I was behind this school bus the other day and saw that the driver was attempting to make a left turn where you can only turn right.
I knew not to expect carnage and death, but I was hoping to see the bus go the wrong way or attempt to drive over the street island. This one will not go viral.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Job #1: Artesia Racquet and Health Club Era (1980 - 1982 and 1984)
(A bit of a preamble before the start of this post: In this blog, I will be writing about all the paying jobs that I've held. In the titles, I will refer to these as eras and list the years during which I worked there in the subject titles. Many of these jobs will result in multiple posts, but once I start writing about a job, I will tell the complete story until it comes to an end.)
In the fall of 1980, I was moving up in the world. I was able to line up my first job. Since my Mom was in charge of Distributive Education, she got a line on a position that would soon have an opening. The people who ran one of the big oil companies in Artesia decided to open a health club across the street from their office that would have racquetball courts.
The only reason no one from DECA got the job there was because they didn't open the club until October. Everyone in DECA needed to have their jobs in place before the end of September. I went in and interviewed with the woman who was put in charge of it. Mom had told me all this stuff that I was supposed to say and not say and it was all very confusing, and as it turned out, unnecessary. A couple of weeks later, she called me to come down to the club so I could see where I was working.
When I went in, it was still being constructed. They hadn't put down the carpeting or the front desk yet and still had a lot to do on the main excercise floor. My job was going to be to check members in at the front desk and sweeping the racquetball courts. I would work the early morning hours from 6am to 8am. I would get paid the minimum wage, which at the time was $2.85 an hour and went up to $3.10 an hour in 1981. There would not be another national minimum wage increase until 1990.
The best part about this job is that it got me out of the house in the mornings, when Mom was in her worst moods. If ever there were times that major punishments got handed down, it was always before school. It seemed like Mom would sleep on a problem and wake up deciding to make Loyd and me miserable. By not being at the house, I never received any punishments those last two years that I lived at home. However, I'm pretty certain Loyd got more than his usual share of manic mornings with Mom because I wasn't around.
I was surprised when I got my first paycheck. I couldn't believe they were giving me money to basically sit around. Since I didn't really have much to do, I would frequently bring my homework in during the morning. This left me free to not have to do any studying at the house at night. This means I was getting paid to do my homework.
I left the job when I went to college in 1982. My job went to the boyfriend of my boss' daughter. Two years later, he graduated from high school and I came home from college to spend what would be my final summer at home. (I went to summer school in 1983 and 1985.) Even though my old boss was no longer there, I got my old job back. I should note that this would be the only time in my life that I ever returned to a job in which I left.
However, there was an unexpected change about the time I started back. This person came in as the new general manager. After he had taken over for one week, the first thing he did was lay me off because he was trying to make the club profitable. (Actually, the reason why the club wasn't profitable was because of delinquent accounts, not because they were paying me about $30 a week.)
The only other person who had been there since the beginning got the job of coming in early in the morning. She was originally hired to run the child care center when the club first opened. After awhile, it was only my father and a friend of his showing up in the morning, so the club just gave them the keys and they let themselves in and cut more hours that way.
However, losing that job led to me being able to take a job that would turn into a full-time position before I graduated from college, so I guess it was a good thing that I was let go, but that will be the subject of a post way, way in the future.
In the fall of 1980, I was moving up in the world. I was able to line up my first job. Since my Mom was in charge of Distributive Education, she got a line on a position that would soon have an opening. The people who ran one of the big oil companies in Artesia decided to open a health club across the street from their office that would have racquetball courts.
The only reason no one from DECA got the job there was because they didn't open the club until October. Everyone in DECA needed to have their jobs in place before the end of September. I went in and interviewed with the woman who was put in charge of it. Mom had told me all this stuff that I was supposed to say and not say and it was all very confusing, and as it turned out, unnecessary. A couple of weeks later, she called me to come down to the club so I could see where I was working.
When I went in, it was still being constructed. They hadn't put down the carpeting or the front desk yet and still had a lot to do on the main excercise floor. My job was going to be to check members in at the front desk and sweeping the racquetball courts. I would work the early morning hours from 6am to 8am. I would get paid the minimum wage, which at the time was $2.85 an hour and went up to $3.10 an hour in 1981. There would not be another national minimum wage increase until 1990.
The best part about this job is that it got me out of the house in the mornings, when Mom was in her worst moods. If ever there were times that major punishments got handed down, it was always before school. It seemed like Mom would sleep on a problem and wake up deciding to make Loyd and me miserable. By not being at the house, I never received any punishments those last two years that I lived at home. However, I'm pretty certain Loyd got more than his usual share of manic mornings with Mom because I wasn't around.
I was surprised when I got my first paycheck. I couldn't believe they were giving me money to basically sit around. Since I didn't really have much to do, I would frequently bring my homework in during the morning. This left me free to not have to do any studying at the house at night. This means I was getting paid to do my homework.
I left the job when I went to college in 1982. My job went to the boyfriend of my boss' daughter. Two years later, he graduated from high school and I came home from college to spend what would be my final summer at home. (I went to summer school in 1983 and 1985.) Even though my old boss was no longer there, I got my old job back. I should note that this would be the only time in my life that I ever returned to a job in which I left.
However, there was an unexpected change about the time I started back. This person came in as the new general manager. After he had taken over for one week, the first thing he did was lay me off because he was trying to make the club profitable. (Actually, the reason why the club wasn't profitable was because of delinquent accounts, not because they were paying me about $30 a week.)
The only other person who had been there since the beginning got the job of coming in early in the morning. She was originally hired to run the child care center when the club first opened. After awhile, it was only my father and a friend of his showing up in the morning, so the club just gave them the keys and they let themselves in and cut more hours that way.
However, losing that job led to me being able to take a job that would turn into a full-time position before I graduated from college, so I guess it was a good thing that I was let go, but that will be the subject of a post way, way in the future.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Stalled memories.
A lot of things happened in the bathroom when I was younger.
The lesson here is to get a house with three bathrooms.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Student Council Rules!
So, here it was. The one thing I had been waiting to be able to do for years: I was going to serve on the Student Council! As I mentioned in an earlier post, prior to high school, in order to serve on the Student Council, you had to be elected by your homeroom. In high school, they just held general elections. I mentioned that I was not elected for my sophomore year and was not asked to become a member even though they were supposed to call on me when they were losing members left and right.
Apparently, the Student Council lost a lot of its appeal in high school. This was probably due to the faculty advisor being considerably on the dull side. When I ran for the next year's Council my sophomore year, there weren't enough candidates to fill all the slots. They still had to have an election so that they could pull a write-in candidate to fill out the seats. They had to do this for both the sophomore and junior classes. (I would have been a truly complete loser if I hadn't gotten elected that year.)
One of the best things about Student Council is that we got out of one class every Monday. They would rotate among the periods. If the meeting didn't take the full hour, we still got to stay out of class. My Drama teacher got mad every time I had to miss class. I guess she wasn't a fan of the Student Council because our Homecoming floats never got judged.
I served on several committees, including the Homecoming committee. One of the things I got to do was help choose some possible Homecoming themes. During the committee discussion, I submitted "Bulldog Mania" (even though this was more than 15 years after Beatlemania). The entire Student Council got to vote on the submitted themes. My suggestion came in second place, behind "Bulldog Country" (by a VERY wide margin). The idea was that we would get this popular area country covers band to play at the Homecoming dance. It turned out they were already booked that weekend, so the decision was made to book the band for next year's Homecoming and make "Bulldog Country" the theme that year. Almost by default, "Bulldog Mania" became the theme for the current Homecoming. I wonder how many on the Council would have supported that if they had remembered that was my idea. I could see hundreds of local residents protesting the Homecoming parade because I was the one who came up with the theme. However, I was still proud of that accomplishment.
One thing unbeknownst to me at the time was that there was an initiation of the new council members. Incumbent members would go out to the houses of the newbies early in the morning and kidnap them for a special breakfast. The idea was to wake them up and make them go to breakfast while they were still in their pajamas. However, at my house, since we all had to go to school (because my parents were teachers), we got up at 6am. I was brushing my teeth when two girls came to get me. I was already all dressed, except for putting on my shoes. They decided to let me put on my shoes and they went to pick someone else up. When we got to the house of the faculty advisor, there were some other members still in pajamas. I was lucky because they took pictures.
Unfortunately, all that joy and power lasted only that one year. Somehow, word got around that the Student Council was something worth getting involved in. I guess it had to do with the new faculty advisor, who had a really fun personality. The year before, they had to recruit people who didn't even have their names on the ballot to fill the ten seats. But this year, there were 30 (yes, THIRTY!) of my classmates who wanted to be on the Council. We didn't even get to give speeches like we did in ninth grade. The candidates just sat on the gym floor and stood when our names were called. Of course, I didn't win. It went back to being a popularity contest.
This same pattern would follow me into college when I was running for Student Senate. If I had no opposition, I would win and get to serve. If someone else ran, even though I was an incumbent, I would lose. I guess you could say that I figured out before I was 21 that I would never be able to run for public office.
Junior Year, 4th Period: American Literature/English Composition
This will be the last of my class breakdowns for my junior year. As I explained in my sophomore year, fifth and sixth periods were the same for all three years of high school: Chorus and Drama, although the latter was referred to as "Masquers" to indicate an activity credit as opposed to a solid credit.
My sophomore year, my Physical Education requirement was split between two separate classes, PE in the fall semester and Tennis in the spring. This was true for my English class my junior year. For the fall, I had American Literature. In the spring, it was English Composition. As it turned out, these would be the last English classes I was required to take in high school. (I'd always complained that one of the problems with the public education system was that everyone was required to take lessons for their own native language for 12 straight years. Here, I only had to do it in 11 years, although I had two English credit classes my sophomore year, because Drama was considered an English class. Come to think of it, in the ninth grade, I took English I and Public Speaking, which also made for two English credits. That meant that I took my native language for the equivalent of 13 years.)
American Literature was a relatively easy class. We just read the short stories and novels that were assigned to us and answer a few questions. However, it got challenging when we got to the tall tales portion of the class. The teacher (who was the same faculty member named to be in charge of the Student Council that year) had these audio recordings of the stories being read. However, we didn't have the books for those, so we just listened. After the first story, the teacher gave us a quiz on the material. We weren't expecting that. Most of us had zoned out while the recording was being played and did very poorly. The next few days after that, we made sure to take notes during the stories. The only story I didn't have to take notes for was the one about Joe Magarac because the version I had read years before was word for word the one on the recording. I was very familiar with that story, except that I learned that I had been mispronouncing the name for years.
English Composition was the strangest class I had in high school. This was due to a couple of factors: For one, it was in one of the few classrooms at the school that had a carpeted floor. This made everything sound very quiet. The normal roar of students in the other classes was relatively silenced in that room. It was so quiet, I fell asleep a few times (due to outside influences, which I'll go into detail in a future post). The other strange thing is that I didn't feel like I had to work very hard in the class to get my A's. Basically, we had to do an outline first. Then, we would write the compositions. When I write, I never have to use outlines, so this was very restrictive to me. Virtually every composition I wrote was exactly what I wrote in the outline and rarely contained more material than that.
There was only one composition that I got a C on. The topic was "The Composition I've Always Wanted to Write." I decided to plagarize Steve Martin from the last chapter of his book "Cruel Shoes." The chapter was titled "The Last Thing on My Mind." In it, Martin ends by saying something like, "I guess the last thing on my mind is the last thing on my mind." After a bunch of rambling about compositions that I thought about writing, I ended with, "I guess the composition I've always wanted to write is the composition I've always wanted to write." That C was not enough to lower my grade. It practically didn't count.
A few years after high school, I looked back at the classes I took. At the time, I barely remembered this class to the point that the entire semester was very fuzzy during that period directly after lunch, almost like it didn't happen, but I remembered everything else that year so well.
There is a strange thing about my English Composition teacher that is worth revealing. After my Grandfather Bend died in 1954 (10 years before I was born), to the best of my knowledge, Grandma Bend never dated anyone. However, around 1979, she was dating a particular gentleman whom I had never met. I never knew this was going on. He died late that year. He was my English Composition teacher's father. I remember Mom, Loyd and myself going to eat with the teacher and her two daughters. (This was a year before I was in her class.) The older daughter was a year ahead of me in school and would go on to be the Student Council President my junior year. The younger daughter was a year ahead of Loyd. I don't remember the conversation during the lunch and wasn't aware that we were meeting for any specific reason.
Afterward, Loyd told me that Grandma Bend had been dating the grandfather of those girls and they were likely going to get married before he died. That would have made all of us somehow related. That would have made things really awkward because I developed a crush on the younger girl two years later when she was a sophomore. It was a crush that didn't really go anywhere. Years later, I saw the teacher and her daughters at my parents' 25th wedding anniversary. I saw the teacher and the younger daughter again seven years later when they attended my Mom's wedding with Dend.
I never told the teacher how I felt about that class.
My sophomore year, my Physical Education requirement was split between two separate classes, PE in the fall semester and Tennis in the spring. This was true for my English class my junior year. For the fall, I had American Literature. In the spring, it was English Composition. As it turned out, these would be the last English classes I was required to take in high school. (I'd always complained that one of the problems with the public education system was that everyone was required to take lessons for their own native language for 12 straight years. Here, I only had to do it in 11 years, although I had two English credit classes my sophomore year, because Drama was considered an English class. Come to think of it, in the ninth grade, I took English I and Public Speaking, which also made for two English credits. That meant that I took my native language for the equivalent of 13 years.)
American Literature was a relatively easy class. We just read the short stories and novels that were assigned to us and answer a few questions. However, it got challenging when we got to the tall tales portion of the class. The teacher (who was the same faculty member named to be in charge of the Student Council that year) had these audio recordings of the stories being read. However, we didn't have the books for those, so we just listened. After the first story, the teacher gave us a quiz on the material. We weren't expecting that. Most of us had zoned out while the recording was being played and did very poorly. The next few days after that, we made sure to take notes during the stories. The only story I didn't have to take notes for was the one about Joe Magarac because the version I had read years before was word for word the one on the recording. I was very familiar with that story, except that I learned that I had been mispronouncing the name for years.
English Composition was the strangest class I had in high school. This was due to a couple of factors: For one, it was in one of the few classrooms at the school that had a carpeted floor. This made everything sound very quiet. The normal roar of students in the other classes was relatively silenced in that room. It was so quiet, I fell asleep a few times (due to outside influences, which I'll go into detail in a future post). The other strange thing is that I didn't feel like I had to work very hard in the class to get my A's. Basically, we had to do an outline first. Then, we would write the compositions. When I write, I never have to use outlines, so this was very restrictive to me. Virtually every composition I wrote was exactly what I wrote in the outline and rarely contained more material than that.
There was only one composition that I got a C on. The topic was "The Composition I've Always Wanted to Write." I decided to plagarize Steve Martin from the last chapter of his book "Cruel Shoes." The chapter was titled "The Last Thing on My Mind." In it, Martin ends by saying something like, "I guess the last thing on my mind is the last thing on my mind." After a bunch of rambling about compositions that I thought about writing, I ended with, "I guess the composition I've always wanted to write is the composition I've always wanted to write." That C was not enough to lower my grade. It practically didn't count.
A few years after high school, I looked back at the classes I took. At the time, I barely remembered this class to the point that the entire semester was very fuzzy during that period directly after lunch, almost like it didn't happen, but I remembered everything else that year so well.
There is a strange thing about my English Composition teacher that is worth revealing. After my Grandfather Bend died in 1954 (10 years before I was born), to the best of my knowledge, Grandma Bend never dated anyone. However, around 1979, she was dating a particular gentleman whom I had never met. I never knew this was going on. He died late that year. He was my English Composition teacher's father. I remember Mom, Loyd and myself going to eat with the teacher and her two daughters. (This was a year before I was in her class.) The older daughter was a year ahead of me in school and would go on to be the Student Council President my junior year. The younger daughter was a year ahead of Loyd. I don't remember the conversation during the lunch and wasn't aware that we were meeting for any specific reason.
Afterward, Loyd told me that Grandma Bend had been dating the grandfather of those girls and they were likely going to get married before he died. That would have made all of us somehow related. That would have made things really awkward because I developed a crush on the younger girl two years later when she was a sophomore. It was a crush that didn't really go anywhere. Years later, I saw the teacher and her daughters at my parents' 25th wedding anniversary. I saw the teacher and the younger daughter again seven years later when they attended my Mom's wedding with Dend.
I never told the teacher how I felt about that class.
A little English won't hurt anyone
This is the part of the blog I've been neglecting for the past several months. I hope to get more video commentaries done.
Basically, I decided to get back into this now because someone I don't know just subscribed to my channel. With any luck, I can do regular blogging on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday with video commentaries appearing on Tuesday and Friday.
Basically, I decided to get back into this now because someone I don't know just subscribed to my channel. With any luck, I can do regular blogging on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday with video commentaries appearing on Tuesday and Friday.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Junior Year, 3rd Period: American History
I was not required to take any kind of Social Studies course during my sophomore year of high school, so I didn't. Honestly, since we were only able to take just six classes a day, it sort of limited our choices since we were allowed to take a certain number of activity classes in order to graduate.
Social Studies was probably my second least favorite subject, after science. I didn't have a real problem with learning history. It was learning about each individual country that got on my nerves. That was why I skipped World History, which was offered my sophomore year.
So I was glad to have American History for my junior year. At the beginning of the year, the teacher said that the new textbooks were set up differently. Because there was so much trouble getting to the more recent events in American History, the book was designed to give a sort of Cliff's Notes version of the period between the American Revolution and the Civil War. That would allow us to spend more time on things like World War I, World War II and Vietnam. (Yes, it seems like all we did in History was talk about wars. Peacetime was just too boring.)
The funny thing is that even with us rushing through the first 100 years of American History in the first 9 weeks of the school year, we still could not get past World War II. I think that format gave the teacher the idea that he could teach the rest of the material in a more relaxed manner. He probably got too relaxed.
One of the things the teacher did during the year was tell us this tale of when he was in the Navy. He took a full hour to tell this story. Dont' worry, it's not scary, like the story my sixth grade music teacher told.
It went like this: He was serving on board the SS Patch. (I can't believe I remember the name of that ship after all this time.) Before he was in the Navy, that particular ship had been sunk twice, raised and salvaged. There were more than 300 people serving on the ship. One night, the dinner was beanie weinies. Everybody enjoyed the dinner. Before everyone went to bed, there was an announcement that the ship was about to head into a really rough storm and advised everyone to strap themselves in their bunks.
They weren't kidding about that announcement. The ocean tossed the ship back and forth. A lot of the crewmembers started feeling nauseous. At one point, the nose of the ship stuck straight up in the air, like the Titanic before it sunk. After a few wave crashes, he could hear somebody throwing up. Then another, then another. Then he started vomiting. He believed he had a good idea. He thought that if he went into the shower, he would feel a lot better. However, there were a lot of other sailors who had that same "good idea." Everyone was in the shower. Unfortunately, they were still all in the process of vomiting. The entire shower floor was covered in several inches of regurgitated beanie weanies. They clogged the drains. The teacher said that if he used his foot to clear the drain, it would make this sucking noise and get clogged again with beanie weanies.
Fortunately, the ship did not sink. But ever since then, the teacher could never eat beanie weanies again.
This was what I learned in American History my junior year.
Social Studies was probably my second least favorite subject, after science. I didn't have a real problem with learning history. It was learning about each individual country that got on my nerves. That was why I skipped World History, which was offered my sophomore year.
So I was glad to have American History for my junior year. At the beginning of the year, the teacher said that the new textbooks were set up differently. Because there was so much trouble getting to the more recent events in American History, the book was designed to give a sort of Cliff's Notes version of the period between the American Revolution and the Civil War. That would allow us to spend more time on things like World War I, World War II and Vietnam. (Yes, it seems like all we did in History was talk about wars. Peacetime was just too boring.)
The funny thing is that even with us rushing through the first 100 years of American History in the first 9 weeks of the school year, we still could not get past World War II. I think that format gave the teacher the idea that he could teach the rest of the material in a more relaxed manner. He probably got too relaxed.
One of the things the teacher did during the year was tell us this tale of when he was in the Navy. He took a full hour to tell this story. Dont' worry, it's not scary, like the story my sixth grade music teacher told.
It went like this: He was serving on board the SS Patch. (I can't believe I remember the name of that ship after all this time.) Before he was in the Navy, that particular ship had been sunk twice, raised and salvaged. There were more than 300 people serving on the ship. One night, the dinner was beanie weinies. Everybody enjoyed the dinner. Before everyone went to bed, there was an announcement that the ship was about to head into a really rough storm and advised everyone to strap themselves in their bunks.
They weren't kidding about that announcement. The ocean tossed the ship back and forth. A lot of the crewmembers started feeling nauseous. At one point, the nose of the ship stuck straight up in the air, like the Titanic before it sunk. After a few wave crashes, he could hear somebody throwing up. Then another, then another. Then he started vomiting. He believed he had a good idea. He thought that if he went into the shower, he would feel a lot better. However, there were a lot of other sailors who had that same "good idea." Everyone was in the shower. Unfortunately, they were still all in the process of vomiting. The entire shower floor was covered in several inches of regurgitated beanie weanies. They clogged the drains. The teacher said that if he used his foot to clear the drain, it would make this sucking noise and get clogged again with beanie weanies.
Fortunately, the ship did not sink. But ever since then, the teacher could never eat beanie weanies again.
This was what I learned in American History my junior year.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Junior Year, 2nd Period: Algebra II
I have just realized that I never did my rant about the subject of Algebra. Because I didn't do class breakdowns for the year I was in ninth grade, I managed to avoid the sore spot in the subject. I now get an opportunity to let my feelings be known about the subject.
I first encountered Algebra when I was in the seventh grade. There were some problems that required us to determine what number should occupy the space represented by a letter of the alphabet. I was able to look at the problem and figure out right away what it was. When I handed the homework in to the teacher, he said that I had done it wrong and that I needed to show my work. "What do you mean, 'show my work?" I've got the answers right here!" He just re-iterated that I had to show my work.
When I got to Algebra I in the ninth grade, it was more of the same. It was very frustrating to have to write everything down, even though I had already come up with the answer beforehand. It's not like I was cheating and I had certainly proven myself capable of doing a lot of math in my head. I didn't like taking all that time to scribble a bunch of stuff down that I had no use for. "Move things from this side to the other, that's how you do Algebra." Nonsense.
I have since talked to a lot of other people, including Loyd, who said they had the same experience. It's true that public education can stifle brilliant minds by forcing them into mediocrity. I lost all interest in math after graduating from high school because I was able to receive automatic credit for my math requirements in college.
Okay, so I've gotten that out of my system. I now get to tell all about my Algebra II teacher. He was considered the most difficult and challenging teacher at the school. He had no qualms about failing you if you didn't do the work in his class.
He lived in Lovington, which was about 70 miles away from Artesia. He commuted to school every day on a motorcycle. In Lovington, he owned and operated a liquor store with his wife.
In addition to his reputation as a difficult teacher, he announced at the beginning of the year that we would make our way through the entire Algebra II text book. I was actually looking forward to this because as I have mentioned before, I never had a single class in high school or college in which we completed the book. He must have been aware of every other teacher in the district not completing their textbooks before school let out for the summer.
As it turned out, we wouldn't get to accomplish that feat. One day in the spring semester, the teacher didn't show up for class. We found out that the night before, somebody in the drive up window at the liquor store started talking at his wife in a threatening manner, so the teacher pulled out a gun, shot and killed that guy.
We were stunned. He was a rather mild-mannered person, so we had trouble picturing him gaining enough rage to want to kill someone. We wondered if he ever wanted to do that to any of his students.
From what I can recall, I don't think he was ever charged with the assault. I guess investigators determined it was justified (or that the victim was some jerk who deserved it).
We never saw him again. We know that he paid one more visit to the school to get his things because a little teacher statue he had on the shelf was missing a couple of weeks after the incident. When the yearbook came out the next semester, there were no photos of him included, even though he taught for more than half the school year.
He was replaced by the wife of another teacher who had just been hired that year at the high school. She had originally planned to just be available as an occasional substitute because she was pregnant, but got roped into working full time after it was apparent that he was not coming back. It's the only time I've ever had a teacher who was pregnant and gave birth during the school year.
The bad thing was that the original Algebra teacher was probably the best teacher I ever had, and I would have been able to put up with the knowledge that he killed someone. It would have been worth it to continue learning from him. (However, I am aware that most of the other students would never have felt comfortable being in his classroom.)
I first encountered Algebra when I was in the seventh grade. There were some problems that required us to determine what number should occupy the space represented by a letter of the alphabet. I was able to look at the problem and figure out right away what it was. When I handed the homework in to the teacher, he said that I had done it wrong and that I needed to show my work. "What do you mean, 'show my work?" I've got the answers right here!" He just re-iterated that I had to show my work.
When I got to Algebra I in the ninth grade, it was more of the same. It was very frustrating to have to write everything down, even though I had already come up with the answer beforehand. It's not like I was cheating and I had certainly proven myself capable of doing a lot of math in my head. I didn't like taking all that time to scribble a bunch of stuff down that I had no use for. "Move things from this side to the other, that's how you do Algebra." Nonsense.
I have since talked to a lot of other people, including Loyd, who said they had the same experience. It's true that public education can stifle brilliant minds by forcing them into mediocrity. I lost all interest in math after graduating from high school because I was able to receive automatic credit for my math requirements in college.
Okay, so I've gotten that out of my system. I now get to tell all about my Algebra II teacher. He was considered the most difficult and challenging teacher at the school. He had no qualms about failing you if you didn't do the work in his class.
He lived in Lovington, which was about 70 miles away from Artesia. He commuted to school every day on a motorcycle. In Lovington, he owned and operated a liquor store with his wife.
In addition to his reputation as a difficult teacher, he announced at the beginning of the year that we would make our way through the entire Algebra II text book. I was actually looking forward to this because as I have mentioned before, I never had a single class in high school or college in which we completed the book. He must have been aware of every other teacher in the district not completing their textbooks before school let out for the summer.
As it turned out, we wouldn't get to accomplish that feat. One day in the spring semester, the teacher didn't show up for class. We found out that the night before, somebody in the drive up window at the liquor store started talking at his wife in a threatening manner, so the teacher pulled out a gun, shot and killed that guy.
We were stunned. He was a rather mild-mannered person, so we had trouble picturing him gaining enough rage to want to kill someone. We wondered if he ever wanted to do that to any of his students.
From what I can recall, I don't think he was ever charged with the assault. I guess investigators determined it was justified (or that the victim was some jerk who deserved it).
We never saw him again. We know that he paid one more visit to the school to get his things because a little teacher statue he had on the shelf was missing a couple of weeks after the incident. When the yearbook came out the next semester, there were no photos of him included, even though he taught for more than half the school year.
He was replaced by the wife of another teacher who had just been hired that year at the high school. She had originally planned to just be available as an occasional substitute because she was pregnant, but got roped into working full time after it was apparent that he was not coming back. It's the only time I've ever had a teacher who was pregnant and gave birth during the school year.
The bad thing was that the original Algebra teacher was probably the best teacher I ever had, and I would have been able to put up with the knowledge that he killed someone. It would have been worth it to continue learning from him. (However, I am aware that most of the other students would never have felt comfortable being in his classroom.)
Thursday, May 8, 2014
Junior Year, 1st Period: Chemistry
My school days during 11th grade started with a class that I thought was going to be really difficult: Chemistry. I made it through Biology okay without having to work hard for my A. I was under the impression that science was going to bite me in the butt this year, but surprisingly, it didn't. If anything, Chemistry wound up being easier than Biology.
A lot of it had to do with the fact that our school had gotten a new Chemistry teacher who had previously worked at Sandia Labs in Albuquerque. For whatever reason, she decided to stop being a scientist, become a teacher and come to Artesia.
The old Chemistry teacher just sort of decided to stop working. He had been my homeroom teacher the year before. I don't know what happened. He was WAY too young to retire. In addition, he just stuck around Artesia. Several years after high school, he was visiting my Mom at her house. He didn't really remember having me in his homeroom class.
I don't know if we were being taught Chemistry improperly, but it did seem fairly simple on the surface, and there didn't seem to be anyone in the class who was having trouble with the material. But it didn't look like she was that good a teacher because she wasn't rehired for the next year. I do remember kind of slacking off during the last few weeks and was facing the possibility of getting a B for the semester. I asked her if she could just go ahead and make it an A, and she did just that. I guess she just wanted the students to like her. I probably wasn't the only student she did that for. Probably she didn't get rehired because she had too many students passing her courses.
One of the things she would do is, once a month, have food labs. Basically, during class, we would run to Safeway (which was near the school), buy some food and cook it on the bunsen burners. Then we would eat it. We didn't really learn anything those days.
So yes, I did the thing that virtually every Chemistry student has ever done. Once, during down time in class, another student and I got several of the bottles of chemicals and mixed them all together in a beaker. Nothing exploded. Then, we put a penny in the beaker and put it in a safe place. Three weeks later, We checked the beaker. The solution had turned dark green and had crystalized. On top of that, the penny was nowhere to be found. The teacher told us we shouldn't be doing stuff like that. That was probably the only time she ever got mad.
The teacher happened to have a daughter who was a sophomore at the school that year. Her name was Triz. She was very cute and very smart. I liked her, but I really didn't get much of a chance to know her because that meant I would have to get to know my teacher better and I didn't want to do that. I did ask Triz for a dance at Homecoming that year and she agreed. Oddly enough, I discovered that during first period, she occupied the same desk I sat at during my second period Algebra II class. That was the extent of my contact with her. I guess at some point during the year, I might have mentioned to my Mom how I had an interest in Triz (which was odd, because I learned a couple of years earlier I could never talk to my Mom about girls without her getting all excited over the prospect of me not being gay). After it was determined that the teacher wasn't returning, Mom told me that Triz would have like to have gotten to know me better. A missed opportunity. Well, I would have more of those later.
I guess I wasn't too inspired to focus more on Chemistry after high school. So much so, that when I was in college and HAD to take a science class, I took Biology instead of Chemistry. College Biology stunk because I had a professor who was even worse than my Chemistry teacher. I should have taken Chemistry. Maybe I would have gotten to mix more chemicals together and do some real damage.
A lot of it had to do with the fact that our school had gotten a new Chemistry teacher who had previously worked at Sandia Labs in Albuquerque. For whatever reason, she decided to stop being a scientist, become a teacher and come to Artesia.
The old Chemistry teacher just sort of decided to stop working. He had been my homeroom teacher the year before. I don't know what happened. He was WAY too young to retire. In addition, he just stuck around Artesia. Several years after high school, he was visiting my Mom at her house. He didn't really remember having me in his homeroom class.
I don't know if we were being taught Chemistry improperly, but it did seem fairly simple on the surface, and there didn't seem to be anyone in the class who was having trouble with the material. But it didn't look like she was that good a teacher because she wasn't rehired for the next year. I do remember kind of slacking off during the last few weeks and was facing the possibility of getting a B for the semester. I asked her if she could just go ahead and make it an A, and she did just that. I guess she just wanted the students to like her. I probably wasn't the only student she did that for. Probably she didn't get rehired because she had too many students passing her courses.
One of the things she would do is, once a month, have food labs. Basically, during class, we would run to Safeway (which was near the school), buy some food and cook it on the bunsen burners. Then we would eat it. We didn't really learn anything those days.
So yes, I did the thing that virtually every Chemistry student has ever done. Once, during down time in class, another student and I got several of the bottles of chemicals and mixed them all together in a beaker. Nothing exploded. Then, we put a penny in the beaker and put it in a safe place. Three weeks later, We checked the beaker. The solution had turned dark green and had crystalized. On top of that, the penny was nowhere to be found. The teacher told us we shouldn't be doing stuff like that. That was probably the only time she ever got mad.
The teacher happened to have a daughter who was a sophomore at the school that year. Her name was Triz. She was very cute and very smart. I liked her, but I really didn't get much of a chance to know her because that meant I would have to get to know my teacher better and I didn't want to do that. I did ask Triz for a dance at Homecoming that year and she agreed. Oddly enough, I discovered that during first period, she occupied the same desk I sat at during my second period Algebra II class. That was the extent of my contact with her. I guess at some point during the year, I might have mentioned to my Mom how I had an interest in Triz (which was odd, because I learned a couple of years earlier I could never talk to my Mom about girls without her getting all excited over the prospect of me not being gay). After it was determined that the teacher wasn't returning, Mom told me that Triz would have like to have gotten to know me better. A missed opportunity. Well, I would have more of those later.
I guess I wasn't too inspired to focus more on Chemistry after high school. So much so, that when I was in college and HAD to take a science class, I took Biology instead of Chemistry. College Biology stunk because I had a professor who was even worse than my Chemistry teacher. I should have taken Chemistry. Maybe I would have gotten to mix more chemicals together and do some real damage.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
My First Yearbook
One of the things that greeted me my junior year in high school was the first yearbook that included me in it. On the first day of school, I saw the yearbook teacher (who was also my English II S teacher from sophomore year) with a prototype. The yearbooks wouldn't be distributed for at least a couple of more weeks, but she had one in her hand. I asked to see it. She said she couldn't really show it to me, but I said I just wanted to see my individual picture.
In all the years that I had gone to school, I had always received notice the day before the photographer was going to be at the school to take class pictures. This allowed me to know that I needed to be cleaned up and dressed nicely so that I could take a good photo. However, that didn't happen during sophomore year. We all showed up on Monday and they ambushed us. There was no announcement ahead of time. They just started pulling us out of our English classes.
My sophomore year, I had gotten into a very bad habit of not washing my hair every single day. The reason being was that it took at least 15 minutes to blow-dry my hair. I didn't like wasting all that time, so I would just take a shower and hope that neither of my parents came upstairs to find I hadn't shampooed my hair. They typically left for their teaching jobs before I had to leave for school. Sometimes, I could completely avoid them in the morning.
Those first few weeks of high school, it really didn't matter how I looked at school, but I would have cared to know THAT WE WERE HAVING PICTURES TAKEN! I didn't even bother to look at the pictures when they were available a few weeks later, so it was almost a year before I saw it in the yearbook.
I was shocked to see how much of a loser I looked like. This yearbook photo was going to be my permanent record of my time in the 10th grade, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. Fortunately, by this time, I was a lot more hygenic in the morning and washed my hair every day.
Eventually, the yearbooks were passed out. On the bright side, there were other photos of me in the yearbook. I was in Choir and the Drama Club and was able to be present for those sessions. Although there was an issue with Traz, who took photos for the yearbook and was supposed to show up for the Choir's pop ensemble portrait. However, she flaked. By the time we were able to re-arrange the session, my glorious long hair had been shorn. I didn't look like myself, so much so that in the ensemble's group photo in the yearbook, someone else's name appeared on the photo, NOT MINE! Everytime someone gave me their yearbook to sign, I would cross out that name and put mine in. I wanted to make sure people knew that was me and not that twerp from band who had nothing to do with choir.
Most schools allow the seniors to submit photos that were taken by a professional for the yearbook. All the other underclassmen had to use the school photographer on the day they showed up to take pictures. However, our school was different in that the juniors were also permitted to use professionals. However, not all the juniors did that, and you could see the difference between the professional and the school pictures. (Some seniors also had to resort to using the school photographer for their yearbook photos. Those students must have been REALLY poor.)
But the thing that it feels like everybody pays attention to is the index. You want to see who has the most page numbers next to their name. My sophomore year, I probably had about four page numbers, even though I appeared in other photos in which I was not identified. Compare that to the alpha males and females who participated in all the sports and were listed on 20 or 30 pages. My numbers increased my junior and senior years, but still nowhere near that level.
There were a couple of strange things about the yearbook. Several of the seniors pictured were people I never remember seeing on campus. A classmate pointed at certain people and said, "I don't remember him, or him or her, but they were supposedly here the whole time! Where were they?" Seniors (with all their credits in order) got to take a period off, and many of them chose the first class, so that meant we never saw them before school.
Sadly, I no longer have my high school or my college yearbooks (in which I had even fewer photos). I had put them in this storage facility owned by my father along with a lot of other possessions (including my vinyl record collection). When he lost the property, he forgot all that stuff was there and the person who bought it took everything out to the landfill.
Personally, I never needed to look through those yearbooks again, but it stinks that I won't be able to show my son what I was like in high school. School yearbooks have a tendency to reflect that era of your life so well. I know what it was like to see my father's old yearbooks.
In all the years that I had gone to school, I had always received notice the day before the photographer was going to be at the school to take class pictures. This allowed me to know that I needed to be cleaned up and dressed nicely so that I could take a good photo. However, that didn't happen during sophomore year. We all showed up on Monday and they ambushed us. There was no announcement ahead of time. They just started pulling us out of our English classes.
My sophomore year, I had gotten into a very bad habit of not washing my hair every single day. The reason being was that it took at least 15 minutes to blow-dry my hair. I didn't like wasting all that time, so I would just take a shower and hope that neither of my parents came upstairs to find I hadn't shampooed my hair. They typically left for their teaching jobs before I had to leave for school. Sometimes, I could completely avoid them in the morning.
Those first few weeks of high school, it really didn't matter how I looked at school, but I would have cared to know THAT WE WERE HAVING PICTURES TAKEN! I didn't even bother to look at the pictures when they were available a few weeks later, so it was almost a year before I saw it in the yearbook.
I was shocked to see how much of a loser I looked like. This yearbook photo was going to be my permanent record of my time in the 10th grade, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it. Fortunately, by this time, I was a lot more hygenic in the morning and washed my hair every day.
Eventually, the yearbooks were passed out. On the bright side, there were other photos of me in the yearbook. I was in Choir and the Drama Club and was able to be present for those sessions. Although there was an issue with Traz, who took photos for the yearbook and was supposed to show up for the Choir's pop ensemble portrait. However, she flaked. By the time we were able to re-arrange the session, my glorious long hair had been shorn. I didn't look like myself, so much so that in the ensemble's group photo in the yearbook, someone else's name appeared on the photo, NOT MINE! Everytime someone gave me their yearbook to sign, I would cross out that name and put mine in. I wanted to make sure people knew that was me and not that twerp from band who had nothing to do with choir.
Most schools allow the seniors to submit photos that were taken by a professional for the yearbook. All the other underclassmen had to use the school photographer on the day they showed up to take pictures. However, our school was different in that the juniors were also permitted to use professionals. However, not all the juniors did that, and you could see the difference between the professional and the school pictures. (Some seniors also had to resort to using the school photographer for their yearbook photos. Those students must have been REALLY poor.)
But the thing that it feels like everybody pays attention to is the index. You want to see who has the most page numbers next to their name. My sophomore year, I probably had about four page numbers, even though I appeared in other photos in which I was not identified. Compare that to the alpha males and females who participated in all the sports and were listed on 20 or 30 pages. My numbers increased my junior and senior years, but still nowhere near that level.
There were a couple of strange things about the yearbook. Several of the seniors pictured were people I never remember seeing on campus. A classmate pointed at certain people and said, "I don't remember him, or him or her, but they were supposedly here the whole time! Where were they?" Seniors (with all their credits in order) got to take a period off, and many of them chose the first class, so that meant we never saw them before school.
Sadly, I no longer have my high school or my college yearbooks (in which I had even fewer photos). I had put them in this storage facility owned by my father along with a lot of other possessions (including my vinyl record collection). When he lost the property, he forgot all that stuff was there and the person who bought it took everything out to the landfill.
Personally, I never needed to look through those yearbooks again, but it stinks that I won't be able to show my son what I was like in high school. School yearbooks have a tendency to reflect that era of your life so well. I know what it was like to see my father's old yearbooks.
Monday, May 5, 2014
My Junior Year
Well, here I was. I had put my sophomore year behind me. Just two more years to complete my public education requirements and I would be on my way to college. I still had a long road ahead of me, but it hopefully won't be that long for you, the reader.
My junior year was my favorite year in high school, but it was also the same year that I reached the darkest depths of my mind and almost wasn't able to crawl my way out. It probably prepared me for my future as a loser that I had ahead.
There's a lot to look forward to this year: My involvement on the Student Council, my first job, another Drama Festival, more music festivals, another academic trip, my second job, and of course, several more unrequited crushes.
As I did my sophomore year, I'll go into detail about the classes I signed up for, but only the first four periods because I kept the same two classes, Choir and Drama, for fifth and sixth period all three years. The only difference was that for the Drama class, I couldn't really take it again, as it was a solid English credit. However, the school created a class called "Masquers" (after the name of the Drama Club) that took place in conjuction with the regular Drama class and was an activity credit. As I mentioned before, I was the only student who took the class three years in a row. After my senior year, they discontinued the Drama and Masquers classes, thus killing the school's theatre program.
Because I didn't have any girlfriends, I'll likely be able to get through my junior and senior years a lot more quickly than my sophomore year, but I do have plenty of other things to tell you about along the way. I hope you're able to tolerate it.
My junior year was my favorite year in high school, but it was also the same year that I reached the darkest depths of my mind and almost wasn't able to crawl my way out. It probably prepared me for my future as a loser that I had ahead.
There's a lot to look forward to this year: My involvement on the Student Council, my first job, another Drama Festival, more music festivals, another academic trip, my second job, and of course, several more unrequited crushes.
As I did my sophomore year, I'll go into detail about the classes I signed up for, but only the first four periods because I kept the same two classes, Choir and Drama, for fifth and sixth period all three years. The only difference was that for the Drama class, I couldn't really take it again, as it was a solid English credit. However, the school created a class called "Masquers" (after the name of the Drama Club) that took place in conjuction with the regular Drama class and was an activity credit. As I mentioned before, I was the only student who took the class three years in a row. After my senior year, they discontinued the Drama and Masquers classes, thus killing the school's theatre program.
Because I didn't have any girlfriends, I'll likely be able to get through my junior and senior years a lot more quickly than my sophomore year, but I do have plenty of other things to tell you about along the way. I hope you're able to tolerate it.
Friday, May 2, 2014
Camp RYLA
If my parents needed something done for their projects outside the home, they would typically enlist Loyd or me to do it. I previously detailed how my Mom roped me into being an escort for the DECA Sweetheart Pageant. My father also pulled this stunt.
Dad was in the local chapter of Rotary and at one point, served as President for a year. In 1980, Rotary Club chapters in New Mexico and West Texas decided to start a weeklong leadership camp to take place every summer in Glorietta, NM. My Dad "volunteered" me to represent Artesia The intent of Camp RYLA (Rotary Youth Leadership Achievement, I think that's what the A stood for) was to promote learning better leadership abilities among young men. But that wasn't what happened.
It became the usual battle between the Alpha and Beta Males, similar to what took place in high school all the time. Everything was fine at first, but once the determinations were made as to which class each person belonged in, it stopped being about leadership.
However, I have to admit I brought it on myself. This was one of those times I should have kept my mouth shut. I was trying to be the funny guy and wound up the strange outcast. On top of that, I was the youngest participant. Everyone else was going in their senior years. I was the only junior.
The camp featured a lot of speakers talking to us about aspects of leadership. The only one I remember was this one guy who did the Jesse Jackson chant. Aside from the presentations, there were team competitions and other sport-related activities. They had a shooting range. It is the only time in my life I have ever gotten to fire a handgun. I was lucky and got to shoot the only automatic pistol they had. I found out that while I had good aim with a rifle, I couldn't aim at all with a handgun. I guess I'm lucky that none of the other participants were crazy. It would have been real easy for someone to get a gun, turn around and shoot a few people.
A couple of funny things took place that week. For the softball tournament, they instituted the "one pitch" rule. This meant you got one pitch. If it was a strike, you were out. If it was a ball, you walked. If you hit the ball, it went into play. During the first round, we figured out the pitcher for our opponent couldn't really pitch, so none of us swung at the ball. We all got to walk. I actually got to score the first run. During the last inning, one of the batters connected and I actually caught the ball in the outfield and ended the game. But my hero status didn't last very long.
One day during lunch, I was doing something with my spoon. The next thing I knew, I no longer had it in my hand. Somehow, I had flipped it up and it went over to the table behind me and landed in someone else's food. He didn't seem too happy, but at least it didn't splatter food all over the place.
On the last day, Mom and Dad came to pick me up. I told them I had a good time. A week later, I had to make a presentation to the Rotary Club about what took place at the camp. I didn't go into the bullying, hazing and harassment. I wanted the members to feel like their money was well-spent.
Five years later, I got a piece of mail from Rotary. They wanted me to reflect back five years about my experience with Camp RYLA. This time, I told them everything that took place and how it wasn't very different from going to school, expect that there weren't any girls there.
Many years later, Loyd told me he was jealous that I got to go to that. I told him he didn't really miss much.
So, I was glad that I got another week away from my family, but I disliked how my high expectations for the camp were squashed by situations that I encountered every day at school.
Dad was in the local chapter of Rotary and at one point, served as President for a year. In 1980, Rotary Club chapters in New Mexico and West Texas decided to start a weeklong leadership camp to take place every summer in Glorietta, NM. My Dad "volunteered" me to represent Artesia The intent of Camp RYLA (Rotary Youth Leadership Achievement, I think that's what the A stood for) was to promote learning better leadership abilities among young men. But that wasn't what happened.
It became the usual battle between the Alpha and Beta Males, similar to what took place in high school all the time. Everything was fine at first, but once the determinations were made as to which class each person belonged in, it stopped being about leadership.
However, I have to admit I brought it on myself. This was one of those times I should have kept my mouth shut. I was trying to be the funny guy and wound up the strange outcast. On top of that, I was the youngest participant. Everyone else was going in their senior years. I was the only junior.
The camp featured a lot of speakers talking to us about aspects of leadership. The only one I remember was this one guy who did the Jesse Jackson chant. Aside from the presentations, there were team competitions and other sport-related activities. They had a shooting range. It is the only time in my life I have ever gotten to fire a handgun. I was lucky and got to shoot the only automatic pistol they had. I found out that while I had good aim with a rifle, I couldn't aim at all with a handgun. I guess I'm lucky that none of the other participants were crazy. It would have been real easy for someone to get a gun, turn around and shoot a few people.
A couple of funny things took place that week. For the softball tournament, they instituted the "one pitch" rule. This meant you got one pitch. If it was a strike, you were out. If it was a ball, you walked. If you hit the ball, it went into play. During the first round, we figured out the pitcher for our opponent couldn't really pitch, so none of us swung at the ball. We all got to walk. I actually got to score the first run. During the last inning, one of the batters connected and I actually caught the ball in the outfield and ended the game. But my hero status didn't last very long.
One day during lunch, I was doing something with my spoon. The next thing I knew, I no longer had it in my hand. Somehow, I had flipped it up and it went over to the table behind me and landed in someone else's food. He didn't seem too happy, but at least it didn't splatter food all over the place.
On the last day, Mom and Dad came to pick me up. I told them I had a good time. A week later, I had to make a presentation to the Rotary Club about what took place at the camp. I didn't go into the bullying, hazing and harassment. I wanted the members to feel like their money was well-spent.
Five years later, I got a piece of mail from Rotary. They wanted me to reflect back five years about my experience with Camp RYLA. This time, I told them everything that took place and how it wasn't very different from going to school, expect that there weren't any girls there.
Many years later, Loyd told me he was jealous that I got to go to that. I told him he didn't really miss much.
So, I was glad that I got another week away from my family, but I disliked how my high expectations for the camp were squashed by situations that I encountered every day at school.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Painting the House
I returned from my trip to Muncie, IN. It was the most intense week I had experienced up to that point in my life. Unfortunately, I had to return to reality to paint the house for the rest of the summer.
Really, there was no good reason we needed to paint the whole house. There were just a few scrapes here and there that could have just used a little touching up. No, Dad wanted to do the ENTIRE outside of the house. This was on top of our regular lawnmowing duties at the apartments. The entire summer was nothing but work.
Dad tried to start on the house the week I got back from Muncie, IN. However, that whole week of intense activity compeltely exhausted me and all I did was sleep about 16 hours a day. Dad was forgiving for that week, but after that, I had to get to work on the house.
We lived in a two-story house at the time. I'm not afraid of heights, but we just had the one tall ladder and it was very heavy. I once tried to lean it up against the house and it fell over backwards. Fortunately, I was skinny enough at the time that the rungs just went right around me. I was lucky I didn't hit any of our cars parked on the street.
The first thing we had to do was go all around the house and scrape off all the loose paint chips. Then we had to apply primer to where we scraped. It was like having to paint the house one. THEN, we applied the paint, so that meant I had to go around the house three times. In addition, I got plenty of yelling and screaming from Dad that I was doing it wrong. Honestly, I don't know what he was expecting. At the time, professional painters were making around $10 an hour. I don't know why he was wanting that level of workmanship when I was only getting paid $2 an hour.
One good thing that indirectly came out of this is that Mom and Dad decided they were going to get Loyd and me new beds. As a joke, I asked if I could have a water bed. As expected, Mom immediately said no. Then, a funny thing happened. She said, "Well, wait..." and asked my Dad if we could do that. I was about to tell them I was joking, but a voice inside my head said, "Keep your mouth shut! You're about to get what you want!" It's too bad that voice doesn't speak up more often.
Certainly enough, I actually got a water bed that summer. I couldn't believe it. I continued to use that bed throughout the rest of high school. However, I only ever got to spend time with one girl on it. (That won't come until much later in this blog. In fact, it's after I graduate from college.)
So yes, it was a summer hard at work, but it probably kept me from going out and driving all the time and getting into trouble. There would be plenty of opportunities for that later.
Really, there was no good reason we needed to paint the whole house. There were just a few scrapes here and there that could have just used a little touching up. No, Dad wanted to do the ENTIRE outside of the house. This was on top of our regular lawnmowing duties at the apartments. The entire summer was nothing but work.
Dad tried to start on the house the week I got back from Muncie, IN. However, that whole week of intense activity compeltely exhausted me and all I did was sleep about 16 hours a day. Dad was forgiving for that week, but after that, I had to get to work on the house.
We lived in a two-story house at the time. I'm not afraid of heights, but we just had the one tall ladder and it was very heavy. I once tried to lean it up against the house and it fell over backwards. Fortunately, I was skinny enough at the time that the rungs just went right around me. I was lucky I didn't hit any of our cars parked on the street.
The first thing we had to do was go all around the house and scrape off all the loose paint chips. Then we had to apply primer to where we scraped. It was like having to paint the house one. THEN, we applied the paint, so that meant I had to go around the house three times. In addition, I got plenty of yelling and screaming from Dad that I was doing it wrong. Honestly, I don't know what he was expecting. At the time, professional painters were making around $10 an hour. I don't know why he was wanting that level of workmanship when I was only getting paid $2 an hour.
One good thing that indirectly came out of this is that Mom and Dad decided they were going to get Loyd and me new beds. As a joke, I asked if I could have a water bed. As expected, Mom immediately said no. Then, a funny thing happened. She said, "Well, wait..." and asked my Dad if we could do that. I was about to tell them I was joking, but a voice inside my head said, "Keep your mouth shut! You're about to get what you want!" It's too bad that voice doesn't speak up more often.
Certainly enough, I actually got a water bed that summer. I couldn't believe it. I continued to use that bed throughout the rest of high school. However, I only ever got to spend time with one girl on it. (That won't come until much later in this blog. In fact, it's after I graduate from college.)
So yes, it was a summer hard at work, but it probably kept me from going out and driving all the time and getting into trouble. There would be plenty of opportunities for that later.
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