I am trying to post pointlessly every day to fill up my blog with… Pointlessly posted Paffoonies. What good does this do for life, the universe, and everything? Well, maybe nothing, nada, zilch, and zahooey. But it’s fun. And maybe I can make someone smile who wouldn’t have otherwise. Isn’t that a worthy woozie?
Today was an incredibly hard work day. I haven’t slept now since 8:00 a.m. yesterday. Almost 36 hours of achy wakefulness. Thunderstorms are making my arthritis ache and keeping me from actually falling asleep. I stumble now in five directions at once… forward, backward, to the left, to the right, and straight down. Soon this old clown will tumble down and roll around on the ground and finally fall to sleeeee….zzzzzzzzzzzzz
I began my teaching career in deep South Texas, in a place called Cotulla. One thing I learned right away about Cotulla was that it was the same school district where Lyndon Baines Johnson taught as a young man. It was the site, at the Welhausen migrant school where LBJ taught, that the Elementary and Secondary Education Act (ESEA) of 1965 was signed. I later learned that LBJ had referred to Cotulla in his autobiography as the “donkey-hole” of Texas. Of course, he used the biblical word for donkey. He must of loved that town in much the same way as I did. Cotulla made the nightly news often enough that my relatives in Iowa all discovered where it was. It made the news as part of the weather report… hottest place in the nation. I guess we averaged about 107 degrees Fahrenheit in the summer. Hot, hotter, and hottest… I made friends with the mayor of Cotulla, William L. Cotulla whose family had founded the place two generations before. I taught there long enough to become the middle school English department head. I had three whole people in my department. I regularly went to the Wild Hog Cook-off and LaSalle County Fair. It was the kind of place where you have to be a cowboy. And I was. It was the high school team name after all. So there you have it… love it and hate it both… the reason I am a cowboy.
Today the faculty of Naaman Forest High School held a retirement reception for me and four other teachers. All of us around 30 years of work in education. The school is losing 150 years worth of experience. Math, English, and Special Education… I managed to go through the thing without crying, but stiff upper lips get melted by the blue dragons of sadness. I will cry yet before the year is out. I still haven’t faced the final goodbye with students. How do I do that? I will bite holes in my lower lip and still fail to stop the waterworks. What a hopeless ball of wimpishness I am! But I’ve fought dragons all my life… dragons of one sort or another. Remember the intestinal gas contest started by Little Slick Pooflinger? Oh, wait, you weren’t there, were you…. Well, believe me, fart dragons are real. So, it was sad… blue dragon sort of sad… and I fought dragons one more time.
They are a puzzle to their teachers, sometimes with only 493 of the 500 pieces. They act out at the worst possible time, calling attention to themselves… sometimes the kind of attention we would label scorn or hatred. Sometimes classmates have less patience with them than I have. But I have always had a soft spot for bad boys… right on the bottom of my left foot. Seriously, they often have an aching need that no one in their lives seems willing to fill. One child finally told me that it was the separation of his parents that kept him awake nights and reduced him to a caterwauling clown on the classroom floor. Another revealed to me that he could only deal with loneliness by smoking weed. Their stories, once you dig them out, can seriously make you weep. And I have always believed that there was a key to opening up any kid. It’s a real shame that sexual predators can find the keys more easily than a classroom teacher can. And believe me, people look at you as if you are a monster too if you open up bad kids and try to find treasure inside. Only pirates and monsters do that, right? Well, I am neither. And I can’t reach every child.
But I have reached some. Diamonds, emeralds, sapphires, and pearls.
I was scratching my head about what to post (a plan of action that never works as well as actually thinking about it) when I came across an email from PDMI Publishing. They have accepted my novel Snow Babies and are planning to publish it. Hurray! No more thinking for today!
Honestly, I only saw her from afar at the Wright County Fair in the Summer of 1977. She was perfect. She could skate backwards as well as I could skate forwards. She dipsy-doodled all around the rink, never noticing me watching with my mouth open. Beautiful auburn hair and a smile that could melt butter better than the August Iowa weather… I wasn’t sure how old she was, the main reason I never tried to talk to her. I was already a college sophomore at the age of twenty. I suspected she was a mere high school girl, not yet eighteen. All I felt safe doing was looking and longing, wishing only to adore and draw near. This Paffooney of checkerboard and stripes is not actually her. It is inspired by my niece and some actress from the musical Annie. But it makes me remember. A sweet, sad summer crush that never went anywhere but into a sappy old Paffooney post. Forgive me. I am old. And just maybe I will soon be a dirty, evil old man.
There is a thrill to be had from flying. Spread your arms and rise up on high. The magic carpet lifts us up into the air, and we ride towards destiny. My friend, he is a pyromancer. He can make fire from the air and cast it forward to light up the sky. In the village they see us coming and tremble from dread. but we are not evil, in spite of our blackness. We come to bring light and fire to the people who have survived the darkness of the cold, cold night. So what does it all mean? Meaning is like fire. It warms us when it doesn’t burn us. What is it all for? Pursuing purpose is like flying, winging toward the next sunrise.
I have not been a very good teacher of late. I have been ill, having difficulty breathing and aching in a number of ways. I would stay home, but I lose a full day’s pay for every sick day I must use now. I could end up owing the school money at the end of the month if I miss too much. So, I have posted a Paffooney that portrays in oil paint the proper attitude. As the Baron is dropping to his death (WWI pilots did not have parachutes) he gives the old thumbs up. I know I am going out just like that. The end is coming, but I fear it not. Achtung! It has been a good flight up to now.
So, here’s a picture of Michael Mouse surrounded by friends and admirers of all sorts. I can’t help the surrealism any more than Salvador Dali could, but the point here is that I, like Mr. Mouse, am a Mickey. I am filled with Mickey-ness. I am a part of all of Mickey-dom… but never Mickey-dumb! “Sweet Mickey, warm Mickey, little ball of yucks… Cool Mickey, wry Mickey, nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.”
Catch a Falling Star 