Tag Archives: fiction

The History of Government as I See It

Raygun RonnyIn the beginning, God made men naked and helpless.  He made women naked and in charge.  And then he tossed an apple to the women and said, “let there be evil and monsters and such.”  So, naked people began to huddle together in caves to get out of the storm.  They began to kill and eat other animals that didn’t eat them.  They began to wear the fur of whatever they killed and ate.  And then because Cain had a you-like-him-better-than-me fit, they began to kill (and hopefully not eat) each other.

So, the need for government came about as a matter of survival.  Cavemen put their thick heads together and decided that some guys were bigger and tougher and got more girls than the rest.  And some guys knew how to use their heads for something more than a place to keep their animal-skin hats.  So, when all the heads were put together, the smartest ones realized that if they made weapons for the big guys to kill other guys with more efficiently, then the big guys could protect all of “us” and kill all of “them” and we would all be safer and live better lives.  Of course, the big strong guys wanted to keep all the better girls and all the stuff they took from others, and they expected everyone they protected to give them more stuff.  Thus, taxes were born.  And when you had to count stuff and plan stuff and figure stuff out (like managing taxes and keeping track of who you need to hit because they haven’t paid) that task went to the scrawny guys with the big heads.  And so, Kings were born.  And queens were mostly the kings’ sisters, because, after all, the big guys still got all the best girls.  And as time went on, we had kings and their big guys and all the other “common” people.  But you couldn’t just kill (and hopefully not eat) all the “common” people, because they were useful too.  You could put them to work so they could pay more taxes and make more stuff for you and it made your life better if you had a lot of them working for you.  But some old king named Louie discovered you had to make the “common” people a little bit happy too because they outnumber you by a lot.  Unfortunately for Louie, he didn’t discover this until they cut his head off… some argument about eating cake or something.  So, some other smart guys with big heads got together and decided to make a new government.  It was really still the old government.  They just had the brilliant idea of re-naming everything and lying to the people.  Now, instead of kings and their big guys who got all the good girls, you had “elected representatives” who were actually the kings of old.  They just figured out how to lie to people and make them believe they worked for the “common man”.  And the big guys were re-named the “Military Industrial Complex”, or maybe it’s the Illuminati.  I’m not sure.  And then there’s a Pope, and possibly some alien beings from Roswell, and… okay, maybe I need to save the rest for the Tinfoil Hat Club when we meet every Wednesday evening and plot how we are going to “wake up, sheeple” and take over the world.  (Dues are fifty cents.  We are meeting again on Sunday because we think the world ends next Tuesday… or something.)

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Anita Jones, the Little Red-Haired Girl

Anita Jones is a character in several of my books, but she also represents a girl from my own childhood who was as much of a regret for me as she was for poor old Charlie Brown.

Anita Jones, of course, is not her real name. You can’t even look at the picture and tell by what she looks like who I am secretly portraying. But the thing is, she was definitely real to me. And I would still be horrified to have her find out how I really felt about her.

She was not my first crush. I mooned over the beautiful Alicia Stewart (also not a real name) from second grade through sixth grade. But Anita was always right there. Often right behind me and to my left whenever I turned around on the playground. Not looking me in the eye, but probably looking at me until I began to turn. I know I looked at her whenever she wore dresses or shorts. She had beautiful peach-colored legs.

There was a time when, in Music class, the boys were forced to ask a girl to be a dance partner in the square dancing lessons that Miss Malik was giving us. My best friend Mark had asked Alicia to dance with him, so my number one choice was already taken. And when it was my turn, Anita looked at me with those wonderful brown eyes and heart-shaped face. And I… was too embarrassed to pick her. Then everyone would know how I really felt about her. So, I picked my cousin instead. My heart was lodged in my left shoe for three days after the look I saw on her face. Not my cousin’s face. The brown eyes and heart shape.

Then later, when I was on the high school bus to Belmond, Mickey Schmidt (we never called him Michael because I was Michael) made a joke that embarrassed me.

“Have you ever been caught masturbating in the bathtub?”

“No,” I told him, in disgust. Anita was in the seat across the aisle listening.

“It’s a good place to do it in, then, ain’t it.”

I turned as red as any maple leaf ever managed in late fall. She was smiling at me.

“I would’ve liked to have seen that,” she said. “I bet you even have a lot of hair down there.”

I would’ve laughed if I hadn’t been so embarrassed that my head might’ve caught fire.

But thinking about that humiliating moment on the bus later, I realized that she had actually been brave enough to admit she was thinking about my genitals. I had never asked her on a date or sat beside her in Art Class as I should have. My life might’ve been very different if I had. Even if I had asked her to dance.

But somewhere in the Multiverse, a parallel me is probably married to a parallel Anita. And I bless them for what might’ve been. At least, it’s lovely to think so now.

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The View from Before the End

This could be a Filipina niece dancing for TikTok, except it’s not. Even all the nieces and nephews have grown to adult size now. Well, the youngest of my wife’s younger sister’s kids might be about this age… but it is not her. Some people in my stories and artworks are made up from thin air.

I have gotten old. This summer has made me feel not merely old… but most sincerely old.

My family of five and my sister on the end. My wife is the shortest one in the picture.

I was visiting my sister at the family farm in Iowa. My whole immediate family, two sons, a daughter, my wife, and I were together again all in one place for the first time in a couple of years. I made it clear that I plan to move to the farm from the Dallas area sometime in 2025. Getting away from the air pollution, traffic, and Texas heat of the big city is essential to my hopes of staying alive for a bit longer. However, my wife is still employed as a teacher in Texas. My daughter is an adult but will stay with her mother in Texas to ensure that her mother will be okay without me. They may both eventually move in with my sister and I, but for now there is good reason to be apart for a bit. Health reasons for me. Teaching job without worrying about going to the ER with me for my wife.

My elder son from Oklahoma is with his fiancee here. My younger son in the Air Force brought his new girlfriend to meet us for the first time.

We more or less have to accept that the inevitable chess game with the Grim Reaper will happen, and nobody wins more than once or twice. Most lose the first try.

My blog was interrupted by my trip this week. The consecutive post streak will have to start again at zero. My writing has been seriously slowed by aging issues. I tend to pass out while writing and reading. I forget things in the middle of the process. Everything is mentally harder. But I am falling into vivid mini-dreams when I pass out. It sometimes seems like reliving a moment in my own life, or… strangely… reliving a moment in the distant past of someone else’s life. The Reaper’s chess board is set up somewhere near. I do have book projects under way. But twenty-four books may have to be enough. We shall see what more I can accomplish. We have to do more with less when we are reaching the end of the story of our life.

My faun, Radasha, is here in the farmhouse kitchen with fruits and vegetables.

Most of my relevant life goes on deep inside my head now. Connecting with the outside world is getting ever harder. The coming darkness does not scare me. Like Mark Twain once allowed… “I am not worried about what comes after life. I was not alive for billions of years before I was born, and I was not bothered about it a bit.”

So, what is today’s blog post actually about? About how the final page of the book will soon be written and the whole book closed. It will not cease to exist. It will simply be over. And what comes after will go on to its appointed ends without me.

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Wants, Needs, and Afterthoughts

As you get older and closer to the last page of the novel of your life, it is entirely appropriate to take stock of the treasures you have accumulated in a long and rewarding life. In fact, you will probably have heirs looking to reap their inheritance after your long-awaited passing.

My children, unlike those of certain Republican politicians, don’t have much to gain by discovering the perfect untraceable poison. In fact, if I don’t live long enough to pay off my bankruptcy, they may only inherit medical debt and the rapt attention of Banko Merricka’s relentless debt-collecting agencies. (Since originally posting this essay, I have paid off my bankruptcy and inherited a third of the family farm. So, it is time to start letting the dog taste my food before eating it.)

But, as I am taking stock, what exactly do I need before I get the final handshake from Mr. G. Reaper? It turns out, I probably don’t need anything else. I have written more novels than I ever expected to. My children are grown into adulthood and take care of themselves now. And I am confident my wife, at eight years younger than me, will find somebody new to berate and explain to the myriad reasons that the new person is wrong about everything, and always will be… even if what you said was something she said was true the previous week.

Sure, if I had all the access to medical care and medicine that most other countries see as a human right, I might live longer. But my medical condition is bad enough that I would be seriously prolonging the pain and suffering. I enjoy being alive, but every day is a painful challenge, and, over time, that tends to get you down.

But what more do I want out of life?

Grandchildren would be nice. But none of mine are married yet, and only one of them seems to have found one he permanently likes. The countdown clock is ticking on that matter.

Well, recognition as a writer would also be nice. I came close to winning in a couple of novel-writing contests. A few readers have read and loved some of my books. Only one person ever hated my writing that told me about it, and he was a voice in my own head. There was also one reader who was not me that was somehow traumatized by one of my lesser books. But I have published way more books through four different publishers than I ever believed possible two decades ago.

But I was a successful teacher for three decades. I touched more than two thousand lives with my work in four different schools in three different districts and ten different classrooms… teaching four different subjects. I have no regrets about how I spent my life and what I got in return.

So, I am writing this believing this is not a maudlin topic. I don’t think I am actually going to pass away this weekend. I will probably get to finish at least one more work in progress. But nobody can say for sure that we will survive next month. Or next decade.

But pessimist that I am, things always turn out better than I think they will.

And afterthoughts?

If I had a magic lamp with a genie in it, my three wishes for the future would be;

  1. That Americans would invent a pill that makes everybody into a genius filled with empathy for all creatures, even the vilest, human beings. And they would share it for free with the whole world.
  2. That we would handle the climate crisis and all the future crises at least as well as we handled the nuclear crisis of the ’60s, the Cold War, the Coke vs Pepsi War, the Bugs vs Mickey War and every other war that didn’t wipe us out as a species in the past.
  3. There will be no Monkey’s Paw consequences for our wishes being fulfilled. So, that’s how it is.

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The Naked Desert

Seemingly Andy was having one of the luckiest spells of his life as a high school junior. He had inherited his great-grandfather’s 1920 LaSalle. It was a classic car that his grandfather drove in July 4th parades. And he always shared his grandfather’s deep love for the antique car. Loved it so much, in fact, that his grandfather put it in the will that the car belonged to him now. On top of that, Siena, the most beautiful girl in his class had said yes to being his steady girlfriend. She had said yes to the picnic in the Arizona desert.

But not everything was wine and roses. First of all, something had come up for Mom and Dad. At the last minute, Andy had become responsible for little sister Sally, a precocious seven-year-old. The only choices available were to cancel the picnic in the desert or to take Sally along. And he was missing the gentle wisdom of Grandpa Joe more than ever now. Owning the car was nothing next to Grandpa being gone.

But for some reason, Siena had been very understanding about having to babysit Sally on their date in the desert. Andy had some seriously racy daydreams about the date in the desert and what they could get away with, but he had thought that would come to nothing with the seven-year-old inserted into the middle of it. But Siena had asked for one concession to be okay with the arrangement.

“I will welcome the chance to get to know your little sister, but you have to promise me that if I ask you to do something on this date that you might not want to do, you will agree to do it without question.”

“What… what are you gonna ask for?”

“Oh, no. You don’t get to know that. You just have to agree and do it.”

“Um, okay? I mean, I promise I will… but don’t ask me to kill anybody.”

She laughed. “You may be surprised what you like once you try it.”

That said, he found himself bumping down the road in his classic car with Siena in the passenger seat and little Sally singing the “Let it Go!” song from Frozen in the back seat.

They found the quiet place surrounded by Saguaro cactuses where Andy had planned to picnic. It was on the ranch that had once belonged to Grandpa’s best friend, and Grandpa had said repeatedly that he courted Grandma there several times. They laid out the Indian blankets for the picnic and carried the food out from the back of the car. Sally insisted on carrying one of the watermelons even though it was half as big as she was.

“Okay, the time has come,” Siena said. “We are going to take off all our clothes and picnic here in the nude. I brought sunscreen.”

“But… but… Sally is here. We can’t… I mean… not if front of Sally!”

“You promised. Besides, we are going to practice naturism, not have sex or something.”

“I… um… what?”

“My family and I are practicing naturists. Nudists if you prefer. And since you are going to be my boyfriend, you are going to have to get used to this. Family naturism.”

Sally giggled happily as she led the way, being the first one naked.

Andy learned to like it with amazing speed once he finally overcame the initial shock. Putting sunscreen on Siena was almost as good as having her put sunscreen on him. Then Siena put sunscreen on an extra-wiggly little sister. The food actually tasted better when eaten au naturel in the wild. The hot sun and the desert wind felt better on bare skin than it did on sweat-soaked clothing. And then, full of picnic potato salad, they sat there and told each other picnic stories that were even more amazing when Siena told them about nudist people having nude picnics in nudist places. There was plenty of laughter.

Once the picnic was over, they didn’t get dressed to ride in the hot old car with no air conditioning in it. They waited to get home to leap back into their clothes.

“Thanks for that, Andy. I am grateful that you were so understanding about my family’s secret.” Siena’s grin was heart-melting.

“Yeah, um… It’s gonna be a thing, ain’t it.”

“It so is…” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek… the one on his face.

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When Readers Respond

I recently got my very first unsolicited review on a book I had written when Mr. Ted Bun, one of the leaders of the nudist writer group on Twitter gave me a five star review on Recipes for Gingerbread Children.

I was grateful and reviewed one of his books on Twitter in return.

But it was totally unsolicited. I didn’t even know any of my book promotions had penetrated such an odd corner of the internet. The story does have nudists in it, but that is not what the book is really about. Mr. Bun acknowledged that much in his review, and still liked it and called it well-written.

My first Amazon book promotion, offering the Kindle version of Snow Babies for free, produced the same kind of fruit. I started by sending a paperback copy to the girl I grew up with that I named the main character after. Valerie read the book to her grandchildren and then sent me this message;

Valerie– Hi Michael! I wanted to let you know that I finished reading your book a couple of days ago, and that I thought it was really good! You used so many colorful descriptions of the characters, that I felt like I could really picture the whole scene! I also enjoyed how you used several people’s names and surrounding towns from our past that brought back good memories. It kept my interest and made me excited to keep reading to see how things turned out! I appreciated how you ended it, too! Thanks again, so much for sharing it with me. I plan to share it with a friend of mine to read and then return to me! Do the Rowan and Belmond libraries have copies of your books? I would be happy to talk to the Belmond library about it, if you haven’t already! I will spread the word, and keep writing! Val

Me– I donated a couple of books to Rowan and one to Belmond.  But I have written a lot more since

They don’t have Snow Babies.   I am so glad you liked the book.  It is one of the best things I have ever written.

Valerie– You can be proud of your hard work! Next time I’m in the library, I will take Snow Babies with me and show them. I know they like to support local authors! 🙂

Me– Thank you for the help. I really appreciate it.

Then I find this tweet on Twitter from a fellow author who responded to my book promotion week.

She read Snow Babies and loved it and shared this review with me before she posted it on Amazon.

Headline: This book has a potential to become a classic

The story takes you to Norwall, a secluded midwestern town where people are expecting a snow blizzard to arrive in couple of hours. Among strangers coming to the town during the blizzard are four very special boys, a hobo, a bus driver, a drunken old lady, a stupid salesman, a couple of newly-weds and a lady following the four boys. Each of them, as well as the local people, has their own interesting story and their stories start to intertwine while the town gets buried in snow.

Some from the locals and the newcomers start to see white naked kids in the snow. In the course of events, they learn that those white kids are so called “snow babies”. According to what people say, those who see snow babies, are supposed to die during the blizzard.

The author has a talent for depicting situations in an impressive manner, so they can be humorous and touching at the same time.  His mature narrative style enables you to learn deeply but in a light way about individual characters and understand their motives. Interesting are the hobo´s droppings of philosophical reflections and life wisdoms from Walt Whitman’s book. Simultaneously, in connection with snow babies, the author keeps you in suspense until the end. The story is not predictable, and the ending left me smiling and absorbed in thought. 

I honestly fell in love with this book from the first page. It is like a fresh breeze compared to a number of today’s books written in similar patterns.

*****

I am amazed that people are beginning to read my books and like them… even love them. I wasn’t expecting that to happen until after I was dead. It is a good feeling that took me by surprise.

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Cissy Moonskipper Meets the Nebulons, Part 3

Putting on the Danjer Suits

Suki, as a Nebulon herself, led the way out of the spaceship into the oral cavity of the great space whale. Cissy, an Earther humanoid, and Friday, a Lupin child, both came tentatively after, fully aware that they were probably the reasons why there was an air of suspicion and dislike among the Clan Vorranac Nebulons. Crocodile Guy wisely stayed invisible and inside the spaceship, an option open to him alone as an artificially intelligent hologram made of light and computer data.

So, are you going to welcome us? Cissy saved a large number of our clan brothers and sisters from Lupin pirates. And the Lupin child was saved and adopted by her as well. (This is translated from the Nebulonin Language to save you from having to learn Nebulonin.)” Suki glared angrily at the completely expressionless Nebulon warriors.

The xenomorphs must be put into Danjer suits immediately,” said the lead warrior with no significant expression on his blue face.

“He says that we must dress you in Danjer suits immediately. It is for your protection.”

“Explain, please,” Cissy said.

“You see these two special organs that all Nebulons have?” Suki said, pointing to the two red spots on her otherwise blue cheeks. “These special skin organs allow the absorption and dispersing of exotic radiations that are part of a space whale’s internal functions. Without them, living inside a space whale can kill you. Danjer suits will prevent that from happening to the two of you so you don’t die.”

“Well, that does seem important.” Cissy smiled at Suki. A smile that would later seem inappropriate.

The three crewmen of the Happy Luck followed the warriors into a smaller enclosure.

“Paskuah sah fonatouh auol tanac.” The lead warrior pointed at a bench with three piles of quivering sludge on it, one blue, one gold, and one pink.

“He says we should disrobe and put these on.” Suki smiled as she picked up the blue sludge. In her hand, it transformed into a reasonable facsimile of a space suit.

“Euw, dat is ay-live!” Friday said with her muzzle curled up in a snarl.

“It is a living creature. It functions as a space suit. It feeds on the dirt, sweat, and oil from your body, automatically keeps you clean, and provides force fields, proper pressure levels, and an atmosphere for you to breath. It also processes and protects you from radiation.” Suki demonstrated how easily it went on her body and turned into what looked like a high-tech space suit. It was alive, but you couldn’t tell that by looking at it.

Cissy shucked off the suit she had been wearing. She stood there naked for a few moments, staring at the golden quivering mass. She knew that some of the warriors had to be males, watching her with who knows what in their hearts. But she wasn’t sure about the whole thing.

Friday was only wearing her Lupin fur, so when she picked up the pink mass, it quickly swooped onto her small body and fairly sizzled as it changed. It turned into a rather cute outfit that fit a Lupin child perfectly. “I iz purtee nowz!” Friday giggled. “Ann it teekulls!”

So, Cissy put the golden one on too. And it swiftly turned into an admirable starship uniform worthy of a captain. She also felt surprisingly pleased.

Then the lead warrior said, “Now we will go before the Prince to decide who lives and who dies. (Translated for you again so you don’t have to work at it… free of charge.)”

“What did he say, Suki?”

“Well, um… it needs a lot of context.”

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Being Ignored

I have never been an attention-seeker. In the Elysian Fields of modern society, I have never really been the honeybee. I have always been the flower. I had a reputation in high school for being the quiet nerd who ends up surprising you immensely in speech class, at the science fair, or at the art show. I was the one they all turned to when everybody in the conversation had already had their chance to strut and pontificate and say dumb things, and they were finally ready to get the solution to the problem being discussed, or the best suggestion on where to begin to find it.

When I became the teacher of the class instead of the student, I had to make major changes. I had to go from being patient, quiet, and shy to being the fearless presenter, forceful, sharp as an imparter of knowledge, and able to be easily understood, even by the kids whom you couldn’t legally call stupid, but were less than smart, and not in a pleasant Forrest Gump sort of way.

Shyness is only ever overcome by determination and practice. The standard advice given is to picture your audience naked so that you are not intimidated by them. But if your audience is seventh graders, you have to be extra careful about that. They are metaphorically naked all the time, ready at a moment’s notice to explode out of any metaphorical clothing they have learned to wear to cover the things that they wish to keep to themselves about themselves. And while you want them to open up and talk to you, you don’t want the emotional nakedness of having them sobbing in front of the entire class, or throwing things at you in the throes of a mega-tantrum over their love-life and the resulting soap operas of betrayal and revenge. And you definitely don’t want any literal nakedness in your classroom. (Please put your sweat pants back on, Keesha. Those shorts are not within the limits of the dress code.) Calling attention to yourself and what you have to say, because you are being paid to do so, is a critical, yet tricky thing to do. You want them looking at you, and actually thinking about what you are saying (preferably without imagining you naked, which they will do at any sort of unintentional slip or accidental prompting.) The ones who ignore you are a problem that has to be remedied individually and can eat up the majority of your teaching time.

I trained myself to be fairly good at commanding the attention of the room.

But now that I am retired, things have changed. I can still command attention in the room, which I proved to myself by being a successful substitute teacher last year. But I no longer have a captive audience that I can speak to five days a week in a classroom. Now my audience is whoever happens to see this blog and is intrigued enough by the title and pictures to read my words.

Now that I am retired and only speaking to the world at large through writing, I am ignored more than ever before. Being ignored is, perhaps, the only thing I do anymore. It is the new definition of Mickey. Mickey means, “He who must be ignored. Not partially, but wholly… and with malice.”

I put my blog posts on Facebook and Twitter where I know for a fact that there are people who know me and would read them and like them if they knew that they were there. But the malevolent algorithms on those social media sites guarantee that none of my dozens of cousins, old school friends, and former students will see them. Only the single ladies from Kazakhstan and members of the Butchers Union of Cleveland see my posts. Why is this? I do not know. Facebook and Twitter ignore me when I ask.

My books, though liked by everybody who has actually read and responded to them, are lost in a vast ocean of self-published books, most of which are not very good and give a black eye to self-published authors in general. I recently got another call from I-Universe/Penguin Books publishers about Catch a Falling Star, the one book I still have with them. They are concerned that my book, which is on their Editor’s Choice list, is not performing as well as their marketing people think it should. But to promote it, I would have to pay four hundred dollars towards the marketing campaign, even though they are already subsidizing it by fifty percent. They tell me they believe in my book. But apparently not enough to pay for 100% of the promotion.

I have decided to invest in a review service that will cost me about twenty dollars a month. But my confidence is not high. The last time I paid somebody to review a book, they reviewed a book with the same title as mine from a different author. That service still owes me money.

But the only reason it is a problem that I am being thoroughly ignored these days is that an author needs to be read to fulfill his purpose in life. Maybe pictures of pretty girls in this post will help. But, even if they don’t, well, I had their attention once upon a time. And since my purpose as a teacher is already fulfilled, perhaps that will be enough for one lifetime.

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Islands of Identity

Island Girl2z

Who am I?

Why do I do the things that I do?

No man is an island.  John Donne the English poet stated that.  And Ernest Hemingway quoted it… and wove it into his stories as a major theme… and proceeded to try to disprove it.  We need other people.  I married an island girl from the island of Luzon in the Philippines.  She may have actually needed me too, though she will never admit it.

Gilligans Island

When I was a young junior high school teacher in the early eighties, they called me Mr. Gilligan.  My classroom was known as Gilligan’s Island.  This came about because a goofball student in the very first class on the very first day said, “You look like Gilligan’s Island!”  By which he meant I reminded him of Bob Denver, the actor that played Gilligan.  But as he said it, he was actually accusing me of being an island.  And no man is an island.  Thank you, Fabian, you were sorta dumb, but I loved you for it.

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You see, being Gilligan on Gilligan’s Island was not a bad thing to be.  It was who I was as a teacher.  Nerdy, awkward, telling stories about when I was young, and my doofy friends like Skinny Mulligan.  Being a teacher gave me an identity.  And Gilligan was stranded on the Island with two beautiful single women, Mary Ann and Ginger.  Not a bad thing to be.  And I loved teaching and telling stories to kids who would later be the doofy students in new stories.

But we go through life searching for who we are and why we are here.  Now that I am retired, and no longer a teacher… who am I now?  We never really find the answer.  Answers change over time.  And so do I.

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Singing Rock and Soul

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Yes, this is a picture of a rock.  But it is no ordinary rock.  Okay, that’s not precisely true.  It is a gray metamorphic rock roughly square in shape with numerous flecks of white and a white strip along the top.  As rocks go, it probably couldn’t be more ordinary, more rocky in its soul.  But, as with all things in this life, the importance and true meaning lies in the context.  This is a pocket rock.  It spent a quarter of a century riding around in my pants pocket.  I have held it in my hand millions of times.

class Miss M

The Rowan Community Center, seen in this picture I used for the cover of Magical Miss Morgan, is the last part of the old Rowan school still standing.

In 1980, my Great Grandma Hinckley died.  That was also the year my folks had to move to Texas because of the transfer my Dad’s seedcorn company gave him to its cotton seed division.  It was one year before I got my teaching degree.  And it was the year they tore down the building where I went to school for grades 1 through 6.  That summer, as I walked around the demolition site, I found the homely gray rock that was nearly as square as I was, and because I was already feeling homesick before I actually left home, I picked it up  and stuck it in my pocket.  It was a little square piece of home.

That rock went with me to college.  It went with me to both Disneyland and Walt Disney World in Florida.  It has been to Washington D.C.  It has been in the depths of caves in Kentucky and Missouri and Texas.  It has been high in the sky in my pocket in an airplane.  It has been to beaches on both the Atlantic and Pacific sides of the U.S.  It has visited both Mexico and Canada.  It his been to Las Vegas.  And it even rode in the subways of New York City.

And possibly the most interesting part of this pocket rock’s career happened in Texas schools.  It was with me in my pocket constantly from 1980 to 2004.  I finally took it out of my pocket and placed it in an old cigar box that once belonged to my grandfather and I have kept keepsakes in since I was a kid.

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And I have thought a lot about this ordinary rock that isn’t really ordinary on closer inspection.  At one point or another I thought about using it as a skipping stone at both the Atlantic and the Pacific.  In 2004 when I was considering the pocket watch broken by it and the car key accidentally bent against it, it almost wound up in Lake Superior.  I put in my cigar box and it has remained exiled there since.  Will I have it buried with me, in my pocket?  No, probably not.  My wife plans to have me cremated.  Hopefully, though, not until I am already dead.  This rock has pretty much been a symbol of my soul, travelling with me, teaching with me, jingling the pocket change when I walk…  And it will continue to exist when the thinking and writing parts of Mickey are gone.

But even rocks are not immortal.  Sometime in the future something will happen to it.  It will end up someplace unexpected or changed by grinding, melting, or chemical reaction into some other form.  But no matter what happens to it ultimately, the meaning of it, the context, the places it has been and the things that it has done will still be true, still have happened to it.  And, ultimately, it will still be just like me.

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