairly universal, thus leading to the birth of the accepted cliche.<br />
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On Christmas Eve 2010 here in Delaware, life once again performed its cruel dime trick. The Haxton family, Paul and Trina, along with their two daughters Lyndsey and Hayley, were traveling to see family for the holidays. Sadly, they never arrived at their destination. They were involved in a horrible accident en route to their family celebration. Both Paul and Trina were thrown from the vehicle. Paul Haxton lost his life. His wife Trina was flown to a trauma center in Baltimore, her condition desperately critical. The two girls, ages six and four, escaped the accident with minor injuries. Nearly two months after the accident Trina remains at a rehabilitation center in Maryland. Her recovery has been long and arduous, yet she has been making great progress.<br />
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We got to know Paul and Trina through our daughter. Lyndsey and The Peanut have played fall and spring soccer together for five seasons. In the fall of 2008 they played together on a team for the first time. Their soccer coach, Coach Ben, is a great guy and a fantastic soccer coach for the kids. We like Coach Ben (and more importantly The Peanut LOVES him) and we have stayed with him since that fall season. The Haxtons stayed with him as well and, as faithful soccer moms and dads, we are fortunate enough to have gotten to know them. One of the greatest things about Paul was how obvious it was just how crazy he was about his two little girls. He and I would help Coach Ben run practice and we even coached a game one week when Ben couldn't be there. He was a very patient and understanding man who clearly loved working not just with Lyndsey, but with all the kids. The spring season which will be starting up in a month or so will not be the same without him.<br />
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I am writing this post to ask my readers for help. Tonight we went to a benefit and silent auction at <a href="http://www.club3de.com/">Club 3</a> in Wilmington. It was amazing and inspiring to see what a group of determined friends and family, with the support and tremendous generosity of local businesses and politicians (including Senator Tom Carper), can accomplish to help Trina and the girls. A trust has been set up for them. Proceeds from tonight's event will go straight to the girls. Trina's road to recovery will continue to be a long one and every dollar given will help.<br />
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As I sat watching well over a hundred people coming together, donating money for Trina and the girls, it hit me that there was something else I could do. And that's where you come in. I don't generally make requests like this through the blog, but this is an exceptional situation. I will post a mailing address at the bottom of this post. I would like to ask any and all of you who have the means to please consider making a donation to the trust set up for Trina and the girls. I know I have a lot of compassionate readers. ANY money we can raise will be appreciated.<br />
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Life can be cruel when it performs its dime trick. It is down right frightening how life can change so permanently in a fraction of a second. But we can do something to help make that heavy burden just a bit lighter. Donations can be mailed to the address below the short YouTube video. Thank you for your time and consideration of this most noble of causes.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Y7cLbb0cDvI" title="YouTube video player" width="480"></iframe><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">DONATE VIA STANDARD MAIL:</span><br />
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THE HAXTON FAMILY FUNDRAISER<br />
364 E. MAIN STREET<br />
SUITE 406<br />
MIDDLETOWN, DE 19709<br />
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**Please note that all checks or money orders need to be made payable to VERONICA ERNST, I.T.F. In the memo line of a check please write LYNDSEY AND HAYLEY TRUST FUND.<br />
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Thanks so much for your time and consideration.<br />
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</div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-19606523592123053722011-02-14T14:06:00.003-05:002011-02-14T14:09:02.178-05:00Writing - It's a Love/Hate Thing.<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible." - Vladimir Nabokov</span></b></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #ffe599;">"Writing is easy. All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead." - Gene Fowler</span></b></div><br />
The act of writing is a strange beast. A creature to love and to loathe, quite often at the exact same time.<br />
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It can be an act whose very execution causes the soul to feel at one with the universe. The writer can almost feel the wind blowing full-on into the sails of the story, mother nature herself dotting the i's and crossing the t's. The act of writing becomes a journey to a mythical land, where mysteries abound and the unexpected can happen at any time. A tantalizing feeling of creative freedom unlike any other.<br />
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It can also be a real soul-sucking, spirit-crushing, pain in the ass.<br />
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Some days I sit before the keyboard and the words just spill out of me, a veritable Niagara Falls of ideas. Smoke rises from the keyboard as my fingers blaze over it, the soft tapping of the keys a symphony of creativity. The clock vanishes from my mind, the world around me falls away, a vague figure behind thick, opaque glass. I love these days when they occur. It would be more accurate (and, admittedly, a tad pretentious) to say I live for these days. To watch a world or an idea gloriously take shape with me as its architect.<br />
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Then there are the other days.<br />
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Days when my mind is full to bursting with the desire to write, fingers at the ready, the house set at quiet (mostly)...yet...nothing. The flow is blocked. I urge. I push. I strain. Still nothing. Not so much as a single, cohesive sentence that doesn't look like one of my fifth grade students wrote it. No, that's not fair. A sentence so malformed that even my fifth graders would sneer at its stylistic ineptitude. I try to eradicate the block. I take a walk. I listen to some music. I do some work around the house. I read. I lose my way in the quagmire known as Facebook or its thorny neighbor, Twitter. I sit and stare at the wall.<br />
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Sometimes I am successful and the stubborn block eases a bit, enabling me to get something that is readable down. But there are other days when, no matter how much I try to dislodge it, the block stays firmly cemented in place, smugly smirking at my efforts. On these days, when my frustration is at its highest, when I want to toss the laptop into the incinerator and reduce it to a tiny, smoking lump, I have started to do something new. I have started to write anyway. I grit my teeth and take a chainsaw to that block, writing as an act of sheer, determined, willpower. Mostly what comes out on these days is weak. But it is there. Granted, a good deal of it finds its way to the bottom of my digital recycle bin, but not all of it. The creative juices, as stunted as they were, flowed just a bit.<br />
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Through this bullheaded insistence to write, even when my own personal creativity department has headed off to Fiji for the day without me, I have discovered a strange phenomenon. The more I tackle these frustrating days head on, the frequency of their occurrence diminishes. They are hell to go through. But I come out on the other side better than when I went in, even if I end up deleting a good portion of what I wrote. "Builds character," as my dad always said when I was a kid. When those words came out of his mouth I knew that I was in for some back-breakingly difficult work, something I would not enjoy but that I would be able to learn from, whether I wanted to or not.<br />
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Turns out at age thirty-seven, it still means the same thing.<br />
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How about you? What do you do to unblock your writing when you want it to come, need it come, yet it stays stubbornly locked in your mind, refusing to come out until it is good and ready? How do you get the creative juices flowing when they are log-jammed? Share you thoughts in the comments below.Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-7385068257240832952011-02-09T15:20:00.002-05:002011-02-09T15:23:00.633-05:00Reality is Broken - My Review<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimBdhfjOExBiJfGUZFG12mxYPAI7_Q9Pn9hK1IVUmGM_PoFZOFj8yGpAzrCgFHKxekrqmUmJryXjiB_2O0xF3YBA8cLooVOn_P2nDYbifWc5cSBS1ZAzeSV5xIbVzofZxAou7mRdnE2tJO/s1600/realitybroken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimBdhfjOExBiJfGUZFG12mxYPAI7_Q9Pn9hK1IVUmGM_PoFZOFj8yGpAzrCgFHKxekrqmUmJryXjiB_2O0xF3YBA8cLooVOn_P2nDYbifWc5cSBS1ZAzeSV5xIbVzofZxAou7mRdnE2tJO/s320/realitybroken.jpg" width="209" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My latest review is up on Book Dads. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fce5cd;">In Reality is Broken, w</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fce5cd;">orld-renowned game designer and futurist</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f6b26b; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f6b26b; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://janemcgonigal.com/my-book/" style="outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: initial; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank">Jane McGonigal, PhD</a> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fce5cd;">asks the question "</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fce5cd; font-family: inherit;">What if we decided to use everything we know about game design to fix what’s wrong with reality? What if we started to live our real lives like gamers, lead our businesses and communities like game designers, and think about solving real-world problems like computer and video game theorists?"</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f6b26b;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #fce5cd;">It is a VERY interesting read. Check out my review</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f6b26b;"> </span><a href="http://bookdads.com/book-review/book-review-reality-is-broken/" target="_blank"style="color: #f6b26b;">here</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #f6b26b;">.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-7217005092808655112011-02-08T23:18:00.006-05:002011-02-09T14:52:25.633-05:00A Bitter Cup of Joe or Beware the Evils of Facebook!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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I woke up this morning at my usual ungodly hour to my daily helping of <a href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/3036789/" target="_blank">Morning Joe</a> on the television. I keep it on most mornings as I prepare myself to face the day. As I wiped the sleep crud form my eyes and attempted to arrange my thoughts in some sort of cohesive order, Joe Scarborough was talking about an editorial he wrote about the dark, civilization crushing side of Facebook for <a href="http://www.politico.com/" target="_blank">Politico</a>.<br />
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You can find the rant, I mean editorial, <a href="http://www.politico.com/news/stories/0211/49004.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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The thread of contention that intertwines Mr. Scarborough's piece is that Facebook is "cynically feeding the narcissistic appetites of a self-consumed culture that is populated by teenage vulgarians, desperate housewives, and bored men."<br />
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Does he have a point? Maybe. Is it fantastically overstated? Definitely.<br />
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I have been a Facebook user for a few years now. There are many reasons I signed up and still maintain an active account, and none of them are mentioned in Mr. Scarborough's grumpy-old-mantastic rant.<br />
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I initially signed up because a friend of mine from a summer camp I worked at when I was in college sent me an email and told me people were jumping on Facebook to plan a reunion. So for the first time I logged in and signed up. It was good to be communicating with folks I had not seen in a few years, to see what they were up to and where they were hanging their hats now. Then I began to receive friend requests from old friends from high school whom I had not seen or talked to in almost ten years. I thought it was great. An easy way to get back and stay in touch with people I don't get the chance to see everyday.<br />
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On Facebook I sought out friends I have who live in New Zealand, Australia, China, Mexico, and Germany. It is awesome to have a free way to stay in touch with them, to see how their families are doing. We can reminisce about the old days or trade opinions about the issues of the day. We can share important news, celebrate accomplishments, commiserate in times of sorrow.<br />
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Politically speaking, I am a fairly moderate Independent. I have Facebook friends that are fiercely loyal Democrats and Facebook friends that are fiercely loyal Republicans. I even have several Libertarian friends thrown in the mix for good measure. I will from time to time post an article from a magazine or a blog, or post a politically motivated question or status update on my wall. My friends will often comment from their particular seat of opinion. A debate often emerges. I love that I have such a diversity of friendships on Facebook that enables me to learn so much about the key points on all sides of an issue. We have great conversations in the comment threads that develop, the number of comments for a few hot button type posts have reached well into the hundreds.<br />
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I use Facebook to learn, to laugh, to write, and to share. Share thoughts, share music, share videos, share needs, share victories, share defeats. Scarborough's assertion that people who spend time on Facebook are wasting their time would be insulting if it weren't so far off base as to be laughable.<br />
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I do not doubt that there are people out there who fit into his narrow minded view of what the average Facebook user is like. But that is hardly Facebook's fault. A guest on the show this morning likened Scarborough's rant to those parents and leaders who declared the death of morality and of modern society with the coming of Elvis or The Beatles. The rant reminded me of John Lithgow's character in Footloose. The stodgy stick in the mud clinging to an outdated or distorted view of the way things should be.<br />
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As a teacher and a parent I can appreciate Joe's concerns about the dangers of Facebook. But as long as parents educate themselves about Facebook and pass on what they learn to their children, as long as they stay active and involved with their children's interactions on Facebook, as long as they set clear expectations about their children's time on Facebook and back up those expectations with firm consequences if needed, then Joe's vision of the snarling beast that is Facebook, feasting on the innocence of our children, can be put down.<br />
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This is not some radical new shift in parenting that has to occur because Facebook is such a horrible atrocity. It is what good, effective parents have done and continue to do for their children in all areas of life.<br />
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I am quite interested to know what you think, fair reader. Feel free to comment. Let's strike up a conversation. Do you agree with Joe Scarborough that Facebook is a "ubiquitous social machine" that only teenage vulgarians, desperate housewives, or bored men flock to and waste their lives away on? Do you agree with me that Facebook is not the end of civilization as we know it, that it is in fact a tool that can make your social interactions richer, not more anemic? Or do you fall somewhere in between? Let's talk about it...Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-1994675626654869722011-02-07T23:38:00.003-05:002011-02-11T01:00:28.109-05:00The Writers' Platform-Building Crusade or Should I Bring My Sword?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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Community. A word that in some circles gets more overworked than Lyndsey Lohan's legal defense team and in others gets twisted and warped to mean things it was never intended to. Crusade. A word in the exact same boat.<br />
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I first started writing this blog a few years back simply because I enjoy writing. Always have. I thought it would just be a place to record my thoughts, write a story or two...just be an outlet to scratch the writing itch. I didn't tell many people what I was doing. I was a bit embarrassed at my own perceived pretentiousness of it, wondering if the world would demand of me what in the hell I thought was so important to say that I had the temerity to put it out on the Internet. And that, aside from some throat clearing, a few ahems and an um or two, I would have no reply.<br />
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I let my wife read of course, and a few close friends and family.<br />
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Then something strange happened. They began to share my musings with others. People began to tell me when I ran into them in the mall, or out at dinner, or in the gym that they really liked my blog. Some told me I should just run right out and get published, like it was as simple as running down to the DMV to renew a driver's license (how nice would THAT be?).<br />
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I enjoyed the comments and felt compelled to write more. I began to push my blog out of the dry dock I had it locked up in, out into the dangerous waters of Das Internets. Through this exposure I got more followers. I got asked to write for other web sites. A thought began to glimmer into life in the far out lands of my mind.<br />
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I knew I enjoyed writing. Were the folks who urged me to pursue this doing more than simply being nice? So I began to write even more. I have even found the tenacity to submit a piece or two. Yet I know I still have a lot to learn.<br />
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Which brings me back to community and the purpose of this post. Through the wondrous invention known as Twitter I found my way to the blog of Rachael Harrie. She is hosting an excellent chance for anyone from newbie writers and bloggers to established writers and everyone in between to come together, in the spirit of community, to learn from and support each other. It is exactly the kind of event and opportunity I have been looking for.<br />
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You can read all about the Writers' Platform-Building Crusade <a href="http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/2011/02/second-writers-platform-building.html">here.</a><br />
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I am excited about the opportunity to meet, interact with, and learn from other bloggers and writers. If you are so inclined, please join me.<br />
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I never thought of myself as the crusading type...who knew?Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-48712030212695671272011-02-03T22:18:00.005-05:002011-02-08T23:36:47.466-05:00The Daily - As If You Really Needed Another Reason To Buy an iPad.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div>We picked up our first iPad a month ago and haven't been able to put it down since. Be it streaming Netflix, surfing the web, bombing annoyingly smug pigs into oblivion with several species of "Angry Birds", balancing the bank accounts, arranging laws of physics defying globules in "World of Goo" (and swearing profusely when our designs don't go as planned), selecting programming to record on our DVR, or any one of a hunderd other things, we have logged more hours on the iPad than on our Palm Pre Plus phones, and we have had those for almost two years. You do the math.<br />
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The iPad is one of those rare pieces of equipment that falls into the category of "as good as advertised"...and I believed that before they released The Daily app yesterday. Now, with the addition of The Daily, the iPad has passed from the hills of "as good as advertised" and into the mountains of "how will I ever live without one again?"<br />
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I downloaded the app yesterday and spent almost an hour scoping it out. Spent almost another hour pouring through today's issue. If it indeed turns out to be the "...model for how stories are told and consumed in this digital age" as Rupert Murdoch put it, it will not surprise me. The seamless blend of great writing, sharp photography, instantly accessible audio and video, real time news updates, and instant social media updates easily shareable on Twitter, Facebook, or via email, all at the swipe of your finger, puts you firmly in the driver's seat for a news and entertainment experience like no other.<br />
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And the best part?<br />
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The content is changed daily. (So it IS more then just a clever name)<br />
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If you are a happy iPad user I suggest you slide right over to the app catalog and download The Daily right now. The service is free for the first two weeks. After that time is up, users have two subscription options to choose from. They can enjoy The Daily's content for the low price of $0.99 cents a week, or they can take the better option and pay $39.99 a year. Just pick an option and the transaction takes place directly through iTunes. No 1-800 numbers, no entering of credit card numbers. Your previously set up iTunes account takes care of everything.<br />
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It has become almost cliche to christen the latest and greatest piece of technology as the glorious arrival of the future. I am not taking any real leap here to say that The Daily, available exclusively on the iPad, may be just that. The future of how we will purchase, consume, and interact with our news.<br />
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Go check out The Daily news release <a href="http://www.thedaily-newsrelease.com/">HERE</a>.<br />
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If you are already a proud Daily subscriber like me, drop a missive in the comments, tell me what you think about it.<br />
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<iframe class="youtube-player" height="270" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/KHILJBw-104" title="YouTube video player" type="text/html" width="480"></iframe>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-37497467280208884672011-02-01T18:52:00.003-05:002011-02-21T15:30:11.230-05:00Against All Odds or My First Couples Only Skate<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A few days ago The Wife and I took The Peanut roller skating. It was the first time I had entered a roller skating rink in more than twenty years. Being on skates again (I didn't even hurt myself!) brought back a lot of fun memories. One of them grew into this piece...</span></i><br />
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Her hair was curly, shoulder length, so red it seemed to glow with its own inner flame. Her eyes were green, the rich color of the Irish hills. I had noticed her before as she skated past with her friends, her blue and white checkered dress ruffling as she passed. As a child of ten, my radar for noticing members of the opposite sex was still brand new, awkward, hard to understand. Most girls flitted by without even a second glance, the barest hint of any sort of consideration. But this girl was hard not to notice.<br />
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The DJ at Spinning Wheels, the premier roller skating destination of my childhood, had just issued the call for a couples only skate. This call usually signaled a retreat to the arcade games for my friends and I. We were all about skating as fast as the attendants would let us, not skating while holding hands with girls. For some reason on this particular day I left the skate floor as usual, but instead of following my friends to wait in line to play the new Spy Hunter game, I lingered, watching the older kids and a few pairs of adults link hands and begin to skate. The first few bars of Phil Collins' song Against All Odds began to pour forth from the speakers.<br />
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She skated up to me from behind. I didn't even know she was there until she tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and immediately found the simple task of drawing another breath to be a monumental chore. I was slightly taller than her, but no more than a few inches. I was locked into the depths of her green eyes, lost as surely as any mariner in a rolling sea without a compass. I don't know how long I stood there mouth agape, staring. What felt like ages was more likely just a matter of seconds.<br />
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Then she smiled.<br />
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That is the first time I recall becoming physically acquainted with the physics of the phrase "weak in the knees". Had I not already been leaning on a wall, my scrawny, lovestruck, ten-year-old ass would have been planted firmly on the carpeted floor, the wheels on my rented skates turning slowly.<br />
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"Hi," she said, her beautiful smile deepening.<br />
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I don't recall what I said in reply, probably something witty and suave like a deep gulp and a high pitched squeak. I knew on some level that I was supposed to reply. It just wasn't happening. I simply stood there...mesmerized.<br />
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"You wanna skate with me?" she asked, hands behind her back, face slightly upturned to mine.<br />
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My mouth, still refusing the frantic messages to respond being sent by my brain, remained shut. I stood there and at least managed to nod my head up and down, like a mindless bobblehead. She smiled again, took my hand, and led me out onto the wooden floor.<br />
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As we picked up a bit of momentum we both reflexively tightened our grip. Waves of heat seemed to roll over me from the contact point where her fair, freckled skin met my own. One thought (I'M SKATING COUPLES WITH A GIRL! I'M SKATING COUPLES WITH A GIRL! I'M SKATING COUPLES WITH A GIRL) took over my brain and ran on a constant loop for the duration of the entire skate.<br />
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We didn't talk, not that I would have been capable of any sort of intelligent conversation at that point. We just skated, hand in hand, making gentle revolutions around the rink as Against All Odds played on. I remember keeping my eyes furiously glued on my skates, praying fervently for my feet not to tangle, not wanting this beautiful girl to think she had picked a complete spaz to skate with. As much as I wanted to look at her face, hoping to see that amazing smile, I kept my eyes locked down.<br />
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Soon, much too soon, the final piano notes signaled the end of the song. We began to slow down and I found the courage to meet those heavenly green eyes with my own regular hazel variety. She gave my hand a squeeze before she let go.<br />
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"Thanks. That was fun." She waited for a reply, any reply. I don't know, maybe she just wondered if I even had a voice at all since the extent of my communication with her so far equated to a simpleton's head nod and a squeeze from an overly sweaty right hand. Somewhere deep in the control center of my brain someone finally managed to throw the switch. The gag was lifted and I felt my lips begin to move to utter what was sure to be just the right words to make this girl fall madly in love with me.<br />
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"You're...uh...y'welcome," I managed in little more than a whisper.<br />
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She leaned in and kissed me on the cheek, my nostrils filling with the scent of apples. Then, with a final smile, she skated off to join a group of girls in the cafe. I skated a few rounds by myself, oblivious to everything around me. I don't remember what song was playing, I don't remember if anyone skated up and attempted to talk to me. I was in a state of complete shock, my head deep in the proverbial clouds, my fingers constantly coming back to marvel at the spot on my cheek her lips had briefly touched.<br />
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Eventually I left the floor. I found my friends at the Spy Hunter, where I knew they would be, and I tried to get interested in the game. It didn't work. For the first time in my young life (and certainly not for the last) thoughts of a girl dominated everything else. Her eyes, her hair, her smile...her kiss. Nothing else I tried to filter through would compute, especially the strategy I needed to focus on to play a video arcade game.<br />
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After a while, the call for a couples only skate went out again. My ears perked up, my heart began to race. I had to go find...<br />
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I realized then that I didn't even know her name. I skated quickly through the building looking for her, ready to make my mouth work this time, ready to say all the right things.<br />
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But I couldn't find her. I checked everywhere while the couple's skate went on. I checked the cafe, scanned the skaters on the floor...looking for that luxurious red hair...not finding it. There was no sign of her or her group of friends. They must have left while I was at the stupid arcade game. I ordered some fries at the cafe counter and sat to eat them while the couples only skate wrapped up. Head bowed, thoughts racing. Soon it ended and, as is the way with ten-year-old boys, I moved quickly on to having fun skating with my buddies.<br />
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But I never forgot her, the unnamed girl who invited me to skate my first ever couple's only skate. Every time I catch Against All Odds on the radio it takes me back to that wooden floor, skating loops with the most beautiful girl in the building, feeling like the king of the world, a nervous, sweaty-palmed king afraid of blowing it, but a king nonetheless.Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-82888558193260457592011-01-19T22:07:00.001-05:002011-02-01T18:53:29.632-05:00The Bond Between Father and Daughter or I Never Thought Phil Collins Would Make Me CryMost nights, when the inevitable bedtime rolls around, I lay down with The Peanut for a few minutes. We talk, we giggle, we say prayers. Sometimes she will pepper me with questions about any one of a thousand random topics, sometimes she will debrief me on her day at school, who was a good listener and who was not, who had to sit in the "thinking chair" and the unfortunate choice that got them banished there, and sometimes we just lay there, enjoying a few quiet moments as our hearts beat close together. I do not exaggerate when I say that these few minutes are the highlight of my day. I treasure each one of them because I know that one day, all too soon, they will come to an end.<br />
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Last night, after all the night time routines had been completed (the running of the bath, the brushing of the teeth, the reading of a story, and the fetching of the glass of water) we went into her room. The Peanut hopped into bed, American Girl Doll and newest Build-A-Bear (we have so many of these bears I think our house could get federal funding as a preserve) in hand. I performed my duly appointed duties, turning off the overhead light, switching on the Nemo night light, and turning on the radio. Much like her father, The Peanut loves to drift off to sleep listening to music. My mother-in-law is a loyal listener of 99.5 WJBR and my daughter insists on being able to listen to "Grammy Music" at night.<br />
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I tucked her in and took my customary spot to her right. Things started off as they do on any other night. First she asked how my day was. I informed her that it was pretty good and she quickly filled me in on her day. Then she launched into a joke ("Daddy, what did the little shrimp say when his mom asked why he wouldn't share any of his toys?" "I don't know, what?" "Sorry, I'm a little shelfish!") and giggled, even though it was her one thousand fifty-sixth telling of that same joke. I chuckled and told her it was time for some new material.<br />
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At that point the opening notes of Phil Collins' song <i>You'll Be In My Heart</i> from the Disney version of Tarzan started to play. As the first verse began I started to sing softly along with Phil. The Peanut immediately stopped giggling and began to listen. When I got to the chorus she placed her small hand on my arm, her fingers moving slowly back and forth. She just laid there and looked into my eyes as I sang to her. Toward the end of the song tears began to form at the corners of her eyes, but her warm smile never faltered. It was the sweetest, most adult, yet wholly childlike expression I have ever seen her make.<br />
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When the song ended she threw her arms around me and her shoulders shook as she began to cry. I was totally unprepared for this reaction. Perplexed, I let her cry for a bit then I asked her what was wrong, why she was so sad.<br />
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I will carry her reply in my heart until my dying day...and most likely beyond.<br />
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"These aren't sad tears...they're happy tears. You sing so beautiful and when you sing to me, it makes me feel all your love. I love you daddy!"<br />
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This from the mouth of a six year old.<br />
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As I held my little girl and her tears soaked into the fabric of my shirt and my own began to fall freely to join them, I realized how much power I have as her father to either make her feel genuinely loved...or to completely tear her down. I think that is something a lot of fathers of young daughters never fully realize or appreciate. With the simplest of words or actions I can make her feel like the queen of the universe...or its lowest speck of dirt. I think I always knew this...but I never really appreciated the raw power of it. A few lines of a mostly decent song, sung by me to her and her alone, communicated my love to her far greater than any verbal assurances I could make.<br />
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I walked out of the room slightly weak in the knees. I felt like we had shared one of those seminal moments as father and daughter that we will still talk about thirty years from now, Lord willing. If something as simple as singing a song can communicate my love so strongly to my little girl, just think how strongly my words and actions can do the same as she grows into a young woman.<br />
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I will be forever grateful for that experience last night. I hope and pray that all fathers get the chance to experience the same. And I pray that when they do, that they seize the moment and build their daughters up as only they, as father, can do.Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-2501019298986202502011-01-16T22:04:00.005-05:002011-01-16T22:30:53.171-05:00The Barnes and Noble Peeper or I Am One Nosy S.O.B.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFAtfixVWoXIBeqIpEGrOYzjFIfyE7_9hsOsyovQ53DFz_MfwpEY9kap1mgMEx3Zs4X_XH1wuXFiyHxsHpOf4gFtMlxDCRwJ8Q7smjNBiwUH5BCIsclMg3emVI62gQnVuo_HQidywhyphenhyphenads/s1600/peeper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFAtfixVWoXIBeqIpEGrOYzjFIfyE7_9hsOsyovQ53DFz_MfwpEY9kap1mgMEx3Zs4X_XH1wuXFiyHxsHpOf4gFtMlxDCRwJ8Q7smjNBiwUH5BCIsclMg3emVI62gQnVuo_HQidywhyphenhyphenads/s1600/peeper.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">If you have been to a Borders or a Barnes and Noble lately, you've seen them. They stand in line like regular people. They linger at the shelves, seemingly engrossed in their perusal of the titles. They pace past the couches and amble slowly through the cafe. If you haven't seen them, then surely you have felt them. Their beady little eyes always roving, sliding over your personal topography where they don't belong, leaving a slug's trail of violation in their wake. You can almost feel it when their gaze falls upon you and you can almost see the gears in their slimy minds begin to turn, smell the noxious fumes of their thoughts. You've seen them, haven't you?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The Barnes and Noble Peepers. That despicable class of individuals who wander the carpeted aisles of the book store, spending an unhealthy amount of time checking out what other people are buying. With no regard for personal privacy they shove their metaphorical noses into the heart of your impending purchases. With a raised eyebrow, a knowing smile, or a disgusted smirk they pass judgement on your personality and the fortitude of your character based solely on your choice of reading material. They are the scum of the literary world and...I have a confession to make...a realization I just came to today while standing in line to purchase a book.</div><a name='more'></a><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'm one of them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">As I stood, eighth back in the slowly moving line, my eyes began to wander. The woman in front of me was turned to the side, engaged in a conversation with her husband. In her hand, I spied a paperback Dan Brown. I can only hope she didn't see the smirk on my face as I instantly dismissed her in my mind as being an easily lead reader of poor fiction, a literary sheep. My eyes slid over to the novel in her husband's hand. Cannery Row by John Steinbeck. I don't think I snorted out loud at the thought of a Dan Brown fan and a John Steinbeck fan living in the same house, inhabiting the same space...but I might have. Imagining these two books sitting side by side on the same coffee table would be like seeing the Mona Lisa hanging next to a Velvet Elvis in the Louvre. That was my thought as I stood there, unabashedly forming opinions of people I had never met.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And that is when the realization hit me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Not only am I a literary peeping tom (I am sure I am not the only one who checks out the reading material of others when I am a guest in their house...or am I?) but I am also a book snob. I don't mean to be. It makes me feel guilty, like someone who roots through a host's medicine cabinet to see what interesting infections they are living with. I realize that my reading selections in comparison with another's in no way sets me up on any higher moral ground (except POSSIBLY in the case of the Dan Brown novels) over that individual. It doesn't prove me smarter, deeper, better looking, or profound to a greater degree than them. It is, simply stated, damn nosy and vomitously elitist.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"> But I can't help it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I stood there in line, ogling other customers reading selections with all the fervor of a fifteen year old boy hanging from a tree limb trying to see into his sister's best friend's bedroom window, passing judgement on their choices. And the worst part is, when I became aware of what I was doing...I didn't stop. I knew it was wrong, that I was being a horrible person, fully undeserving of my daughter's love with my literary voyeurism and pseudo intellectual snobbishness. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But I didn't stop.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Does anyone else have this problem or should I just ship myself off to Siberia where my sickness will not bother another soul and impede only the ice and snow? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7597466007045626207.post-91979766697999008222011-01-06T23:41:00.000-05:002011-01-06T23:41:07.870-05:00Kids As Goal Posts or Please God, Don't Ever Let Me Be This Dad!Though I have yet to perform such a singularly moronic paternal act, I am sure my time is coming. Think I will just laugh at this guy in the meantime.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><object height="385" width="640"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UXo6NRcN9aU?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UXo6NRcN9aU?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="385"></embed></object></div>Brian Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07273744224967577972noreply@blogger.com8