Tag Archives: drawing

A Really Bad Day at the Five and Ten

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No, I never actually got caught naked on Main Street wearing only a teddy bear in front of the Ben Franklin Dime Store.  Thank goodness for that.  But believe me, today was almost as bad as that.  (Really, I just made up this picture to illustrate a bad day.  It didn’t actually ever happen.  I know it sounds like I am protesting too much, but… oh, well.  Some of my friends know the truth.)

Today started with a near fatal accident on my morning commute.  I have been having trouble on the drive in the mornings, passing out at stop lights on occasion and having to be awakened by angry car horns.  I am a diabetic and I did discuss it with my doctor and my mother the forty-year RN nurse.  I have been eating extra protein for breakfast to keep my blood sugar high enough.  Still, I had a sudden rude awakening.  I was going forty miles an hour as I was awakened by the car rumbling down the median on a divided portion of the highway.  I got control of the car and veered back into my lane before I reached the light pole or the up-coming intersection.  Believe me, I am going to take super serious steps to prevent that looming fatal accident.  If I don’t, I will either end up dead or having to work with severely soiled underwear.  No way can I afford another sick day.

So, after the good news about still not being dead, I was called into the vice principal’s office.

“Did they tell you that you were going to be having a new writing class?” he said out of the blue beyond.

“No.”

“You can teach a writing class, can’t you?”

Well, of course I can.  I have done it a million times before.  It is just that I never had to do it suddenly in the middle of a grading period before.  So what is going on here?  “Um, yes, I can,” I answered with the utter stupidity of the totally blind-sided.

“Good.  We will be replacing your third period class today.”

Oh, good.  Thank you so much.  Why am I being singled out for this kind of treatment?  Well, I am eligible to retire.  They want me to retire.  And my department is not only made up of gray-haired old fogies like me, but is being blamed for low test scores.  (Of course, no one seems to notice that the scores I am routinely blamed for are second language speakers of English who have been mainstreamed in regular English classes.  Why am I to blame for failures of kids who are not directly in my classes?  Oh, that’s right… ESL teachers take the blame for ESL students whether we’re allowed to teach them or not.)  Okay, bring it on!  No way I’m gonna let kids fail, even if they are heaping it on to drive me out.

My blood sugar went too low again before the end of the day.  All three of my own personal kids are failing at least one class.  I am getting older by the minute.  When I stop and think about it, it would be better to be a kid again, caught naked in front of the Five and Ten.  (You might want to check out my previous post “Because Naked is Funny” to find out why.)  It would be, all-in-all, a much better time.  (And it didn’t really happen.  Well… not like the Paffooney, anyway!

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In the Land of Maxfield Parrish

In the Land of Maxfield Parrish

The list of my favorite artists includes in a very large way the illustrator Maxfield Parrish. I love the style he created with under-colors of cobalt blue and black. He has a very dreamy way of portraying fairy-tale things. This colored pencil Paffooney was created to practice some very Parrish-like images and color composition. The unicorn is entirely mine, but the other figures are modeled on Maxfield Parrish paintings. Consider this a tribute to the master, an homage to the things he did that I have learned from and truly love.

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January 29, 2014 · 2:25 am

Little Red-Haired Girl (A Poem and Paffooney)

Little Red-Haired Girl

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

That little red-haired girl, so cute, so nice

You only looked and looked from afar

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

You could’ve held her hand

You could’ve walked her home from school

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

She never got your Valentine

At least, you forgot to sign your name

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

No hope of marriage now, nor children for old age

Happily ever after has now long gone

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

Now every love poem is a sad poem

And the world is blue and down

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her…

You never told her that you loved her, Charlie Brown

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Old Art is Good Art?

Old Art is Good Art?

This is me learning colored-pencil technique in the 1970’s. Does it show promise? Have I improved? Or gotten worse? Fear not, I don’t expect you to answer the questions. Just help me figure out… Is the house about to fall down? Why are the kid’s feet in the goldfish pond? And what sort of silly little fairy is that, anyway?

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January 26, 2014 · 8:53 pm

Jungle Boy

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When I was 12, my favorite novel was Rudyard Kipling’s First Jungle Book.  I loved it.  From page one to the last sentence of the story about the White Seal.  I owned a paperback copy that I still have 45 years later.  I bought it from the school book order form, Scholastic, I think.  I used my allowance money, earned at a nickel a week.  Along with the chapter books I had read previously, The Swiss Family Robinson, the White Stag, and Treasure Island, it guided my view of life.  Every grove and forest in Iowa became the jungle in the summer of 1968.  The windswept fields of corn and soy beans easily transformed into tropical seas.  I imagined pirates, natives, and buried treasures everywhere.  When I found a piece of a brass candlestick with the necessary curved part, which became the cursed Ahnk from The Jungle Book.  Midnight, Grandma Aldrich’s blue-eyed black cat, became my Bagheera.  I traveled with an invisible Baloo.  You know, it was only a year or so before that when I saw the Disney movie.  So, of course, dancing and singing was a part of being a jungle boy.

In the book, unlike the movie, Mowgli was naked in the jungle.  He didn’t wear clothes until the first time he submitted himself to the man village.  He took them off again when he escaped.  I had to try that too.  I went to the BinghamPark woods down by the Iowa River.  I found a tree where I could put my clothes, and I took everything off.  I figured roaming the woods like Mowgli would be great.  Boy, I was a stupid child.  Problem number one struck with my first naked step in the forest.  Dang!  There must not be any twigs or nettles in Mowgli’s jungle.  I tried hopping from place to place, but in minutes I was wearing at least my socks and shoes.  Hanging branches and brambles were a problem, too.  They clutched at me, striping me with welts and scrapes.  Certain parts you just don’t want pricked by a bramble bush.  It was like God suddenly planted those pointed things everywhere.  Okay, shoes and socks and shorts.  Well, then I began to get cold.  Iowa is never very warm even in the height of summer.  I had already defeated the whole naked in the forest thing when I put my shorts back on, so, what the heck!  It just didn’t work like I thought.

I still believed that the ways of the jungle were an essential part of my young life.  I read and reread what the Jungle Book says about the “Law of the Jungle”.  I tried to make sense of it as a credo to live by.  Of course, at twelve we are always among the wisest and all-knowing of God’s creatures.  We can make sense of the world in our own weird little way, and no one will ever be able to sway us from the philosophy we live by, no matter how silly it is.  I still think about my “Jungle Book Period” as an important part of my young life.  There are things about young Mowgli and Jim Hawkins and the Robinsons that formed a significant part of my character.  I would one day make use of those determined and resourceful qualities to stay alive in the classroom jungles of South Texas.  I tried to make others see it.  I shared Kipling and Stevenson with kids and hoped that I could make them learn, as I did, how to be that little boy facing and succeeding against the dangerous jungle around him.

 

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Teaching Los Vatos Locos

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I have spent the majority of my teaching career teaching Spanish speakers in South Texas.  So, believe me when I say that for a gringo like me, there has to be some kind of art to it.  I have taught so many surly, excessively macho boys and very feminine, but definitely aggressive girls, that I think I may have found an insight or two on how to do it.

First, you must be brave.  And you must recognize that bravery means remaining outwardly calm while on the inside your heart is pounding wildly and you are fighting not to wet your pants.  My first year we had to walk our eighth grade boys to and from the cafeteria four blocks away on another campus.  I, being a rookie teacher, was given the delightful job of forcing the two most evil vato locos (crazy dudes) to return to classes and schoolwork after lunch instead of wandering off for the afternoon.  I had to face down El Mouse and El Talan and convince them to catch up to the rest of the class without killing me.  I have to say, at that point I did not have a forceful personality and could not give the laser eye of death that all South Texas teachers need to develop.  I didn’t make the mistake of saying please, but implied I could actually do something to them to make their lives more miserable if they didn’t let themselves be herded along like cattle.  El Talan picked up a metal fence post as if it was a baseball bat, and I got the chance to review my whole short life for a few tense seconds.  But they relented.  I didn’t show fear, and they put down the post and sauntered on with their lives.  I got them back to the corral for afternoon classes.  Both of them went to prison after dropping out of school.  Both of them are dead now.  One was killed by a rival drug dealer.  I made the mistake of telling that tale to my mother.  At the time, she nearly submitted my resignation for me.

Second, I learned you must have a heart.  Veteran teachers told me that I should not smile before winter break, and even then, I should only smile at students’ misfortunes.   That advice turned out to be a vat of puppy doo.  I learned early on that students are people.  They have feelings.  They will return what they get.  Unfortunately they often dish out what they get from other teachers, from parents, and even from local law enforcement.  But more than once I was given a kid that everyone else said was a bad kid, and I treated that kid like a human bean… er, I mean being… and was forever after that kid’s favorite teacher, and someone that they would do anything for.  I was one of those teachers who kids return to visit.  Faces would appear in my doorway often like so many blooming flowers, blossoms lit up with sunshine.  They would be high school kids who came back to get an encouraging word, or graduates coming by to tell me how successful they were.  Often they came because of something they remembered from class.  They felt they had to share their sunshine.  Believe me, sometimes it was vital to me to be able to continue to get a little of that sunlight in the midst of daily darkness.

I have to confess, I did not reach every kid.  Some have made poor choices and died from them.  Some have turned to the dark side of the force and are unrepentantly Darth Vader.  Some I could not stand and did everything in my power to extinguish their bad behaviors with punishments that never worked.  Some that I could not stand were among the ones that came back to visit too.  Funny how you can do everything you possibly can to defeat a kid, and they will still come around, still tell you that you were their favorite teacher, and the only thing they remembered about middle school was something that happened in your classroom. It’s not even always something you want them to remember.

The kid in today’s Paffooney was not one of the bad ones.  Manuel was the son of a border patrol agent.  He was smart.  He knew what was right and what was wrong.  I don’t know where he is now, or what he is doing, but I believe in him, and I know he was worth every effort I ever put into teaching him.

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I am Popeye

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I am Popeye, I sez, because I just am…  Yeah, that’s right, I yam what I yam. 

First of all, I looks like Popeye.  I has that cleft in my chin, very little hair left on my ol’ head, and I gots the same squinky eye (what squinky eye?).  I has had that same squinky eye since I wuz a teenager and got kicked in the eye doin’ sandlot football (bettern’ sandlot high divin’, fer sure!).  I also has them same bulgy arms, the ones that bulge in the forearm and is incredibobble thin on the upper arms.

Second of all, I has Popeye Spinach-strength.  I look weak and scrawny, but I is a lot tuffer than I looks.  I go into classrooms full of wild, crazed high schoolers, and grabs their attention, tells ’em what’s what, and makes ’em woik.  (Woik is a voib, and that means I is woikin’ when I makes ’em do it.)  I kin stands ridicule and kids what will remarks on the hair in my ears and my squinky eye.  I tells ’em that the scar on my face was did by a bloke with a knife (which it were, cause I had skin cancer and the doctor used a knife to get it off).  I have taken all kinds of nasty punches from life (diabetes, blood-pressure problems, prostatitis, arthritis) and I still keeps comin’ back fer more.  In fact, I can winds up me arm and give that ol’ Devil a good Twisker Sock right in the kisser.

Third of all, I has a typical Popeye Sweet Patootie.  My Island Girl Wife is like Olive Oyl in very many ways.  She is always tellin’ me what to do.  She compares me to ol’ Bluto.  She panics and flails her arms when there’s a crisis.  And she expects me to always save the day and never says “thank you” after.

So, I mean it when I sez “I am Popeye”.  I yam what I yam and that’s all what I yam!

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600! Yay!

600!  Yay!

I have been social media marketing for just over a year now. 208 followers on WordPress. 602 likes on my Facebook novel page, Catch a Falling Star. What does it all mean? Well, no one is reading my books still, so it means, “Write more books!” cries a crazed Mickey who is like Sisyphus in that he doesn’t know what will happen at the top of that hill.

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January 17, 2014 · 3:45 am

Snow Babies (Proof that I’m not a loser as a writer)

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My novel Snow Babies that I submitted to Chanticleer Book Reviews for the Dante Rossetti Awards for Young Adult Fiction has been awarded a place among thirty-one finalists.  Here is the link; http://chantireviews.com/chanticleer-contest-deadlines-and-announcement-projections/finalists-for-the-dante-rossetti-awards-for-young-adult-fiction/

I should know by the end of January if I win or not, but the fact that I made the finals feels like vindication!

Above you see the mock-up cover that I drew for myself.  (The novel was submitted as an unpublished manuscript).  Here is another Paffooney with the main character of Snow Babies, Valerie Clarke.

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Wise Guy

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At school today the principal asked us to come up with one word that we wanted to apply to our own lives as teachers.  You know how the teaching game is.  You start a new semester; you have to be subjected to eight hours of blah-blah-blah.  It is required blah-blah-blah mandated by Texas education laws.  My magic word was wisdom.

So, what does wisdom imply?  Well, I am old.  I should have some of that thing in one pocket or another.  So I search my pockets.  As a kid I vowed to become a wizard.  What is a wizard if not a wise man?  A wise guy.  How, then, do you acquire wisdom?

In the movie Mystery Men, Ben Stiller tells us that mystical wisdom from the wise guy mystical sage is only saying a thing is its opposite.  Thus true wisdom comes from learning how foolish you really are.  It’s a good joke, but it’s also true.  You can’t be wise unless you realize how little you actually know out of all the things that there are.

Why would I want to be wise?  Well, I have the fool thing down pretty well already.  As fools go, I’m a humble fool who trades in foolishness and calls it humor and young adult novels.  So it follows, by logic, an advanced form of foolishness, that I must be wise.

Okay, wise guy, time to say something wise in the conclusion… Doh!

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