My Non-Fickle Car Life in Hondas

This morning, someone on CNBC made a comment about American car customers being fickle.  I didn’t recognize him, and that doesn’t really matter.  Sometimes, I think the talking heads that flash on and off the television don’t know what comes out of their mouths most of the time, running a bit like someone who is in the throes of intestinal distress and searching for a bathroom.

I immediately disagreed, knowing I would fail to qualify for fickleness.  I’ve had a love affair with Hondas since 1975 when I purchased a brand spanking new Civic hatchback with a “Hondamatic” transmission.  I was 19 years old.  I loved that car and the responsibility of making my $84.75 monthly payment.  I think it was the first time I actually began to feel like an adult with something that belonged specifically to me.

There was a period where I was Honda-less, though.  I had a Jeep CJ-5 before Chrysler or whomever bought the company turned them into something that only looked like a Jeep.  It was fun for a while.  I learned how to drive a stick, let some air out of the over-sized tires and blast up the side of a giant sand dune — my hair bandana flapping in the hot breeze, my bikini clad skin darkening by the minute.

I never quite fit the role of desert rat I was introduced to by my first husband, but it was what lured me away from Hondas for a few years.  I could talk about things like leaf springs, and 4-wheel drive traction.  I slept in a tiny tent in desolate areas, and drove around without doors attached to the side of my Jeep on warm days.  I visited shops that smelled of grease and sparkled with chrome rims and exhaust pipes.  I also spent time stuck in the middle of nowhere with flat tires, cracked radiators, and broken u-joints.  That’s what happens when a vehicle purchased for everyday use is thrashed about on days off and vacations.  The two don’t exactly mix.

It was interesting while it lasted, but I sadly divorced the Jeep.  The radiator fan finally spinning off its track, I left it in a parking lot where a customer asked if he could buy it for his son.  I said yes, and watched as one of the more interesting parts of my life was towed away, its new teen-aged owner grinning ear to ear, leaving me with mixed memories.

And then I bought another Honda.

At that point, my two older boys were about five and six, and because the four-door gently used Civic made a strange noise when it was in high gear and reaching a particular speed, we named it the ST, for “Silver Tornado.”  It served quite a few important years getting me to and from work,  to SDSU to finish my abandoned degree, and my boys to and from school, and visits with their dad.  I have warm memories of our very own type of “car talk” revolving around the world they viewed from their backseat positions:  trees, hills, clouds…and water towers.  When I think of the topics now, they’re all that can be seen when you’re a small human seatbelted deep into a car.  Such very cute little boys.

I miss them now that they’re grown.

After I finished my credentialing program and the MoH and I married, we were able to leave behind our string of cheap apartments and purchase a condominium, creating a new home for our composite family.  Having a good monthly salary instead of the once a week check I squeezed while in school soon allowed me to donate the old ST to the local high school auto shop, and purchase a shiny new teal Honda Accord with a luxurious creamy interior and automatic windows.  Automatic transmission.  A moon roof.

I thought I’d arrived.

Although my two older boys had many years in that Honda, too, it quickly became the RT’s car.  His place to drip milk from his car seat, and then drop French fries from Happy Meals in cracks where I’d find them petrified weeks later.  His car to sit in more quietly since his brothers were so much older and often not in the car with him.  His space to have books and cars, rocks, and odd seeds he’d collect at school, calling them army men.  The creamy upholstery slowly began to age, the relentless sun in Paradise scorching it to the point where it would soon tear.

So with a mere 11,500 miles on its not quite 10 year old engine, I sold it to one of my son’s friends and bought another Honda:  an Acura 3.2 TL which still sits in my driveway today.

The plan was to give it to the RT when he was old enough to drive, and although that time is rapidly approaching, I’m not quite ready to give up my car.  Yes, there are dings in the sides of it from careless people in parking lots and students slinging backpacks over their shoulders in a hurry to get home.  The carpet is beginning to wear in spots as well.  I tire of the dust showing more quickly than it would on a lighter color, but I like it.  I like the idea that its reliability and comfort holds the remaining couple of years of driving my youngest here and there — he with his iPod earbuds in, me forgetting that when I want him to notice something out the window, forcing him to politely pull them out of his ears to listen to his mother.

No, I think I’ll hold on to this the last of my Hondas.  It has a few more memories left in it.

And then I’ll talk the MoH into one.

April 10, 2012 — I am now the owner of a light blue MINI Cooper with a white top and the Acura I enjoyed for so many years now resides with the MoH’s parents who I hope are enjoying its comfortable ride.  I have to say driving the MINI does remind me a bit of tooling around in my first little Honda Civic — the small one with the hatchback.  I suppose this makes me fickle, but I’d say that considering 34 of the 38 years I’ve been driving I’ve owned a Honda, I can’t be too fickle.

Where Do the Years Go?

Twenty-nine years and about two hours ago, I gave birth to my oldest after nine hours of labor with absolutely no meds. I was 22 years old.  What did I know?

But this isn’t about me.

It’s about him.  Happy Birthday to You!

Although I emailed him first thing this morning hoping he’d see it, and tried the cell number I know no longer works, I still don’t have the sense that he knows I’m thinking of him and how very fast time gets away from us all. Yes, I just saw him last Sunday, and sure, he came over and put his arm over my shoulders when I stopped in Whole Foods where he works, but still.

When I was 29, he was already six and his brother not quite two years behind. I had big hair.

Not about me. Not about me. Not about me.

But it has to be about me to some extent, doesn’t it? I’m thinking about how things come to pass. How some decisions are made in life with purpose, and others like confetti has been tossed into the wind. Sometimes, I think life feels somewhat like a house with several rooms — each containing aspects of who we once were and how we lived our lives, kept separate from each of those that follow. When I walk past the photographs that line the wall of our staircase and see the differences in the faces within the frames, it seems those people — we — are not the same people. The events in our lives have changed us.

As I think of him today, I unlock each of those rooms and enter, letting the memories wash over me, smiling at many, regretting some, and feeling wistful at most. There is so little I don’t remember. I hang on to it all like it was a gift.

Craig & Me I could write forever about this man whom I swear wanted to live in the Fifties, and what has made him so unique, but I can’t. Not right now. Not today.

Twenty-nine things will give a glimmer of an idea instead…

You picked up a pencil to draw when you were two and never stopped.

You loved Lucy and watched every episode over and over until we thought we’d go nuts.

You love cats. Love. Them. Even though you can’t breathe around them.

You never, ever fought with your brother — well physically, anyway. You did call him some interesting things like “gristle, fat, and lard,” which we now laugh about, including him.

You loved music that we loved so saved us from having to listen to music we were ready to tolerate at best.

You’ve only really asked for one thing, ever. One.

I don’t think you wanted to poke out my eyeballs too badly when I encouraged you to go to the prom with that girl.

Twinkle Eyes Your eyes twinkle when you smile even though they’re so brown I can’t see your pupils.

You have a completely disgusting sense of humor.

You love all things retro and used to wish they were still that way.

You love Corvairs.

You were in that Corvair club with all those old farts, and didn’t you have to bring a casserole or something once? Bwhahahaha!

You tolerated the piano lessons until I stopped them, and then told me years later that you wish you’d stuck it out.

You wear clothes you find that belong to others and it doesn’t matter to you.

You tolerated a job that nearly sucked the life out of you, keeping you from doing what you really wanted to do. I think.

You went to the vet when it was time to let Holis go and helped bury him because I couldn’t.

You cut the molding for the stairs after the MoH and I couldn’t and it took you about three minutes.

You used to disappear for a couple of days and when you got back, tell us you felt like driving to Arizona.

You’re better than you used to be about visiting when you said you would instead of not showing up.

You have always been respectful of me. Well, except the time you didn’t show up for your birthday dinner after you asked me to make it.

You love your gramster.

You burn the candle at both ends and don’t know I know it. I know everything. Really.

You tolerate people and things you wish you didn’t have to — including me.

Great Brother…well, sort of… You’re still nice to your brother.

You’ve always been lovely to the RTR.

You’ve never liked math and ended up studying something that depends on it.  Funny how life works.

You told me long ago that someday you wanted to buy old houses, fix them, and then let people who couldn’t afford houses live in them. I think you were about 11 or 12. And no, I don’t know where you got that idea.

You survived how many schools that I subjected you to? Goodness. A kid shouldn’t be as resilient.

You’ve been friends to people who have taken advantage of you and then you pay for it. Literally. And you just deal with it.

Is that 29?  Did I count correctly?


Dude… This is your Birthday Song. It isn’t very long.

I love you and look forward to seeing you this weekend when I bake my very first gluten-free chocolate birthday cake.


Blogging & Future Rock Stars

I told the MoH I was staying up here nights. At least that way I can get my blogging done. Jeez.

Is there any reason WHY, if I don’t salivate over watching football, or baseball, or basketball, or hockey, or soccer, or poker, or curling (just wanted to see if you were paying the hell attention…) but yes, he watches that if it’s on, too…that I can’t BLOG? Well?

No. I didn’t think so.

So maybe Cafe Kelly is closed. Okay, well, don’t get too excited, because I do have to do my foodblog. Really. And I do have to pay more attention to it. At least try.

No hissy fit. Just making a statement. Now I’ll put my soapbox back under my desk for the next time.

But you can help out by going to my food blog and clicking on the vote button in the upper right hand corner. You know. Just in support. I swear there are people who are cheating. So vote for me. “Kay? Routinely. When I’m famous, I’ll put you on the payroll. We can party.

I can’t believe it’s been forever that I’ve posted again. TOO much going on. Seriously.Gee-Tar

But I did want to share the RT’s new status as Resident Rocker. So that means I guess his name has to be different now. How about Resident Teen Rocker. RTR. And while I’m at this nonsense, I need to say some serious thanks to Scott for helping me along as I did my research on guitars. I paid attention! He’s already had his first lesson, actually practices, and sounds like he’s hitting the right notes. Okay, so that’s kind of piano lingo, but that’s all I know. He IS sounding decent and playing around with the sounds on his amp. I haven’t needed earphones once. We’ll talk in a couple of months, though. Remind me.

Continue reading “Blogging & Future Rock Stars”

Cheers to You, Family, and new Gaming PCs.

So we made it to Virginia and after a few days of very grey skies and a refreshing chill in the air, it totally warmed up to near 60 degrees and then rained. Sheesh. And today?

The freaking sun is out. What’s up with that? You would think that when you fly across the damn country for the holidays at least it could pretend like it was going to snow. Feh.

That list I made before I left had to get done or we wouldn’t have been able to get on the plane. So no problem there. When the shuttle driver arrived at the front door to collect us, the house was decent, the presents for the older boys were snuggled under the tree and as an added bribe to them to take care of the house while we were gone, we had the RT open one of his presents we couldn’t take…a gamer’s computer (HP Pavilion Elite) with a 22″ flat panel monitor and a humongous graphics card (XFX GeForce 8800 GT XXX) and I have to swagger around a bit when I say that even though I have absolutely NO idea what I’m talking about) that had to have its own power source (or some kind of a fan thingy installed). We had it installed before we left the store (Fry’s Electronics, thank you very much and NOT BEST BUY Bwhahahahahahaha Losers…) by a sales/tech guy who was completely cool, talked the entire time he was putting it in and answered everyone else’s questions at the same time — including “The Wife” on his cell a couple of times regarding being home on time for a change. The guy works 16 hour days. Amazing. We came home with a fist full of rebates I now have to complete so we can actually have a few checks in the mail at some point in the next century. I’ve done them before and I swear we never get anything out of them — most likely because I forgot to cross a “t” or dot an “i.”

Now the cool thing about this computer is that it also functions as a TV, so that helps us out a bit in the area of ensuring that we can all be in separate rooms watching different programs and never see each other ever again. Trick. AND (drum roll…) now neither the MoH or the RT has to use my Mac. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOT.

Seriously. It’s mine, mine, mine. ALLLLLLLLLLL mine and they don’t get to TOUCH it.

EVER. So I’m sure the two older boys (okay, so they’re men, but you know how that goes when you’re the mom, right?) are enjoying it while the RT is away. And you can imagine the RT is sweating a bit because he had to leave it at home and is now stuck in this female infested house for the holidays. My sister does have a Wii, though, so people have been having a blast with that. I haven’t succumbed, but most likely will tonight after a couple glasses of wineski.

Enough of that nonsense.

So I just wanted to let you know we were all alive and well, have celebrated my mom’s 70th birthday in true style (there wasn’t a fancy dress in the house…) and took some photos I’ll have to try and share later. Totally hilarious. Oh, and “we” constitutes my sister’s family (husband and two younger daughters) her oldest daughter and her boyfriend (who left Monterey, CA to live here instead and are holed in upstairs indefinitely..) my mother (who’s living in the basement sort of indefinitely, but actually more like temporarily…) a dog, and three cats who all have to be kept away from one another. Oh. And us. Quite the household.

Today, more lists are in order — but they’re the lists I’m good at that include miles of ingredients and a sequence of what to prepare in which order. With one last trip to the grocery store (there have already been two…) we’ll be ready to hunker down for a fun night of dessert making, toasting (instead of the roasting we did to my mom last night), and preparing for our holiday breakfast and then dinner later.

The MoH and RT are out today with my seester doing the turismo thang in D.C. I’ll venture out on Wednesday (which is our wedding anniversary) and make like a tourist myself. Maybe I’ll even twist the MoH’s arm a bit for a swanky dinner or something.

In the meantime, I sincerely hope you are warm, doing what fills your heart — regardless of what it is — and that you are healthy.

Thanks for visiting my little space in the Bloggosphere so often this past year. You have helped to take me from the exhausted, burnt out, frazzled, and completely flattened person that I was, to a person who laughs much more than she used to, and who has also recovered something she thought she’d lost for good — writing.


Letters to a growing boy…

And the letters to sustain me during NaBloPoMo continue. But the RT’s school photos arrived yesterday, so I’ve been staring at them and marveling at just how fast time goes by. Mind you, the photos came some time ago, and I thought it strange that I hadn’t seen them yet when he walked up with them last night, apologizing for forgetting to give them to me. They’d been in his backpack, where many a valuable possession has vanished into the depths of its blackness. Never to be seen until June. So I’m feeling fortunate that the photos have nary a scratch or bend.

November 13, 2007

My Dear RT,

When you were born, I started writing letters to you in a journal about your daily life. Although the letters were very nearly written each day in the beginning, by the last entry, written on your 8th birthday, they were very infrequent. Very soon, I’ll show you the journal so that you can read about growing up. And someday, it will be yours so that you might do the same for your child.

Here are some of the letters.
Letters to You

Thursday, May 12, 1994

You were almost two…

Your Dad took you to Grandma & Grandpa W’s house and measured you on Mother’s Day. You’re nearly 36″ tall and weigh about 30 lbs. (Is that right?) Anyway — that’s taller than we thought you’d be compared to your cousin when she was your age, and she’s tall!

You can count to 13 now! It’s pretty funny.

You’ve been throwing things way too much — at people, on the floor — everywhere.

Lots of whineyness in the early evening time around dinner. It’s hard when everyone has had a long day. We’re trying not to push the bottles just to see if you’ll forget about it during the day — preschool is just around the corner and the bottle won’t work. Diapers? Who knows? Changing yours is a complete chore. You kick & scream & twist & turn. It’s like some ridiculous game. Gramma did say today that she told you that you needed your pants changed & you walked right into the house to have it taken care of. You hear everything we say! This morning you were laying on the rug watching Barney & I made a comment to Gramma about your “poofy” hair and you looked at me and reached up to touch your hair.

I’m getting ready to leave you for nearly 8 days and I’m not looking forward to it. What I want is for summer to be here so I can be a mom for a change.

You’ll be big before I know it, D.
Not yet Two

Saturday, January 24, 1997

I see this book now, mostly when I dust & vacuum around the basket of books it keeps company with next to my bed. That’s pretty much where it’s been since we moved to this house when you were 6 mos. old. It seems so long ago now. You’re 4-1/2. You’re in the dining room playing your usual conditioned response breakfast games. Your dad is trying to guilt you into eating, but he is also singing the “Green Acres” theme song, so somehow I’m sure he’s not very threatening.

Thanks for climbing into bed with me for a while this morning and telling me about the rocket you built of Legos. You showed me how it flies, how it loses its boosters & leaves the capsule where the men are and then uses parachutes to bring it back to California where it lands. A lot to think about on a Saturday morning.

Yes, the Lego era has had a 2nd dawning. They’ve never quite been completely gone, but C & R have had them stashed under their bunk for a number of years. Now they show you how to build everything. But mostly things that fly. You’re pretty good at it yourself.

I make sure I get my squeezes & hugs & kisses from you as much as I can. It seems your “olderness” is right around the corner, D. You are very aware you are 4, but not 5 yet and tell me about it. I know you want to stay at Taproot School to become a “Palm” instead of going to another kindergarten. But you’ll have to make that change soon enough. Taproot stops after Kindergarten and then you must move on.

This should be a big year. Baseball? Soccer? Music Lessons? What are you interested in? What do you want to learn?

You found the plastic pink heart which stays in a dish on my dresser as you got up this morning & had a wistful, but puzzled look on your face as you rolled it in your fingers. “We still have Heart Baby’s heart. He still loves us, D,” I explain.

“He gone?”

“Yes, remember we lost him at the old Target?”

“But he didn’t go to the garbage. He went with a boy.”

“And he cares about that boy, but his heart will always be with us,” I finish.

You put the heart down and seemed content with the conversation we’ve had many times before.

Clown baby still goes to school with you every day, but it’s more of a ritual than a need. I’ll have to rescue him one of these days before he is misplaced.

I love you, D. You’ve grown up so very fast.

School Photos

Get Out Your Deflector Shields

Yanno, I was going to have a lovely, quiet morning. Feh.

After a much needed eleven hours of sleep last night (evacuated relatives, non-stop fire coverage, no school, no work, and a busy Las Vegas weekend) I stretched, poured my coffee and began to plan my day. Fire coverage is dwindling (thankfully and finally), the Santa Ana winds have completely died, and fire fighters are focused on what’s remaining — still a concern, but nothing like it was even a day ago.

I was cozied up to the MoH’s laptop (instead of my beloved mac since the RT is home and is putting in iTunes time) getting ready to do a bit of research on a recipe I’m going to tackle and I came across this article.

Dunce Cap Remember when I had the nuclear melt down over the Jeep Princess a week or so ago? Well, that was mild in comparison to the flare of heat I felt when I read it. The rush of anger, barage of razor sharp opinions, and flow of thoughts bottled for the better part of a year made their presence known. Matilda the Hun is alive and well in the smoke-filled skies of Paradise.

And to put the turd in that caustic punch bowl…

Dub-yah just landed in Air Force One to survey the burn areas.

I was going to go get paint for the RT’s room, which we’ve been sanitizing and organizing together. Miracles do happen. I was going to be physically constructive for the better part of the day instead of exercising my agile fingers and brain. But the article was a serious deterrent. And Dub-yah is guilty by association with NCLB.

Before I really get going, consider this: In his sophomore English class, the RT has to read whatever he wants — at least 100 pages a week. No big deal. He has to keep a list of what he reads and make a couple of entries in a notebook. No guidelines, just a note or two about each item he’s read. At the end of six-weeks, the teacher will go around the class, look at each list, “pick one of the items on the list” then expect the students to write about that item in class for a grade. Can the RT do this? Of course. The kid reads. He always has. And yes, he can write about what he reads, if the teacher is willing to subject herself to his tortuous handwriting. But what is the real point of the exercise? To catch the students who can’t, don’t, or haven’t read? Or to confirm the original assessment that their writing skills are seriously lacking, and that even though you haven’t taught them anything to begin to correct this problem, you’re going to test them? A test is supposed to be a measure of more than just a student’s learning. It’s a measure of the effectiveness of one’s teaching, also. Or the quality of the test. Or the material taught. Or the motivation of the students. Or the motivation of the teacher. Okay, so this is going no where fast.
This video sums things up fairly well.

Until everyone — EVERYONE stops thinking that “things” should remain the same as in the good ol’ days, and that what and how you and I were taught should be fine because “we turned out just great…” then we’re part of the problem. Unfortunately, a very large portion of the teaching force is part of the obstacle to change. A huge number of teachers are reaching retirement, and although many have had productive careers influencing countless children in positive ways, the sheer idea of having to learn radically different techniques that involve a strong understanding of how technology works is something less than attractive for many. Not all. Many.

Those interested in learning are facing obstacles caused by the dysfunctional system, the equipment, and the often less than knowledgeable quality of support staff. I’m sure I’ll burn with the politically incorrect in hell for making these statements — another problem. The world of education is quite two-faced. Face to face, it’s all peaches and rainbows. Behind the scenes, it’s all snarking and biting. It would make a terrific reality show.

There are newer, more idealistic teachers coming into the profession, some of whom are from different professions. And yes, they have much to learn from their more experienced colleagues, and should definitely listen. But it rarely works in reverse, and that’s too bad. Why is it that as we age, we close our minds? We think those younger than us, or from outside our system, lack knowledge and ability. We forget how we felt when we were their age, and what we knew. There is a very odd culture within the educational system that is unlike that of others who understand the value of working together, and sharing ideas. Individuals in the medical profession, engineers. There seems to be a fear that prevents the development of an intellectual community within the educational system. That if you gain certain heights, you’ve forsaken the masses, and are to be questioned. What is that called?

No, not all teachers exhibit that level of closed mindedness, but many.

I’ve raised three sons who are pleasant, productive people. They’ve watched some television, played some video games, played some sports, and had to endure some chores to earn an allowance. And they’ve had quite a bit of time to learn to entertain themselves with books and hobbies. To use their imaginations. To feel boredom and develop a willingness to do something about it.

Unfortunately, they’ve also had a fairly lack-luster experience at school with primarily lecture-driven instruction supported by textbooks that are so sanitized it’s a wonder the information inspires any degree of critical thought. They’ve had county schools, city schools, Montessori schools. They’ve had experienced teachers, new teachers, engaged teachers, and people who should have been encouraged out of the profession before their second year. They’ve attended low-performing schools, mediocre schools, and extremely high performing schools. It doesn’t seem to matter. We’re good at perpetuating the notion that learning occurs in a box in this country. Extremely.

It would be so easy to launch into a diatribe on parenting at this point because parents are the primary responsibility for their children. But if society acknowledges that not all parents are capable of raising their children appropriately (and they’re not because anyone can have sex, and unfortunately children can’t choose their parents), then the educational system has got to provide. (Rush Limbaugh is probably choking right now…) And what is provided can’t be the same across a district, or a county, a state, or the country. That thinking persists because it’s easy. That thinking persists because we’ve been doing it for so many years.

That thinking will persist until the people who work in the public education system work together to change their thinking.

It’s not challenging. You just have to be willing to wrap you head around the idea that things are possible instead of not. It’s called optimism. Optimists are shot down in the educational system. Those who stand out and work to achieve different possibilites are frowned upon and talked about. Surely, innovation is suspect. Negativity and snarking about “the pendulum” swinging back again inevitably begin. How nice to be able to act in such a sanctimonious way. To think that the kids are going to hell in a hand basket and that you can’t do your job because you’re not being given the same material you used to be given.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but school is supposed to be a place where you actually learn, and not show up to show what you know. Increasingly, it needs to be a place where students learn HOW to learn — impossible if someone is standing in front of the room talking and then assigning homework. When’s the last time you had to sit in a room and just listen to someone who couldn’t possibly know all he or she should know to teach you? Fun, wasn’t it? And yet we subject our kids to that.

I’m not suggesting that educators aren’t intelligent. No one in any profession can possibly contain all the information necessary to truly teach. Things have changed. Information is available everywhere. Students need their teachers to understand what and where the sources are, teach them how to discern credible information from what is faulty, and push them to develop their own hypotheses and investigate their own theories. Publish their own findings. Constructively argue the validity of their own findings.

Teachers are the key. They have to be. They can’t continue to complain about their administrators, the parents, the students, the lack of materials, lack of technology, support staff, pay, and stress on the job. All of those issues can be part of the problem, but when has complaining accomplished anything?

This rant is far from done. But it’s all over the place today, and god forbid that someone out there correct my choice of syntax and punctuation (which is much easier to do than use the questions I’ve posed to analyze and evaluate their own part of the problem).I respect the fact that anyone can stay in a profession for their entire career. That they can look back on their accomplishments and feel good about them. That they can speak as an “expert” because of that experience and make comments about “what the problem is” without considering that they, too, could have a share in being the problem.

That it can’t possibly be only the students. That it can’t possibly just be their parents. That it can’t possibly be just the administration, or the lack of funding, or the feds. That maybe. Just maybe. They are partially to blame because their thinking, their strategies, their unwillingness to become part of a solution, take action, and let go of their negativity, could be part of “the problem.”

When you examine the lives of individuals who are successful, and listen carefully to what and whom they’ve been influenced by, rarely to they say it had anything to do with their education. And if it does, it’s a dedicated teacher here or there. A coach, a professor, a dance instructor.

Ask a writer whether he or she learned to write in school. Rarely, if ever, are they able to attribute their skill, talent, and passion to any writing teacher — unless one considers a particular author a teacher — and I do. So do they.

Ask yourself to what extent your education inspired you. And not just through the K-12 years, but beyond. And then wonder what works, for whom, and why?

Or just pat yourself on the back that you made it to the end of this.

Nearly Wordless on Wednesday

The sunset was interesting last night. IMG_4446.JPG

The troops became even more restless.

And according to the RT, gas alerts were also something to be concerned with. IMG_4435.JPG

But not natural gas.


Thirty-one words. Not bad for a nearly wordless Wednesday.

Okay, so now 41.