Tag Archives: humor

Can You Draw Happy?

I have had to report racing heartbeats every night since I’ve been wearing the monitor.  It has been recording things that I have missed.  But do I really have to worry?  No.  The doctor hasn’t called to say go to the emergency room.  I am now waking up every day with more confidence.  Yay!  I am still not dead!  Every day is a blessing.  And there is treatment to help non-lethal tachycardia.  I have reason to believe I won’t be dead tomorrow too.  So I will keep on writing and living and living to write, and to honor that resolution I will share the happy-doodle Paffooney that I doodled this morning after waking up not-dead.

DSCN5422

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Self Portrait and Mildly Broken Heart

DSCN5418  Hermoine, Vintage Ricky, and Vintage Skipper are inspecting my heart monitor in this silly Paffooney  Photo.  I have been wearing the thing since Monday to hopefully detect an irregular heart-beat problem.  It’s kinda like when you hear a knocking noise in the engine, but when you take it in to the car dealer, you can’t get it to make that sound even once.  Two trips to the doctor and two EKG’s have not been enough to fix the knocking in my engine, and so I am still on a heart-attack/stroke watch.  Four times in the last two nights I have felt the racing heartbeat and painful tugging sensation in my chest that could spell the instant end.  But I am not worried.  I now have the opportunity to lay in my bed all day and play with my toys… err… admire my collection.  I apologize for Ricky not putting on proper clothes for this post, but they haven’t made clothes for a doll like him since the early seventies.  They are a little hard to come by.  And they always sold Barbie dolls in bathing suits when he was new to the world.  So he goes about mostly naked and I have to apologize for him whenever we are in polite company.

“So, Mickey,” you are probably saying to yourself, “it’s a heart problem, not a brain problem, right?”

Well, if my hyperactive butterfly of a heart sends a clot the wrong direction, it could be a stroke, a brain-curdling, word-mincing, vegetable-making sort of brain problem.  If it’s all the same to God, I’d much rather have a heart attack, thank you.

I am really, honestly not worried though.  My career is ended.  I can no longer get up in front of a classroom, a basically captive audience, and inflict upon them a never-ending spiel of word-wit and vocabulary-bloating that made kids laugh and love my class (based on the fact that even though they thought they were avoiding learning to write and read and speak in my English Class, we were actually practicing those things bell to bell).  Though I miss it so terribly it probably isn’t helping my current condition, I really have done my job and taken my best shot at winning the ongoing War Against Ignorance.  I actually make more money now on my full retirement pension than I was making month to month as a teacher.  (Mostly due to deductions for health problems and absences from work).  I have the chance to draw some and paint some and write a lot now.  I can do more story-telling of the written-down variety, and not waste my tall tales in the very absorbent air of the classroom.  I get to joke about my condition more, and hide my rotted out hulk of a body behind a computer screen so no one has to cringe while looking at my fuzzy, spotty old form.  I can use words to be beautiful in the reader’s mind’s eye once more.  Oh, and I made the mistake of promising to show you a self portrait.  So, try to keep your lunch down, because here it is;

Self Portrait

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The Rest of my Classroom Gallery

Here’s what’s left in my camera from school white boards and lessons.

Photo0107 Photo0110 Photo0112 Photo0118 Photo0123 Photo0126 Photo0127 Photo0133 Photo0137 Photo0139 Photo0144 Photo0146 Photo0149 Photo0142There you have it, the results of 31 years of doodling on the chalkboard (which became the dry erase board).  And yes, I did tell them the cartoon fairy drew all the pictures.  Especially when they were in my class for the second or third year when they asked, “Who does all the pictures on the board?”  And yes, I started doing this back in dinosaur days in white chalk on a green blackboard, followed by colored chalk, which later became a gray marker-board for washable marker, and finally became dry erase white board.  And I really bought my own chalk and markers too.  Teachers do that, you know.

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More Cartoons from the Classroom

Here are a few more chalkboard drawings (actually white board drawings).

Photo0067 Photo0069 Photo0072 Photo0075 Photo0082At the end of the school year, I let kiddos do their own self portraits along with my drawing of Black Timothy the Pirate.

Photo0100

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Cartoon Board-Work

I admit it.  I was a goofy teacher.  Kids never knew for sure whether I was serious, joking, or halfway in-between.  I worked for hours sometimes preparing the chalkboard, or later, white board, for the days lesson, putting key points and reminders up in cartoon form.  I used characters, symbols, jokes, pokes, and silliness to get the idea across.  Principals and others who evaluated my teaching always wondered why my classroom sounded so raucous and wild from outside the door with kids laughing, music playing, and sometimes desks being shuffled and shoved around the room.  The perfect-classroom-is-a-quiet-classroom crowd always hated my teaching style.  But the ones who came in and participated, got involved in paying attention and watching the kids interact with the content loved it.  I am not bragging.  My lesson plans were a mess filled with booby traps, explosions waiting to happen, un-intended consequences (also called teachable moments), and brainstorms that threatened at any moment to electrocute somebody with lightning.  Teaching is a dangerous business.  But the point is, there is an art to teaching that brings out the artist in you.  I offer the following evidence;

Photo0004 Photo0010 Photo0013 Photo0014 Photo0016 Photo0018 Photo0025 Photo0033

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A Bit of Him, a Bit of Them, Plus a Lot of Me

miltie 001It is generally true that any kind of artist, whether they make portraits, or paintings, or novels, or poems, or photos of landscapes, or photos of cats,  is making a self-portrait more than anything else.  It is true that no matter what form an artwork takes, you see it from the perspective of the artist.  You are shown what they see.  You are led to think their thoughts.  Characters in books are usually telling at least in part, the author’s life story.  That’s why I use so many real people that I once knew to model the people in my stories and drawings upon.  You must write about what you know, and your own self is what you know best.  This Paffooney of young Milt Morgan is a picture of me.  It actually looks like what I once looked like.  Milt as a novel character thinks and acts as I once did.  Anyone that knew me fifty years ago will tell you how much this looks like me.  Of course the number of folks who knew me back then continues to seriously dwindle.

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Holiday Scenes

Having been a Jehovah’s Witness for a good part of the last twenty years, I am not in the habit of thinking holiday celebration. But they have moved on without me.  I am a bah-humbug door-knocker no longer.  So, I guess it’s time to recall how much this time of year used to mean to me.  I searched my writing.  So far the only holiday scene I have written is from Snow Babies.  The characters in this scene are all severely snowed in and the electricity is out.  They have decided to pass the time by putting up the Christmas tree without lights.  The blizzard rages. It is an intense time where survival is not guaranteed.  Hence, the need to remember the season.

tree time  Excerpt from Snow Babies.

Canto Seventy-Three – A Red, Green, and White Christmas Tree Block

The thing about the artificial Christmas tree, although it was plastic and solid forest green in a very unnatural way, was that it did look pretty good when you put all the right pegs into all the right slots and got it standing up by itself all full and fluffed out and green.  It looked like a real tree… maybe… a little bit.

Denny handed a frosted red ball up to Valerie.  Because she commanded the heights from the stepstool, she got to place each precious glass or plastic ornament.  The Clarkes had a full string of bubble lights, but since the electricity was still out, Val didn’t see any reason to place the thing.  The red ball went on the spot near the center front where Valerie had hung it the two years previous.  The only difference was… well, the difference was… yes, the difference was… that Tommy Bons, all attitude and dirty blue jacket was standing in the spot where…  you know, the spot where…  the spot where someone needed to stand to catch Valerie if she overbalanced and fell towards the tree.  The place where last year… her father stood.

Pidney was watching with some concern.  “Why are there tears in your eyes, Val?” he asked stupidly.

“Well, I… no reason.”

Tommy caught her flitting glance with his steady blue gaze.  He looked deeply into her eyes.  Then, she saw what she never expected to see.  Tears stood in his eyes too.  Without saying or hearing a word about it, he understood.  He knew.  She could see it in his eyes.  He knew what it was.  He hadn’t just lost his father.  Both of them.  At once.  In a car crash.  Like Ponyboy in the Outsiders.  Jeez she loved that book.

“You gonna put up the Santa thingy?” Pidney asked.

Mary Philips pulled the Santa thingy out of the box.  It was made of Styrofoam balls, red felt, white cotton fluff, and black button eyes.  And when she turned it over, on the bottom, it said, “to pretty little Princess, from Daddy Kyle.”  The tears came like rain.  Valerie crumpled into Tommy’s arms, weeping desperately.

“I… I don’t understand,” said Pidney.  “I thought putting up a Christmas tree was a happy thing.”

Valerie had both arms wrapped around Tommy, squeezing the juice out of him, and crying like her heart was breaking.  No… not breaking… broken.  Shattered into little shards of glass, and scattered like snowflakes on a December morning.

Wordlessly Mary showed Pid what was written in black felt-tip marker on the bottom of the Santa thingy.

“Oh,” said Pid.  “He made that himself, didn’t he?”

Valerie couldn’t answer.  She sobbed like she could barely breathe.

Dennis limped up to Pidney and stood beside the big dumb oaf.  He reached his small hand out to Mary, and she put the Santa thingy in it.

“This is really neat,” he said.  “It’s like the ones my grandma made for me with Styrofoam and knitted all the clothes for and stuff.  I wish I still had those.”

Valerie slowed the tears for a moment and looked at Dennis.  He was a really cute little boy when you looked past the crooked little legs and the thin frame.  And he had such a darling and gentle manner about him.  He made you want to hug him until all the juice came out of him too.  She loosened her death-grip on Tommy.

“He bought a stupid little crafts book,” said Valerie.  “He was gonna give it to me along with the cabbage patch doll he bought.  Then he decided to make that silly little Santa man from one of the craft patterns in the book.  He did it all by himself, and gave it to me as a surprise gift.  He did all of it.  He did it all by himself.”  It was the first time she had told that story to anyone.  It was the first time she’d even remembered about something he gave her since…  Well, it was a silly thing, but she did love it.  “Can I have that?” she asked Denny.

“Sure,” he put it in her hands with a puckish smile.

“I think it goes near the top this year.  Not in place of the angel, but right near her, to keep her company.”

Valerie got back up onto the stepstool and placed the Santa thingy near the top at just to the left of center.  She looked at it and began to smile.

“Yep,” said Tommy, “the tree looks pretty stupid without lights, but that looks just about right to put it there.”

Valerie laughed at him.

Pidney moved over beside Mary and put an arm around her shoulders.  “Sorry,” he whispered.  “I’m really not as dumb as that, you know.”

“Yes you are,” whispered Mary, “but we love you anyway.”

Valerie heard that, and laughed all the harder.  This Christmas tree thing was going to continue to hurt.  And Pid was pretty dumb sometimes.  But Mary was right.  It had to be said.  Valerie loved him anyway.

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The Goal is Set

I have now set a goal for the novel I am writing.  I will enter it in the manuscript category of the Dante Rossetti Novel Writing Contest from Chanticleer Book Reviews and Media (http://chantireviews.com/services/#!/Young-Adult-Novels-Writing-Contest/p/21521206/category=5193080).  The deadline is April 30th, 2015.  I am in the middle of the novel at present, and will have it done by that date.  This will be the second time I have entered this contest.  Can I do better than being a finalist in 2013 with Snow Babies?  I have hopes.  I believe my work is good.class Miss Mcover

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Sentimental Movies

majestic1_1024x768  Wow!  Such a movie!  It is a movie about the movies.  A historical fiction about movie history.  It tells a bittersweet fable of the 1950’s, when the Un-American Activities Committee was conducting its witch-hunts in Hollywood.  And it’s about a postwar town that is still suffering from heavy losses among their young men.  And about a case of amnesia and mistaken identity.  It is hard to explain, so go watch the dang movie!

majestic  I borrowed this image of the movie’s movie theater from a blogger, prasenjitchaudhuri.wordpress.com, whose review will probably make more sense than mine does.  But that theater marquee is the one icon from the movie that I first fell in love with.

As I said, this is a movie about the movies and a love of the movies.  It weaves in through the story of 50’s communist witch hunts a tale about a somewhat spineless young man who bumps his head, loses his memory, and is adopted by a whole town as a missing war hero come back from the dead.  It hits every Frank Capra and Jimmy Stewart cliche in the books.  Just like It’s a Wonderful Life it makes me laugh so hard I have a wheezing fit, followed a couple of scenes later by something that makes me want to cry so hard that I will drown out all the weeping females in the audience with half-stifled basso sobs.  Any movie that I walk out of embarrassed that my face is tear-streaked, is a movie that made me feel so profoundly good about life and love and laughter, that I want to see it again and again.  There are so many movie-references in the film that I need to watch it two or three times just for that.  For gosh sakes, the idol head from Raiders of the Lost Ark makes a cameo appearance in the movie within the movie, Sand Pirates of the Sahara.

download  So, basically, I watched this movie for the first time on DVD at home in bed, still recovering from scary new heart condition #2, and had a chance to laugh and cry and enjoy this movie without any fear of being laughed at for how I responded to it.  And, so what did I do about it?  Why naturally, I got on WordPress and exposed my secret shame to you.  That makes about as much sense as everybody in that little town grabbing an amnesiac out of the river and making him into their beloved son.  What a great movie!  Wow!majestic5.jpg-r_760_x-f_jpg-q_x-20020507_022955

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A Bildungsroman von Michael Beyer

class Miss Mcover

Okay, I know it’s in German.  Being from a German-American family from Iowa in a mostly Germanic/Scandinavian little Midwestern town, everything I write is in German, even though it’s written in English.  So let me explain my square-headed German logic here.   Here is a quote from Wikipedia to define it;  “In literary criticism, a Bildungsroman (German pronunciation: [ˈbɪldʊŋs.ʁoˌmaːn]; German: “novel of formation/education/culture”), novel of formation, novel of education, or coming-of-age story (though it may also be known as a subset of the coming-of-age story) is a literary genre that focuses on the psychological and moral growth of the protagonist from youth to adulthood (coming of age), and in which, therefore, character change is extremely important.”  I wrote one of these previously.  My episodic tale of a young boy who is the new kid in the small Iowa town and through experience learns to become one of the gang, is called Superchicken.  superchick_novel  It is an example of the coming-of-age tale that closely follows the pattern.  Edward Campbell has to learn the hard way that being mature both physically and emotionally is really hard work, and you can fall short of your goal without even meaning to.  But his opposition to his parents’ rules and sense of propriety eventually leads to acceptance.

Miss Morgan, however, follows a slightly skewed version of the pattern.  In the novel, Francis Morgan is a good teacher and mature woman at the very start.  She has convictions about teaching and how to handle students that she is willing to fight for.  And society around her seems to want to break her of her habits and convictions.  Principals and school boards can bring enormous pressure on a teacher, and they generally don’t want to hear you’ve been teaching magic in the classroom.  She is going to learn lessons the hard way, whether she wants to or not.  But it is entirely possible that she will not change, not give in to society’s demands.  I don’t think, however, that it means that she won’t mature and change in some very important ways.

I am working on this novel, The Magical Miss Morgan, this month.  It fills me up and then exhausts me.  It uses up most of my hard-won wisdom from my years as a teacher, and I am hoping it will turn out to be the best thing I have ever written.

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