English Class
Over the past several months I’ve been converting some of my short stories for publication. In essence, at the time I wrote most of them – I wasn’t really concerned with the small details like, grammar, sentence structure, spelling, flow. Now I’m paying dearly for that little error.
In the process of editing some of these gems – I would have a brain storm about a new stories – so awesome that it they would kick ass, take names, solve world hunger, and talk sense in to Charlie Sheen!
Score one more for ADD! I’ll never get this crap done. L
Anyway, I haven’t updated my blog in a while. I decided I’d dig back into the old memory archives and share a story that happened to me in my senior year at high school.
It was close to graduation and our senior class was planning our senior trip. I was out of school sick for a few days and missed some of the discussions. Before my English class – I found out our English teacher was going to be one of our chaperons.
Now, the guys were perfectly happy with this choice because our English teacher was pleasing to the eyes. Let’s call her Mrs. K.
Our English class had just about all of us seniors in it. A discussion got under way because Mrs. K was going to take her personal vehicle on the trip instead of riding a bus with the rest of the kids. Some of the girls in the class saw this as a opportunity. Riding with Mrs. K would be hell of a lot more fun that cruising around on a bus or cargo van.
While the girls were egging Mrs. K to let them ride with her – Mrs. K politely said her car was small and their would not be much room.
It was widely known at school that in past months Mrs. K drove a big truck. So, Timmy (I kid you not – his name is Timmy) made a suggestion:
“Why don’t you drive the big truck Mrs. K?”, Timmy asked.
Looking a little defeated, Mrs. K. replied “I can’t. It was Bill’s”.
First, I don’t think the “Bill” was the correct name. It was a guy’s name – that’s all that matters at this very moment.
Second, Timmy is Timmy. He was a big city kid busted for drugs and sent to live with a relative in our small country town. He was a poster child for what drugs can do to you. Sorry ADD again.
At this point, I piped up and said “Bill won’t mind”.
The class fell silent. Mrs. K looked at me with tears welling up in her eyes. It was like I just clubbed two baby seals using a horn from a javan rhino.
She said, “That was the most insensitive thing I have ever heard! Get out of my class!”
Everyone was silent. I didn’t ask why. I just got up and left. I went down to the principals office where I explain to him I had no clue why I was there. He thought I was pretty much full of shit.
He left for 10 minutes and when he returned he was laughing.
Seems the story went like this:
“Bill” was Mrs. K brother –n-law. Mrs. K would frequently drive around “Bill’s” truck. Rumor had it – that Mrs. K and “Bill” was an item.
While I was out of school sick – “Bill” went to feed cattle. He jumped out of his truck and forgot to put it in gear. When he went to open the cattle gate the truck ran into him and killed him.
I had no clue about any of this. So when I popped off “He wouldn’t mind” … I didn’t know he was dead.
So, I was told that I needed to apologize but I refused to. I mean, really ? Apologize for something I had to clue about. I decided “NO!” not going to happen. So for a few days I just skipped her class.
Finally, I decided I’d break down and apologize. After class one day I approached her an said I was sorry about what happened.
She looked me dead in the eye and said “I don’t believe you.”
Interestingly enough – I really didn’t mean it either.
Read MoreA Swahili Christmas
Months have gone by since the “Bicycle Tire Explosion of 2010” and Christmas is rapidly approaching. The wife and I debated on getting the neighbor Swahili kids something for Christmas. Now, for me it was a shot at gaining back a little karma and saving face. The wife felt bad for them because she would only see them playing with a ball. She assumed that maybe in their culture they might not celebrate Christmas or maybe wouldn’t get anything.
So we made our decision and went to Toys-R-Us and bought some books, nerf guns, foot balls, beach balls, some soccer balls. There is also this toy that is a large heavy balloon that comes with a big rubber band. You blow up the balloon, tie the rubber band around it, and then smack the balloon like a paddle ball. It’s called a Punch-Ball-Balloon.
They are pretty annoying and the size of a beach ball.
Anyway, the wife wraps up the gifts and we decided that we would deliver them Christmas morning.
Christmas morning comes and they are not home. A few days got by before I see activity over at their house. Seems they did get a few things -a couple of new bicycles and some little scooters. I seen one of the little boy’s was out side so I carried over the gifts and gave them to him.
He said “thank you”.
I told him ‘Merry Christmas’.
The next day I see a few of the kids in the back yard playing with Punch-Ball-Balloon. They were punching them into their little sister’s head.
All I would hear is the loud smack of them hitting the balloon then it bouncing off a head followed by “MERRRY CHRISTMAS!”
“Whack!” – “THUD” – “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
“Whack!” – “THUD” – “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
At this point, I knew four out of five Swahili kids loved Christmas and the Punch-Ball-Balloon.
Read MoreGood Deeds
Back in June of 2010 we had some new neighbors move into the house behind mine. Our driveways are shared by a back alley. I’m not Andy Griffith or Mr. Rogers – meaning I didn’t go introduce myself or welcome the family to town.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a mean old bastard, cranky, or a dick. I just don’t socialize very much. I go home to be in my fortress of solitude. Anyway, I was out back taking out trash and met our neighbors who were outside in their driveway. I’m not an expert type of cultures outside of Texas but if I had to guess I’d say my new neighbors were Swahili.
There is a husband, wife, and 3 young boys (maybe 6-12 years of age), and two girls between (10-15 years of age). Now that I seen them outside it was only polite for introductions. The conversation went like this:
Me – “Hi.”
Swahili Dad –“Hi” – and he said it with a huge smile on his face.
Me – “Your our new neighbors. My name is Leo. What’s yours?”
Swahili Dad – “Hi” – and he said it with a huge smile on his face – again.
At that point I kind of knew they didn’t know much English. The Swahili Wife came over and said hi. And talked to me a little bit. However, I didn’t understand a bit of her English. I nodded my head, laughed, and went in side.
For the next month or two their kids would play in the alley way. They didn’t have any toys but did a ball, puddle of water, and hula hoop. I kind of felt sorry for them because that’s all they played with. Then my mind wondered into the realm that maybe they were poor and couldn’t afford anything. When you don’t have a line of communication you start to think all kinds of weird stuff.
Then at the end of summer I looked out back to see them riding a little red bicycle. Let me tell you, seeing 5 kids share a bike is an amazing feat. They would ride it bare footed and at times three of them would be on it at once. Those kids loved that bike.
Then the red bicycle got a flat tire. However, the kids didn’t care. They would still ride it up and down the alley with a flat. Several weeks went by and it still wasn’t fixed. I made the assumption that they dad didn’t know how to fix it.
A few days later while I was in my garage breaking something (some call it wood working) the Swahili kids were out riding that bike. I turned on my air compressor and dragged my air hose to the alley. They rode by and I motioned them to come over and they did. Seemed that even though we didn’t speak in each other language we could still communicate.
They brought the bike over to me. I reached down and removed the air cap and started to put air in the tire. All five of the kid surrounded me and watched in awe at what I was doing. I swear it looked like a photo that would grace the cover of National Geographic.
Then in the tire blew up in about ten different pieces. Rubber went every where and scared the shit out of the kids and me.
The first thing that went through my mind was ‘Shit!’.
Here I try to do a good deed and just make matters worse. I was speechless. I looked at the kids and said I was sorry. Thank god none of them were crying that would have made me feel worse than I already did. I quickly grabbed my hose and walked back into the garage and shut it.
The next day, the kids pass me on the sidewalk, riding that same bike.
Read MoreLife on the Big Rig
Seems it’s been awhile since I’ve posted. I have no excuse. Guess I’m just lazy. With Christmas near I was thinking back about my family, mostly about my dad. He was a very unique person. During my childhood we pretty much lived in poverty. Mom and dad both worked minimum wage jobs and struggled to make ends meet. One of our family friend’s was a truck driver and they had no problem with money. So, dad went to truck driving school in Arkansas. I know, it sounds like a nightly routine from Jeff Foxworthy but sadly it isn’t.
Dad started his long career in truck driving. One summer mom and dad decided to let my sister ride with him on the semi for a couple of weeks. When he came back through town he dropped her off and picked me up. I was around 12 or 13 and looking forward to my adventures on the road in a big rig.
Yeah – big adventures.
So our first trip was from Oklahoma to Austin, Texas. That very first day I figured out that riding in a big rig – isn’t so much fun. You sit for long hours looking out the window at a lot of nothing. You just can’t pull in to any restaurant to eat or park at any landmark to take pictures – big rigs are just that – big rigs.
We get into Austin during the 5pm rush hour traffic – which means we were completely at a stand still on the road. A few hours went by and I needed to pee and dad needed to go too. Well, in his terms “he needed to piss like a Russian race horse!”. I never fully understood that saying.
Dad tells me he keeps a jug behind the sleeper. For those who don’t know the ‘sleeper’ on a big rig is the square box right behind the driver and passenger seat. It’s where the driver sleeps. I unbuckle, retrieve the jug, and return to my seat. It was your typical Preston Anti-Freeze jug.
I asked dad what he was going to do with it. He said it would still be an hour or two until we make it to a place where he could park. That if we needed to pee we’d have to pee in the jug. I’m boy, this wasn’t really an issue for me. However, the jug wasn’t empty it was nearly full. I passed that information along to dad and he told me to just roll the window down and pour it out and try not get it on any one’s car or on the truck.
I roll the window down, pop the lid off, and proceed to pour out what I thought was anti-freeze on the road. What came out of that jug was far from coolant.
Ever wonder what a gallon of piss looks and smells like after being stored in a jug for 3 months?
Seems dad neglected to tell me that this was ‘his when I’m stuck in traffic and need to piss jug’. I was under the impression that we were improvising on the spot.
This putrid glob of a congealed liquid started oozing out of the jug. The smell was pretty much the worst smell I’ve ever encountered. Here I was, hanging half out of a truck window, pouring out a gallon of someone else’s piss, while gagging.
I look over and my dad is laughing hysterically and I really didn’t need to pee anymore.
Those fond childhood memories.
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