Lessons I’ve learned through the school of hard knocks. This is my catch-all, miscellaneous category if you will, where I address topics that don’t quite fit into the other categories.
I’ve had inquiries as to my whereabouts lately. Well, I’m still here! I’ve just been so busy correcting compositions and whatnot this semester. But I’ll be free in two weeks and back to writing my blog again. I suppose my last entry didn’t help any since I did talk about my visit to the doctor for a checkup. The test results proved that I was as healthy as I’ve always been. Life goes on.
I’m hungry. But I’m on the way to the doctor today to get an echo something or other to kind of test on my heart when I realize that I’m hungry because I forgot to eat earlier. I pull into White Castle because it’s the only “restaurant” near the doctor’s office. Well, since I’m going to the doctor anyway, why not have a few sliders? The reason the doctor recommended the test was because I went for a physical and he recommended an EKG in his office. It was quite painless until he read the results–you know that chart that just has a bunch of squiggly lines. He spotted an “event” in those lines. He said it could be nothing, but I should take another test just to be sure I was healthy. I wondered if my diet contributed to my “event.” I only worry about these things whenever I go to the doctor. However, I haven’t worried about this for years because I couldn’t remember the last time I went to the doctor. I know I stopped going quite a few years ago when my family physician died of a heart attack.
Anyway, a man–I didn’t even know his official title–did an ultrasound of my heart in the doctor’s office. He wanted to know why I was having this test done and I told him about the “event” that could be nothing at all. Well, he told me that a cardiologist would look at the pictures of my heart and then determine if I had any problems. This ultrasound guy gave me his unofficial opinion; he didn’t see anything wrong with my heart. So, I worried for nothing about taking the test. I probably took it for nothing, but I felt comforted by the fact that I have health insurance. Suddenly, I didn’t feel so guilty about eating those sliders.
When I was in grade school, we used construction paper for just about every art project. I’m reminded about this because my son Adam was working on a school project and was coloring white sheets of paper with a purple marker. If he would have asked me for advice, I would have brought out an aging pad of construction paper that I’ve had for years (mainly because my sons never think of using construction paper) in order to speed up his project. Could it be that because he’s been trained to do many homework assignments on the computer he no longer thinks of using his dear old dad’s techniques? On the plus side, he has become very independent and he is intelligent enough not to need my help for his homework very often.
When I was in grade school at Holy Cross, art class was a very special time of day. If a student misbehaved, he or she was deprived of participating in art class and would have to sit in the corner with his head placed down in his or her folded arms for the duration of art class. And take it from me, that was no fun at all.
Okay, okay, I was deprived of art class one time or two or three, but I was framed! Each and every time! When we had art class, we always–I do mean always always–started with one sheet of construction paper. Usually, it was manila-colored, but for those special art projects we could get several sheets of construction paper–each a different color!
I remember one class, Sister Francine told us told us to hold the sheet of construction paper–I can still smell it!–vertically. Meaning standing up and not lying down. She even showed us the sheet of construction paper in the upright position from the front of the classroom and then she walked between every aisle between all the desks to ensure that every third grader in the class had the construction paper in the correct position. I was certain that the health and wellbeing of every American citizen depended upon our completing our art project successfully because Sister Francine’s face reddened every time she observed a student with the construction paper in the wrong position.
Finally, every student had the paper vertically in front of them on the desk, including Claudia who sat next to me. Sister Francine then instructed us to fold the paper vertically, from left to right. Not from right to left, but left to right. She repeated several times, in such a stern voice that I thought I would crack from the tension that was building up in the classroom. But lo, I correctly folded my sheet of construction paper in half vertically, as instructed, and I even passed Sister Francine’s eagle-eyed inspection. I was spared from her wrath for the moment. However, she turned to Claudia and Sister Francine blew a gasket! Claudia had folded her construction paper–not vertically–but horizontally! Widthwise instead of lengthwise! Much to Claudia’s embarrassment, Sister Francine led her up to the front of the classroom to show her construction paper folded horizontally. She was the only student who could not–no would dare to defy a direct order from Sister Francine–follow instructions.
I don’t even remember what art project we did that day, but I do remember how badly Claudia felt. Now that I think of it, why did I like art class so much?
Nothing, and I do mean absolutely nothing, ever goes exactly as I planned. Sometimes that’s a good thing. I guess I’ve been lucky in that regard most of my life. But this time I was caught off guard.
A few months ago, I received an e-mail from the Chicago Dramatists announcing a playwriting contest, so of course, I entered a play. I figured they would read it and then I wouldn’t win the contest anyway, but I felt compelled to at least enter the contest. I was totally prepared not to win.
I have been writing this play since 1982 and someday I will actually finish writing it. But since it’s almost finished, I decided to submit it to the contest anyway. As luck would have it, I was able to edit it once more and submit it in the appropriate pdf format by the deadline. I knew this because I received an e-mail confirmation that my play had been received and entered into the contest.
However, two days later, I received another e-mail stating that the contest had been canceled due to a lack of funds by the organization. I didn’t even have the opportunity of waiting until May when they would announce the winner, even though I wouldn’t have won anyway because that’s how my luck runs. However, I didn’t even have the time to fantasize for months about not winning the contest. I was deprived of this indulgence in which I like to wallow. Sniff!
Let us now reflect on the true meaning of Christmas! What does Christmas mean to me? I usually don’t think about the meaning of Christmas because my thoughts are often deflected from its true meaning by our capitalistic, commercial consumerism. Yesterday, I was in McDonald’s with my sons when I happened to notice a Christmas tree next to an ATM. Or, was the ATM next to the Christmas tree? So what came first? The Christmas tree or the ATM?
This rhetorical question was such a poser that I couldn’t focus the camera while shooting this Christmas scene reminiscent of almost every Christmas that I recall since I was a boy. Or maybe it was a sign of some sort. I shot this picture four times and each one was blurry. I posted the clearest one. 😦
The ATM has been there a few years now. I’ve actually been going to this McDonald’s for about thirty years. And I still live to tell the story. When I saw the ATM, I thought, “Why couldn’t I get an ATM for Christmas? Whose lap would I have to sit on for an ATM?” Actually, I would rather not know.
Chicago USA 