International Student Identity Card: Blog # 4

Almost all my most valuable possessions are pictures. Pictures of family and friends, with ‘family’ leading both the words ‘and’ and ‘friends,’ but not because of any priority or principle I might have.  No, my only reason is simple. Ninety-nine percent of all my precious pics happen to be pictures of my family. Notice my use of the verb happen. I do not, in any way, mean that my alliance with my family is greater than the one with my friends; no. It is simply that my family took pictures at most family occasions of note and my friends, mostly guys, didn’t. I’m 99% sure none of my junior-high and high school buddies have any pictures with me anywhere in them. Why? Because, I don’t recall one moment in my teen years when I posed for a picture with a friend for any purpose other than for our high school yearbook, and then almost always because of our membership in the same club, participation on a sports team, or some other school-oriented activity.

The verbal preference second only to the order of ‘family and friends’ is that I’ve always referenced any image of family & friends as a ‘picture’ versus a ‘photograph.’ Picture has forever been my go-to term of choice. Why? Well, once again simplicity trumps everything else. You see, many years after I first pronounced the syllables ‘pic’ and ‘chur’ I grew the teeth and developed the dexterity to properly place my tongue inside my big mouth in order to pronounce the 3-syllable mouthful known as ‘photograph.’ So, of all the pictures - not computer images or any image other than a photograph on legitimate photograph paper - I possess today at my advanced age of 65, ninety-nine percent plus are of family. And, over half of those family pics are black & white. The earliest in my ‘collection’ are from before my father’s birth year of 1926; and every one of those early shots are of my father’s parents’ families - his adoptive dad’s Rowlee clan and adoptive mother’s Smith family. But, the fact that neither the Rowlees nor the Smiths were our ‘blood relatives’ never mattered to my two sisters and me and continues not to matter today. Family is family, period; adoptive or natural.

However, the matriarchal head of the Rowlee Family displayed a radical change of mind and loyalty after Grandpa Rowlee died in a car accident with Grandma the lone survivor. Clara Smith Rowlee, through her attorney, decided to write my sisters and me out of her will, for what reasons we had no clue. However, it became apparent to the three of us that “Gram,” as she instructed us to call her, felt that her adoptive son’s children were not quite…. her grandchildren, after all. So, after Grandpa was out of the way, Gram had her lawyer send us a document in which we would release ourselves from Grandma Rowlee’s last will & testament so that “Justice will be done.” WTH?
It turns out that the money Dad thought he’d been gifted to get us started out west in California, Grandma maintained had been a loan. So, let me ask you this question, Gram (or whatever nickname passes your muster now, because that might’ve changed, too): After your husband / our now-former grandfather passed from this life, you saw fit to have three of your grandchildren not only written out of your last will and testament, but you requested - through a total stranger / your lawyer - that each of us sign a document releasing us from your family so that “justice will be done”? All I can say in response to your “Yeah, but” answer is this one syllable that says it all – a syllable not even considered a word, but an anagram nonetheless: “huh.” Just plain old “huh.”

So, you ask - with annoyance rising in your voice: “How does any of this background information have anything to do with blogging about your international student travel ID?”

Well, let me just state this: I will reveal the “rest of the story” on my next blog. In the meantime, my blog-ees, eat your brightly colored veggies, floss daily, and avoid all the pollution and other stressors you can to decrease your chances of contracting the dementia type known as Alzheimer’s Disease.   

Until then, be good to yourself and everyone else as long as you can.
Be good, fail, repent, repeat.

Smiles and Digression, Blog # 3

An ‘aha’ moment I’ve experienced lately is about smiles. Smiles. They’re what I love most about people: men, women, and - most of all - children.

I discovered just this week that when a person smiles, s/he appears not only healthier & happier, but younger and - most importantly – full of something… Life? Spirit? God’s Spirit, maybe? I have no idea, but I do know what a smile can become - a conduit through which humans can send out love, positivity, appreciation, joy, glee, or some other message in a flash. Yep, just like that; just in a snap of the fingers or, in this case, flash of a smile. What do I love most about smiles, you ask?

What I most love in a smile is one thing - transparency, sincerity, honesty. (Yes, I realize those are three concepts, but I consider the prongs of this trident one and the same. Sort of like the blessed Trinity – the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit or Holy Ghost. Yes, all three might be different, but they’re so bound in unity it’s a fool’s errand to separate them. Another thing I’ve realized of late is foolish is quibbling… about anything, much less in this case delineating the differences and similarities of three seemingly alike concepts.) So, a smile can send more truth, more genuineness, and more sincerity than anything else I can imagine. Unfortunately, or conversely, a smile can just as easily be a conduit of that praiseworthy trio’s opposites: untruth, disingenuousness, and insincerity.

But, my Bloggees, I digress (which occurs often; just stick around and you’ll witness a genuine slew of digressions). In fact, a digression I will describe now makes the point perfectly of how often I began - later in life - to digress on a regular, if not minute-by-minute basis. During my last year of teaching, we were reading aloud J.D. Salinger’s classic novel of teen angst “The Catcher in the Rye” and, more specifically, when Holden cites a time in his school career that exemplified the cruelty adolescents can exact to one of their own. There was another boy in Holden’s speech class who gave the most amazing, poetic, and lovely speeches, according to Holden. He admired and treasured the other lad’s speeches BECAUSE of his digressions. Unfortunately, the male instructor of this speech & debate class established a ‘rule’ he wanted everyone (but, in truth, just this greatest transgressor of digression) to follow whilst giving a speech. From henceforth, the teacher proclaimed that if a speaker digresses, even in the least, the other students, comprising the speaker’s audience, were encouraged to yell “Digression!” Well, the rather quiet, yet fascinating speaker whom Holden admired was called to task for his digressions, which our hero thought were the most fascinating features of his speeches.

So, now that I’ve set the scene for you, go ahead and guess what my last-period, eleventh-grade American Lit class did for the final two months of the term whenever I lectured, gave instructions, or spoke in some official or unofficial manner? Yeah… you guessed it. (Good job, but I no longer give out prizes for correct answers, which I’ll likely spend a whole other blog discussing or digressing in the future.) Yes, my Juniors – especially two in the back row – would cup their mouths and announce “Digression!” whenever I, in fact, digressed from the topic or point at hand. Granted, it began as a fun game, but it became something more, at least for me. This little charade became not only a new fun ritual during our 2-3 p.m. daily convocations, but for me, it became a cautionary reminder of my propensity for digression. Yes, I do admit I allowed my kids to yell out this D-word on a regular basis but only because they were accurate each time in identifying yet another digression spoken by their silly, sometimes willy-nilly and silly, teacher. And, I realized that even Mr. Silly needed to be more accountable. After all, to whom should I be held most accountable, but my own students? We had, by that point in the school year (Mid-April), earned each other’s respect AND developed an authentic respect for learning – collectively and individually.

So, I then realized the significance of the “What We Respect & Expect” poster looming behind me on the front wall like some disapproving sergeant-at-arm or hall monitor. Folks, I learned right then that if I did not abide by this newly established standard of digression avoidance, I would not be respected or taken as seriously as I wished. But that is NOT to say we didn’t have plenty of fun and laughter in that or my other classes; the warm laughter and bonding found amidst shared hilarity was rarely a result of a digression. I learned from that experience and many others the biggest lesson of my life; and that would be that it’s the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth that is so genuine, and thus so funny, much funnier than any comic delivery or comic material I could muster.

TRUTH should be at the center of everything in our lives. Indeed, everything – our relationships, our work, our business with one another, our words, our deeds, and our everything. So, THAT is a lesson I learned from my end-of-the-day, precocious sixth period – that integrity is more important than telling a story that doesn’t serve the prime purpose of life – to learn.

Learning… it’s what every organism must do to continue to exist. Without learning, there can only be death.   

And, on that airy note, I bid you a full day of learning, including learning the importance of relaxation for survival in this morass of madness we call life among humanity. 

Post Script: Do not be surprised in the future if I do allow a digression or two or perhaps no more than few to creep into my blogs, curl themselves up, and have a nice catlike nap. 'Til next time, my peeps, enjoy living the truth - digressions and all.

Another Blog Bites the Dust... (With Apologies to Queen) ((Going to see 'Bohemian Rhapsody' tomorrow))

  Bloggy, no. 2

Today's Blog's Opening Monologue:

Hi, Bloggies. I actually survived my first-ever blog yesterday and have returned to the scene of the crime, ready to publish my second, but  'for reals first' blog. (See? Kids have increased my vocabulary, but not (hopefully) as much as I enriched theirs. However, Important Note: Kids enriched my life more than I likely ever improved theirs. 

Introduction to Today's Main Article / Blog / Whatever: So, kids, I'm currently writing a twenty-years-later sequel this month to accompany the 63,000-word novel I wrote in 30 days of November three or four years ago, which will likely be published with its sequel sometime in 2019, Lord willing. 

I have two samples or "swatches" I'm trying to decide between that best represents the wood project I completed 52 years ago that you hopefully can see above. 

Instructions: Read both and leave your comments as to whether you prefer Choice A, Choice B, or Both. I love getting feedback, but this will be my first time getting it publicly or bloggily, whichever your word preference.

And now, Choice A for your perusal.

A Mahogany Duck (Choice 'A')

To the casual observer, it’s a primitive rendering of a duck. This 18-inch figurine, crudely fashioned from mahogany or one of her close cousins, sat on an inch-and-a-half high kidney-shaped stand of the same wood. Both duck and stand were stained with a clear coat, so the natural brown of the wood was “unadulterated” – like I was while navigating the bridge spanning eleven and twelve. The first obstacle I encountered on that span was my 7^th-grade woodshop class teeming with 33 squirrely preteens.

The simple duck silhouette - an inch and a half thick - I cut out with the shop’s band saw, the first electric-powered machine I’d ever tried to operate. This mahogany mallard, my first-ever wood project, was also Mr. S’s qualifying test for operating the larger-than-life-itself saw with the vertical saw running through its gray chassis at a dizzying speed. I’ll probably always remember the symphony of sound, smells, sights, and even textures playing around me as I pushed my block of wood onto the penciled path outlining my design.

During the 1965-66 school year my classmates and I from the K-6 side of campus occupying the northern half to the junior high side inhabiting the southern section, where only seventh and eighth graders dare set foot no longer than to retrieve whatever object had broken the invisible line between the two campuses. And, although we moved no more than a hundred yards from one bank of red-brick buildings to the other, I might as well have been transported to a foreign country to receive my next tier of public-school educational instruction. What changed so radically was the culture and its elements, including rules, clothing attire, language, and boundaries. The first noticeable difference was the play equipment for recess and lunchtime. So, instead of big red bouncy all-purpose balls used for Four-Square and handball and the painted Hopscotch courts on the K-6 side of the blacktopped playground, we had either basketballs (one each for the four courts) or two footballs with which we’d been instructed by playground adult aides to schlepp to the vast lawn to the east, unadorned save for the metal baseball backstops towering in each of the four corners – two next to R Street as well as the two alongside the walking path connecting Sagebrush School to Cactus High. Now that I’ve written that sentence, it occurs to me that – at least from the perspective of us kids at recess – the unspoken message was ‘all paths lead to high school, but only one is properly paved for less pedestrian travelers.’

Time and space won’t allow an in-depth description of my new educational home, so we can better focus on my wood shop duck. Now that I’ve described the visible part of my first-ever project in “Uncle Schmomer’s Shop,” let’s examine the underside. The unstained, kidney-shaped bottom had two metal screw heads connecting bird with stand. Aside from the natural wood grain, the only distinctive details were three different capital letters engraved crudely on its surface – Y, G, and an almost imperceptible M. There are not one, but two Y’s meant to designate my first initial (for ‘Yorick’), the single capital M, and not two, but three G’s representing my last name. Why two Y’s and a trio of G’s? My best guess, seventy-two years after its conception, is that Yours Truly was so unsure of himself that he made more marks than needed to properly identify ‘himself’ as the maker. I probably was so afraid of making a false move that I made four false moves instead – etching one redundant Y, two unnecessary G’s, and an M I still cannot figure out how it joined the others on my duck’s wooden bottom that will last for posterity.

One last note, S & D, is this: Your first clue about one of my life’s greatest lessons learned is embedded all over this memoir too long to qualify as a mere ‘vignette,’ ‘sidebar,’ or ‘fragment.’ So, that’s it for Day One of ‘What Makes Uncle Ricky Ticky Tock.’ My advice for you if you really want to learn something valuable for yourselves is go figure this out together. Class dismissed.  

           *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *             *

                       The Wooden Duck Thingy Sitting on a Piece of Wood (Choice B) 

Deena: Okay, I have no idea what kind of clue we’re supposed to get from this …… chunk of wood. What is it anyway - birch? maple? teak, perhaps? ebony… ivory? (Okay, I know – beyond a shadow of a doubt– that I, Deena Garrity, have exactly zero-point-zero knowledge about wood… of any kind. In fact, I’m not sure ebony is even a wood. Isn’t supposed to be a rock or gemstone… or some species of coral?)

And speaking of possessing knowledge relating to wood, from the looks of this wood duck thingy sitting on another piece of wood shaped like a kidney bean, its maker obviously is “on a par” with Yours Truly. There is seriously, Steve, only ONE other sad individual in this whole, wacky world capable of such a shoddy, downright sucky job of sculpting or woodworking the Pagan Duck God as... our dear Uncle Ricky. Yeah, only Your Icky could turn out such an object d’ fart; errrr art. Am I right-o, Bro-O?”

“Uh… NO NO, BOZ-O.” Instead of Steve being the one responding to Deena’s question with a rhyming, childish retort - a richer, grittier, more guttural voice uttered the silly phrase, which invoked also the memory of the infamous show in which Bozo had to tell a kid flipping the TV clown star off. (“That’s a Bozo no-no.”) Steve and Deena half-jumped, raising up on their tip toes before looking around them – first at the three walls covered in Uncle Ricky memorabilia and then at each other. The disembodied voice then shifts back from laughter to speech: “I do beg your pardon, Deena Hyena, but I must speak for myself in righteous defense at this juncture. This wooden object of art, of which I am as proud as the proverbial punch” is the first project I ever completed - by myself - without more than a word or raised eyebrow from the adult in charge, my junior high wood shop teacher named Mr. Lloyd Schnone, but also known as Unca Schnone, The Schnoner, Sir Schnony, and Sir Schnonykins, among many others.

Mr. Schnone, I must acknowledge, provided me my first opportunity to build something without the intervention of anyone else, which had always been intervention disguised as help from an adult. Heretofore, dozens of men and women in the greater Mojave Valley region - designated by the Cub Scouts, Webelos, Boy Scouts, Indian Guides, Cactusville School District, or other kid-oriented organizations through my boyhood - had always hovered near me, on alert to rescue someone when – not if – I’d either maim myself, other kids, innocent bystanders, or whatever “project” they’d foisted on me for the day’s lesson: Either (A.) a three-dimensional object requiring pine cones, twigs, and other natural materials; (B.) a 2D rendering in the usual kid mediums of pencil, crayon, felt marker, watercolor, or spray paint; or (C.), one of a score of craft gifts commemorating holidays and birthdays throughout the year requiring pine cones, unbaked macaroni noodles, colorful foil bits of glitter, girly sequins, other, non-macaroni varieties of pasta, and / or a large bottle of Elmer’s white old-fashioned glue with which to hold the handmade monstrosity together.”  

(Throughout the forgoing speech delivered ostensibly by their favorite uncle, who might or might not be alive, Deena and Steve stood as still as statues. Their respective minds had been so blown that it would be no surprise to any observer if both sought psychiatric assistance in the immediate future or, at the least, emotional respite by imbibing a slew of adult beverages, preferably with a strong dose of gin or vodka to give them courage to continue on or to numb themselves from the pain of dealing with their Soupy Sales of an uncle.)

 (Note: I hope you enjoyed at least one of these, but if neither, please privately message me on Facebook or email me at rowleep@comcast.net)

    

Thanks, Blessings, Vaya con Dios & Shalom / Peace,

Patrick R. Rowlee

(Another blog bites the dust, but only in a positive way.)

"Say 'good-night, Gracie." - The late comedy legend, Mr. George Burns.