Dear Maria,
When a little one, young enough and small enough to still be easily cradled in an arm, grasps my finger with two or three such tiny fingers, I cannot help but sometimes begin to wonder what the future will hold for one so new to the world. Even as I have freely admitted that I can hardly imagine next week.
To have become so short-sighted with 60 years behind me is humbling. I am surprised often in a moment—just now a breeze stirs that comes from the pines that rise above my driveway and then settles into my young elms.
Seems a wonder to me that anyone talks of the future, and surely we do with varying degrees of certitude. Guess that forward-thinking leads to getting things done, and I do dutifully add lunches with friends and doctor appointments to my Google calendar.
I find each day to be an unfolding.
Of course, with all my nieces and nephews—and now two generations of them—easy to get caught up in the future-dreaming thing. Which one will become what, who will become a greater surprise to those of us who knew them when they could be cradled. And to think of the millions of children across the globe that are cradled at any moment.
Why, what will become of any living thing newly born or released into this world? I think Jane Franklin—yes, Ben’s sister—gets to the heart of this matter much better than I do. She writes, “The most Insignificant creature on Earth may be made some use of in the scale of Beings.”
We don’t know how or when, now do we? But, that notion is the beauty of the unknown. Then, by extension, my unknowing.
Always liked that hand-in-hand thing. Not nearly enough of it in this world.
Be well. With you and for you, srk
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Saturday, August 24, 2013
I Love, Therefore I Project
Dear Maria,
Forgive me my miscue the other day. And just after my mother and I talked about how folks don’t really listen, that they simply project fears or desires or worldviews back at the person talking. Now, I hear my mother counsel me: Listen.
Listen, on more than one occasion I have blurted out my feelings and my thoughts. We all have them. I hate surprise parties. My birthday doesn’t really matter. It’s okay to be alone. More than four people sharing a meal or a get-together is over the limit. Except for Fridays shooting pool and eating lots of fried food. Hahahaha!
By the way, did you ever plant plumbago out by the mail box? If you google it you will see something much more lush than my plants that must cope with the minimum amount of sunlight allowed by planting laws. What I like, other than their unruliness, is how the flowers seem lighted from within both late evening and early morning. They are the first and last flowers to show each day, so to speak. Of course, I have a friend who won’t plant them as they sound like the name of a certain condition.
Now that the school year is up and ticking off days, disappointing some of my friends continues. My retirement is not measuring up. No travel. No subbing. No job. No plans. No hobbies. Sometimes I think I might as well say, “What would you have me do,” and wish them well.
But I did that with you. I took my fear and launched it at you a second time as if you are not an adult that under most circumstances—all really, don’t know why the qualifier—knows what you are doing and lives a good-spirited life. I didn’t listen, the first time.
Somewhere I read a nice take on how we have two ears and just one mouth. Yep, that’s a clue. Then there is that whole look without seeing thing.
I meant well. We mean well. I’ll let other folks discern between when people mean what they are saying and when they are crying out for help through some coded messaging.
Heard you, promise. Hope you hear me loud and clear. I was wrong. I am sorry.
As always, but a bit more so, srk
Forgive me my miscue the other day. And just after my mother and I talked about how folks don’t really listen, that they simply project fears or desires or worldviews back at the person talking. Now, I hear my mother counsel me: Listen.
Listen, on more than one occasion I have blurted out my feelings and my thoughts. We all have them. I hate surprise parties. My birthday doesn’t really matter. It’s okay to be alone. More than four people sharing a meal or a get-together is over the limit. Except for Fridays shooting pool and eating lots of fried food. Hahahaha!
By the way, did you ever plant plumbago out by the mail box? If you google it you will see something much more lush than my plants that must cope with the minimum amount of sunlight allowed by planting laws. What I like, other than their unruliness, is how the flowers seem lighted from within both late evening and early morning. They are the first and last flowers to show each day, so to speak. Of course, I have a friend who won’t plant them as they sound like the name of a certain condition.
Now that the school year is up and ticking off days, disappointing some of my friends continues. My retirement is not measuring up. No travel. No subbing. No job. No plans. No hobbies. Sometimes I think I might as well say, “What would you have me do,” and wish them well.
But I did that with you. I took my fear and launched it at you a second time as if you are not an adult that under most circumstances—all really, don’t know why the qualifier—knows what you are doing and lives a good-spirited life. I didn’t listen, the first time.
Somewhere I read a nice take on how we have two ears and just one mouth. Yep, that’s a clue. Then there is that whole look without seeing thing.
I meant well. We mean well. I’ll let other folks discern between when people mean what they are saying and when they are crying out for help through some coded messaging.
Heard you, promise. Hope you hear me loud and clear. I was wrong. I am sorry.
As always, but a bit more so, srk
Friday, August 23, 2013
Suffer, The Little Children
Dear Maria,
As things go, I chanced last night to be visiting with my parents as they watched the evening news cycle—local and then the national news. No, I still don’t own a television. Yes, yes, I know.
Of course, this morning I am stuck on the images from what is being reported as a chemical attack in Syria. Why those images? The children. The children wrapped in their white burial sheets.
You know how my mind works—I always want to ask, eye to eye, one person to another. I want to ask, “How did you come to a decision that would kill children?” Does that person then go home to his children? Do his children ask, “What did you do at work today, Daddy”? I say Daddy because I would guess decisions such as that one in that piece of the world are more likely made by males. You know, the word decisions and my use of it is disgusting.
How do such actions square with any kind of respect or, a better word, love for we who are in this world? There is a kind of bullying writ large in this act. Of course, by a magnitude of harm that is many, many fold.
Hurting the defenseless among us. That is bullying. Preying upon weakness. I see it in not only the killing of the defenseless, but also in the striking of someone in anger, or the screaming in a rage at a child.
Surely there is some kind of pathology at work, but where does such an action, such an idea, such a resolve come from. I don’t understand. Maybe understanding is not possible. Hard to settle for “just is the way of the world”.
Heartbreaking. Hug your kids a little tighter today. They need it. You need it. We all need it.
Just, still, srk
As things go, I chanced last night to be visiting with my parents as they watched the evening news cycle—local and then the national news. No, I still don’t own a television. Yes, yes, I know.
Of course, this morning I am stuck on the images from what is being reported as a chemical attack in Syria. Why those images? The children. The children wrapped in their white burial sheets.
You know how my mind works—I always want to ask, eye to eye, one person to another. I want to ask, “How did you come to a decision that would kill children?” Does that person then go home to his children? Do his children ask, “What did you do at work today, Daddy”? I say Daddy because I would guess decisions such as that one in that piece of the world are more likely made by males. You know, the word decisions and my use of it is disgusting.
How do such actions square with any kind of respect or, a better word, love for we who are in this world? There is a kind of bullying writ large in this act. Of course, by a magnitude of harm that is many, many fold.
Hurting the defenseless among us. That is bullying. Preying upon weakness. I see it in not only the killing of the defenseless, but also in the striking of someone in anger, or the screaming in a rage at a child.
Surely there is some kind of pathology at work, but where does such an action, such an idea, such a resolve come from. I don’t understand. Maybe understanding is not possible. Hard to settle for “just is the way of the world”.
Heartbreaking. Hug your kids a little tighter today. They need it. You need it. We all need it.
Just, still, srk
Monday, August 19, 2013
In A Quieter Moment
Dear Maria,
Today I heard my voice but three times out loud. I mean nothing so very startling by this observation, but given what opening day of school has meant to me over the course of three decades it does give me pause. No intended irony there. Irony happens. But in my mind, my mind, in a nutshell, is not stilled by any measure.
I read today that Shakespeare was often referred to as Gentle Will. What ax should he grind when the world that inhabited his mind was under his pen.
Of course, Sunday I had a four-hour yap fest that spanned Blake to Wordsworth to Orwell to life’s arc to my lame take on the evolving universe and the complexity of human systems. Hahahaha! I am a goofball. Of many magnitudes.
The shifting light today with what seemed an endless stream of storms would—well, Blake would understand. I especially thought the piling thunderclouds about the Northwoods shopping area this evening especially splendid. Mammon outlined against a heavenly sky. A certain slant of light indeed.
So tonight I retreated to B&N, the manmade cavern of lines and arcs, a retreat to words unspoken by the millions close at hand. I, in random leafing through a few books, came upon Whitman saying, “and every man shall be his own priest”.
This morning I stood at my lectern and read to myself for an hour or so. No bully pulpit, but did provide a rather lovely view of the garden. Perhaps, a monk of a certain order, no rules to be obeyed or ignored.
I heard my voice three times today. I did not once hear yours, but in my mind many times.
Let all be quiet and still, and good tonight.
Quietly, simply, srk
Today I heard my voice but three times out loud. I mean nothing so very startling by this observation, but given what opening day of school has meant to me over the course of three decades it does give me pause. No intended irony there. Irony happens. But in my mind, my mind, in a nutshell, is not stilled by any measure.
I read today that Shakespeare was often referred to as Gentle Will. What ax should he grind when the world that inhabited his mind was under his pen.
Of course, Sunday I had a four-hour yap fest that spanned Blake to Wordsworth to Orwell to life’s arc to my lame take on the evolving universe and the complexity of human systems. Hahahaha! I am a goofball. Of many magnitudes.
The shifting light today with what seemed an endless stream of storms would—well, Blake would understand. I especially thought the piling thunderclouds about the Northwoods shopping area this evening especially splendid. Mammon outlined against a heavenly sky. A certain slant of light indeed.
So tonight I retreated to B&N, the manmade cavern of lines and arcs, a retreat to words unspoken by the millions close at hand. I, in random leafing through a few books, came upon Whitman saying, “and every man shall be his own priest”.
This morning I stood at my lectern and read to myself for an hour or so. No bully pulpit, but did provide a rather lovely view of the garden. Perhaps, a monk of a certain order, no rules to be obeyed or ignored.
I heard my voice three times today. I did not once hear yours, but in my mind many times.
Let all be quiet and still, and good tonight.
Quietly, simply, srk
Sunday, August 18, 2013
The Few Who Can, Teach
Dear Maria,
Good morning! I am sure you feel the rising energy of our friends and colleagues as they know that they will awake tomorrow to the beginning of another school year. Probably some anxiousness, too, to go along with the optimism that comes with a new start.
Of course, I reveal my bias when I talk about classroom teachers even as I am no longer directly in the fray. A shame that that word should come to mind. But, as with so much of what goes on in this world, what is at heart a great giving of service seems nearly thwarted at every turn by forces beyond the schoolhouse door.
I think of how many times I have seen teachers stop what they were doing to take care of a child—hahaha, I know some of my former students may bristle a bit at the use of the word child, but I would remind them that I am my mother’s child even as I am now 60. Hahahaha! Her baby boy! Hahahaha!
You and I know the good intentions of those who will greet their students tomorrow. You and I know how potent the emotions. Does anyone else give of themselves so wholly and for other people’s children.
You may find it odd that I must own up to such a nearly complete letting go emotionally of what I tried to do to the best of my ability for 31 years. I am very much struck as well.
However, my respect and love for classroom teachers will not wane. And they need, and often do get, much support from those who work in the building with them. I am talking about the ones who lift them up rather than pushing them down.
As I listen to the incessant yapping about education—from, well, let me use the word adults—I am reminded of two words that appear in the classrooms. Safe Wall.
Safe Wall. I would if I could insist that every conversation directed at classroom teachers, either with them or about them, start with thanking them for accepting such a responsibility. Every principal, every district official, every board member, every citizen, every corporate spokesperson, every elected official, every pundit. Each and every time.
Safe Wall. Now, speak of how anything else is more important than those children who walk through the doors each morning.
Yes, apparently, I still give a damn. You know that to be true, don’t you? I did say “nearly complete”. Hahahaha!
Much good will happen this year between teachers and students as it has before. Bless them all.
I hope all is well with you and your family.
A little grouchy, but with much tenderness, yours, srk
Good morning! I am sure you feel the rising energy of our friends and colleagues as they know that they will awake tomorrow to the beginning of another school year. Probably some anxiousness, too, to go along with the optimism that comes with a new start.
Of course, I reveal my bias when I talk about classroom teachers even as I am no longer directly in the fray. A shame that that word should come to mind. But, as with so much of what goes on in this world, what is at heart a great giving of service seems nearly thwarted at every turn by forces beyond the schoolhouse door.
I think of how many times I have seen teachers stop what they were doing to take care of a child—hahaha, I know some of my former students may bristle a bit at the use of the word child, but I would remind them that I am my mother’s child even as I am now 60. Hahahaha! Her baby boy! Hahahaha!
You and I know the good intentions of those who will greet their students tomorrow. You and I know how potent the emotions. Does anyone else give of themselves so wholly and for other people’s children.
You may find it odd that I must own up to such a nearly complete letting go emotionally of what I tried to do to the best of my ability for 31 years. I am very much struck as well.
However, my respect and love for classroom teachers will not wane. And they need, and often do get, much support from those who work in the building with them. I am talking about the ones who lift them up rather than pushing them down.
As I listen to the incessant yapping about education—from, well, let me use the word adults—I am reminded of two words that appear in the classrooms. Safe Wall.
Safe Wall. I would if I could insist that every conversation directed at classroom teachers, either with them or about them, start with thanking them for accepting such a responsibility. Every principal, every district official, every board member, every citizen, every corporate spokesperson, every elected official, every pundit. Each and every time.
Safe Wall. Now, speak of how anything else is more important than those children who walk through the doors each morning.
Yes, apparently, I still give a damn. You know that to be true, don’t you? I did say “nearly complete”. Hahahaha!
Much good will happen this year between teachers and students as it has before. Bless them all.
I hope all is well with you and your family.
A little grouchy, but with much tenderness, yours, srk
Thursday, August 15, 2013
A Time Out, from Africa
Dear Maria,
When they come home, then they will be here.
I reckon some folks are quick to think my order of fortune cookies did finally arrive. But, the heart of the matter is that in waiting impatiently as so many are on our young friend and her adopted son to come home from Africa, I have been pointedly and deeply lessoned once again that life does not move according to the hands on my clock.
Forgive the retreat to the Old School reference, but a nice image, that of hands counting out time.
How often—from dozens, no hundreds wiser than I will ever be—we are schooled: “Patience and time do more than strength or passion,” Jean La Fontaine. Yes, yes. I know, I know, but the flickering brevity of our lives?
So this morning I was quite sure that the next piece for Schooled was in my head, mostly, and ready to be written. Then, a short exchange via facebook, and I understood that the passage of time once again allowed for a deepening of an experience, in this case for a new mother and by extension, for me, for all of us. The puzzle did, in fact, have pieces missing. Were our needs for a resolution quickly met, some of the most powerful moments of this unfolding would go unknown.
In just a few minutes, I was touched in my heart, I was transformed in my thinking. I was reminded. To every season, indeed.
Ethiopia’s reach back into anthropological time may extend 4 million years.
The dog needed to be walked before I could sit down to the laptop.
A few weeks in the life of a mother and child, the next fifty years or so….
Enough, for I must ready myself for an appointment with the allergist, who waits for no man.
As always, srk
When they come home, then they will be here.
I reckon some folks are quick to think my order of fortune cookies did finally arrive. But, the heart of the matter is that in waiting impatiently as so many are on our young friend and her adopted son to come home from Africa, I have been pointedly and deeply lessoned once again that life does not move according to the hands on my clock.
Forgive the retreat to the Old School reference, but a nice image, that of hands counting out time.
How often—from dozens, no hundreds wiser than I will ever be—we are schooled: “Patience and time do more than strength or passion,” Jean La Fontaine. Yes, yes. I know, I know, but the flickering brevity of our lives?
So this morning I was quite sure that the next piece for Schooled was in my head, mostly, and ready to be written. Then, a short exchange via facebook, and I understood that the passage of time once again allowed for a deepening of an experience, in this case for a new mother and by extension, for me, for all of us. The puzzle did, in fact, have pieces missing. Were our needs for a resolution quickly met, some of the most powerful moments of this unfolding would go unknown.
In just a few minutes, I was touched in my heart, I was transformed in my thinking. I was reminded. To every season, indeed.
Ethiopia’s reach back into anthropological time may extend 4 million years.
The dog needed to be walked before I could sit down to the laptop.
A few weeks in the life of a mother and child, the next fifty years or so….
Enough, for I must ready myself for an appointment with the allergist, who waits for no man.
As always, srk
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
To Every Season
I found myself counting days, still.
The strike point midway between the first half of summer vacation and the back half jabbed me as if I had been stuck in the ribs with the end of a wooden kitchen spoon. Too many seasons, as either student or teacher, defined by the rhythm of the school year for my bio-calendar not to know how the days pace along.
Then, my ego, flushed from the sanctuary of my little garden retreat. Who am I, again? Last week a former student said she and another former—well, now they are all former students—were trading Mr. Kaple stories, and I retorted, only half-jokingly, that I used to know him. Clever that response, to a degree, but also a sharp pluck on the gut-string attached to my self-identity. Fretting, my mind played with the notion of me not being he, or the I as the case may be
Next came the fear that spawned the notion that I may never attend to matters that would matter as much, the better part of me left behind. This doubt would be an apprehension in my mind as my mother would say, so do not fear. Even the Bible—someone counted apparently—says not to be afraid 365 times. Oh, in my mind I know I have nothing to fear, but for one tumultuous evening I wrangled mightily with my own self.
Heck, even Odysseus had to take his oar and travel inland and leave his beloved sea far behind. The oar is identified by a stranger as a winnowing tool—waves of grain?—but in that recasting he returns home to peace and quiet. And the sea, again, at last.
A red pen, then, may no longer be a defining marker for who I am. The message I hear: A new season is come round. The school’s bells no longer toll for me. Be still.
Just, yours, once again, srk
The strike point midway between the first half of summer vacation and the back half jabbed me as if I had been stuck in the ribs with the end of a wooden kitchen spoon. Too many seasons, as either student or teacher, defined by the rhythm of the school year for my bio-calendar not to know how the days pace along.
Then, my ego, flushed from the sanctuary of my little garden retreat. Who am I, again? Last week a former student said she and another former—well, now they are all former students—were trading Mr. Kaple stories, and I retorted, only half-jokingly, that I used to know him. Clever that response, to a degree, but also a sharp pluck on the gut-string attached to my self-identity. Fretting, my mind played with the notion of me not being he, or the I as the case may be
Next came the fear that spawned the notion that I may never attend to matters that would matter as much, the better part of me left behind. This doubt would be an apprehension in my mind as my mother would say, so do not fear. Even the Bible—someone counted apparently—says not to be afraid 365 times. Oh, in my mind I know I have nothing to fear, but for one tumultuous evening I wrangled mightily with my own self.
Heck, even Odysseus had to take his oar and travel inland and leave his beloved sea far behind. The oar is identified by a stranger as a winnowing tool—waves of grain?—but in that recasting he returns home to peace and quiet. And the sea, again, at last.
A red pen, then, may no longer be a defining marker for who I am. The message I hear: A new season is come round. The school’s bells no longer toll for me. Be still.
Just, yours, once again, srk
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
Sowing, I Reap
Dear Maria,
When I decided to further shrink the footprint of my lawn to shorten my mowing time and thus cut noxious emissions and reduce water usage (self-justification 101), I thought to do so without adding chemical weapons to my lawn-care arsenal. Naturally, as luck would have it, I was provided with a down and not too dirty solution, that of bags and bags of leaves and pine straw and such that my neighbors and friends so very thoughtfully raked up for me.
Like a carpet bomber, I saturated two framed target areas out front with more than a 100 large bags of other people’s yard litter (OPYL in the literature, I believe). And, voila! My grass, DOA. Of course, for two years, this eyesore of decaying matter took me out of the running for yard of the—well any length of time.
Oh, to be sure it was an ugly mess to look at, but if they—they—could only see my backyard. That transformation would redeem me quickly enough. My garden, growing and blooming and offering respite from the world at large. Ah, bravo!
Then, the shortcomings of my shortcut were brought to light: First, the oak. Oaks coming out of the ground, not by the dozens but by the hundreds. Then, weeds. By the hundreds. Now, instead of tearing out everything coming up, I opted to plant trees and shrubs, and for my penance, I would drag out my little gardening bench, kneel, and pull up the offending little bomblets by hand. I did so. Twice this spring. Now, what do I have? Hundreds of oaks and weeds coming up. Probably the most successful crops of anything that I have ever planted.
So each day, I receive a lesson. Every time through my front door, I am reminded of my bad decision-making, and every time through my back door, I am reminded there is hope for me yet. Penance and redemption, both under the same canopy of sky.
All my best, as always, srk
When I decided to further shrink the footprint of my lawn to shorten my mowing time and thus cut noxious emissions and reduce water usage (self-justification 101), I thought to do so without adding chemical weapons to my lawn-care arsenal. Naturally, as luck would have it, I was provided with a down and not too dirty solution, that of bags and bags of leaves and pine straw and such that my neighbors and friends so very thoughtfully raked up for me.
Like a carpet bomber, I saturated two framed target areas out front with more than a 100 large bags of other people’s yard litter (OPYL in the literature, I believe). And, voila! My grass, DOA. Of course, for two years, this eyesore of decaying matter took me out of the running for yard of the—well any length of time.
Oh, to be sure it was an ugly mess to look at, but if they—they—could only see my backyard. That transformation would redeem me quickly enough. My garden, growing and blooming and offering respite from the world at large. Ah, bravo!
Then, the shortcomings of my shortcut were brought to light: First, the oak. Oaks coming out of the ground, not by the dozens but by the hundreds. Then, weeds. By the hundreds. Now, instead of tearing out everything coming up, I opted to plant trees and shrubs, and for my penance, I would drag out my little gardening bench, kneel, and pull up the offending little bomblets by hand. I did so. Twice this spring. Now, what do I have? Hundreds of oaks and weeds coming up. Probably the most successful crops of anything that I have ever planted.
So each day, I receive a lesson. Every time through my front door, I am reminded of my bad decision-making, and every time through my back door, I am reminded there is hope for me yet. Penance and redemption, both under the same canopy of sky.
All my best, as always, srk
Monday, August 12, 2013
Feed Me!
Dear Maria,
Not so cool this morning out back, but the calendar doesn’t lie. Might be confused from time to time, but doesn’t lie. Of course your kids are soon in school, which I still think crazy, and so many of our friends will be standing in front of the classroom as another crop of students is planted in their desks.
Yesterday, I chanced to see the number of kids on free and reduced lunch and—well, at least the number I saw was not yet 20 million. Twenty million. Makes my brain sizzle.
I know you appreciate your blessings and that your children do not want for much, but I know that like most of us that number is beyond our hearts’ capacity to hold onto in any real fashion. I guess some folks will immediately start carping about government corruption and the intrusiveness of Big Guv, but how much fat do they think is there to be cut?
Okay, yes, I would be in pacing mode now. Yes, hands might be in play, too.
I’ll spot those folks 20% and, well, almost 16 million? I wonder who in government wakes up each morning and is completely dedicated to this number just not being so. In a good way. Wonder if there is a congressperson at this day and night. Wonder what Mark Sanford thinks.
Okay, I know this is going to seem a bit random—okay, more than a bit. I wonder if Apple outsources its custodial needs. Or, do they run all of that in-house. Wonder what they pay their custodial crew. Or at Amazon. Or at Google. Or at Microsoft.
Enough. Did get a chance to work out at a young friend’s farm, and the best part was doing manual labor with immediate results. Teaching did not always yield such a quick assessment. Hahaha, that is kind of funny. Of course, I was cutting off limbs, which the last time I checked was never allowed in the district policy’s handbook.
Hungry kids. Millions of them. That sticks to the ribs, and not in a good way.
Hope all is well with you and the family. As always, just, srk
Not so cool this morning out back, but the calendar doesn’t lie. Might be confused from time to time, but doesn’t lie. Of course your kids are soon in school, which I still think crazy, and so many of our friends will be standing in front of the classroom as another crop of students is planted in their desks.
Yesterday, I chanced to see the number of kids on free and reduced lunch and—well, at least the number I saw was not yet 20 million. Twenty million. Makes my brain sizzle.
I know you appreciate your blessings and that your children do not want for much, but I know that like most of us that number is beyond our hearts’ capacity to hold onto in any real fashion. I guess some folks will immediately start carping about government corruption and the intrusiveness of Big Guv, but how much fat do they think is there to be cut?
Okay, yes, I would be in pacing mode now. Yes, hands might be in play, too.
I’ll spot those folks 20% and, well, almost 16 million? I wonder who in government wakes up each morning and is completely dedicated to this number just not being so. In a good way. Wonder if there is a congressperson at this day and night. Wonder what Mark Sanford thinks.
Okay, I know this is going to seem a bit random—okay, more than a bit. I wonder if Apple outsources its custodial needs. Or, do they run all of that in-house. Wonder what they pay their custodial crew. Or at Amazon. Or at Google. Or at Microsoft.
Enough. Did get a chance to work out at a young friend’s farm, and the best part was doing manual labor with immediate results. Teaching did not always yield such a quick assessment. Hahaha, that is kind of funny. Of course, I was cutting off limbs, which the last time I checked was never allowed in the district policy’s handbook.
Hungry kids. Millions of them. That sticks to the ribs, and not in a good way.
Hope all is well with you and the family. As always, just, srk
Saturday, August 10, 2013
The Lottery Games
Dear Maria,
As you know, I don’t play the lottery, but last night at dinner even I had to mention the amount that was in play this week. And then the mind begins to turn over the prospects, the what-ifs.
Somewhere along the way, someone in sort of a chat-at-the-water-fountain-moment told me to just plan on only ending up with 40% of the amount. The tone was the same as when you hear someone say something along the lines of, well, you know you will have to pay taxes. Okay, so I am bent out of the frame for having only, uh, roughly 160 million dollars? That I didn’t work a lick for? Not so much.
Of course, I can hear myself saying to former students and friends a zillion times, well a couple hundred bucks is not going to change my lifestyle. A $1000 is not going to change my life in a profound fashion. Okay, Mr. Profundity, how about $160,000,000?
Let’s see, rewire my little home, upgrade some plumbing, put on a better roof, make a few structural alterations, and voila, $159,980,000. Okay, Mr. Generosity, dole some out to the family. Allowance or lump sum? Uh-oh, need a financial planner.
All right, all right—yes, I would get a damn sailboat. Not too big—well, maybe two. One for me to single-hand around the harbor and one for my crewmates to rejoin me for a bit of fun racing around the buoys. Well, sure the boats would be new. Without being too fussy with the details, would leave me with $159,920,000.
Pleasures in life. That’s the change, more pleasures in life—not to worry or even give a second thought. Then, I think of the life-expectancy numbers newly released—18 years is the number now for me. I’m not going to spend this kind of money, even if the number turns out to be 30 years.
Ocean front house—yes, reckon so. New truck, okay. So, $155,000,000.
Man, I need to give it away. Nearly all of it, and I am going to need help. Scholarships, medical care, cars, houses, and give it to individuals, not organizations. The sooner, the better. Just respond to stories from folks I trust. Needs to be met.
Nope, no saint. Just doing what I have seen my friends and family do over and over again. Giving to food banks, other people’s sick children, school supplies—not with their huge bank accounts, just their huge hearts.
Lesson learned. As always, srk
As you know, I don’t play the lottery, but last night at dinner even I had to mention the amount that was in play this week. And then the mind begins to turn over the prospects, the what-ifs.
Somewhere along the way, someone in sort of a chat-at-the-water-fountain-moment told me to just plan on only ending up with 40% of the amount. The tone was the same as when you hear someone say something along the lines of, well, you know you will have to pay taxes. Okay, so I am bent out of the frame for having only, uh, roughly 160 million dollars? That I didn’t work a lick for? Not so much.
Of course, I can hear myself saying to former students and friends a zillion times, well a couple hundred bucks is not going to change my lifestyle. A $1000 is not going to change my life in a profound fashion. Okay, Mr. Profundity, how about $160,000,000?
Let’s see, rewire my little home, upgrade some plumbing, put on a better roof, make a few structural alterations, and voila, $159,980,000. Okay, Mr. Generosity, dole some out to the family. Allowance or lump sum? Uh-oh, need a financial planner.
All right, all right—yes, I would get a damn sailboat. Not too big—well, maybe two. One for me to single-hand around the harbor and one for my crewmates to rejoin me for a bit of fun racing around the buoys. Well, sure the boats would be new. Without being too fussy with the details, would leave me with $159,920,000.
Pleasures in life. That’s the change, more pleasures in life—not to worry or even give a second thought. Then, I think of the life-expectancy numbers newly released—18 years is the number now for me. I’m not going to spend this kind of money, even if the number turns out to be 30 years.
Ocean front house—yes, reckon so. New truck, okay. So, $155,000,000.
Man, I need to give it away. Nearly all of it, and I am going to need help. Scholarships, medical care, cars, houses, and give it to individuals, not organizations. The sooner, the better. Just respond to stories from folks I trust. Needs to be met.
Nope, no saint. Just doing what I have seen my friends and family do over and over again. Giving to food banks, other people’s sick children, school supplies—not with their huge bank accounts, just their huge hearts.
Lesson learned. As always, srk
Friday, August 9, 2013
Who We Are
Dear Maria,
Good news this morning—not to oversell, hahaha!—but cool enough to read a bit out back on the patio and then mow the lawn, and then even get in another round of reading. I know it hints of the school calendar cranking back up for so many of our friends and family, but a welcome relief just the same.
A passage in a book now under my nose a couple of times a day made me think of something you once said to me, that how you wanted to be the best mother, the best daughter, the best sister, the best friend, the best wife you could be.
How elegantly put. I find myself trying to think that way, too, being a good man, a good friend, a good brother, a good son—no longer a good teacher, hahahaha!!!
What struck me was how you did not think to go right to being the best in terms of a political party, or of a cause, or a movement, or an agenda. Just the human stuff—the eye to eye, talk to talk, touch to touch stuff of daily living. The good stuff, I would say.
No big insight how much other stuff—could I stop using that word?—trompers those relationships. I reckon our connections to those closest to us generate enough issues all ready. But, you made me think—reminded me—about the heart of the matter, about how two or three or four people matter in a way that is most important. To love one another.
I was sitting on one of the smaller patio chairs which other than making me look like an over-sized kid in a small desk made me rethink using the word garden. At eye level, it appears more a, uh, mass planting. Had only Candide said, “We must tend our mass planting.”
Oh, the book is Brian McLaren’s Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road?—a gift from a very thoughtful young friend. In several meanings of the word.
Hope this quick note finds you well, as always. srk
Good news this morning—not to oversell, hahaha!—but cool enough to read a bit out back on the patio and then mow the lawn, and then even get in another round of reading. I know it hints of the school calendar cranking back up for so many of our friends and family, but a welcome relief just the same.
A passage in a book now under my nose a couple of times a day made me think of something you once said to me, that how you wanted to be the best mother, the best daughter, the best sister, the best friend, the best wife you could be.
How elegantly put. I find myself trying to think that way, too, being a good man, a good friend, a good brother, a good son—no longer a good teacher, hahahaha!!!
What struck me was how you did not think to go right to being the best in terms of a political party, or of a cause, or a movement, or an agenda. Just the human stuff—the eye to eye, talk to talk, touch to touch stuff of daily living. The good stuff, I would say.
No big insight how much other stuff—could I stop using that word?—trompers those relationships. I reckon our connections to those closest to us generate enough issues all ready. But, you made me think—reminded me—about the heart of the matter, about how two or three or four people matter in a way that is most important. To love one another.
I was sitting on one of the smaller patio chairs which other than making me look like an over-sized kid in a small desk made me rethink using the word garden. At eye level, it appears more a, uh, mass planting. Had only Candide said, “We must tend our mass planting.”
Oh, the book is Brian McLaren’s Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammed Cross the Road?—a gift from a very thoughtful young friend. In several meanings of the word.
Hope this quick note finds you well, as always. srk
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