Back in the Saddle

I just recently had a friend write me and ask when I might be posting another blog entry.  In my traditional self-deprecating style, I had to admit that I didn’t realize anyone even noticed my blog, much less read its content.

However, just in case there are more of you wondering, or perhaps frothing at the mouth, waiting for a new blog entry (insert laughter here), I can tell you the reason for my two month absence has been a children’s novel I have been writing.  The title… ‘Flying Lessons.’  Now, while it may sound like a how-to manual for aircraft enthusiasts, it is actually the story of a ten year-old boy who is forced to come to terms with the death of his mother, an Air Force pilot, who shared her love of flying with her son.

I hope to have it published by this fall, or sooner, one way or another.  Anyway, for those of you who enjoy my blogging, I will be returning to a more regular schedule in the next few days as I pick up steam from my literary absence.  And to my friend, thank you for you kind thoughts!

Danger, Child at Play!

Most children manage to survive childhood without sustaining serious injury or wreaking too much havoc on their world.  And if children are injured or cause injury to others while playing, it’s usually because they were doing something risky, dangerous, or just downright stupid.  I, however, was not “most” children.  My risky activity…?  Flying a kite.

I mentioned earlier that my mother used to teach at a school for special needs kids in California.  Well, one bright spring day, Mike, a fellow teacher, was taking some of his students out into the school’s large parking lot to fly a kite and invited me to come along.  My mother approved, but knowing my track record, warned him to be extra careful with me.

“We’re just flying a kite,” scoffed Mike. “What could possibly go wrong?”  …Said Custer before the battle at Little Big Horn.

So, out we went for our kite-flying adventure.  I stood on the sidelines and watched as Mike and his students hoisted the kite on the wind and let the string out as it climbed into the cloudless blue sky.

Without warning, the wind shifted in my direction, and along with it, came the kite string, which was tightly stretched across the parking lot.  Suddenly, I saw Mike looking in my direction, waving his arms and shouting something unintelligible.  Naturally, since I couldn’t hear what was being said, I moved closer… and his eyes grew bigger.  Every step I took toward Mike added to his panic.   The last thing I remember seemed as if it happened in slow motion.  Mike yelling, “Nooooo!” and then a slashing pain that streaked across my throat as I made contact with the kite string.

Mike and some of his students came rushing over and quickly freed me from the stringy mess.  The next few minutes felt like an old episode of ‘Mission Impossible’ (insert theme song here) as Mike stealthily darted from classroom to classroom with me in tow, trying to get me to the school nurse and beg for medical attention before my mother found out and saw the large red string burn across my neck.

Alas, it was not to be.  My mother found us as we were ‘James Bonding’ our way across campus and, noticing my kite-flying battle scar, looked and Mike and uttered those four awful words that no one wants to hear… “I told you so!”

Stay tuned to this blog… I have more of these stories.

You’re His Mother?

I had a lot of energy to burn as a child.  Actually, that’s quite an understatement… a polite way of saying that I could drive a saint to alcoholism.  One of those people I nearly drove over the edge was a lovely lady named Beverly Bishop.  Beverly was the artistic director of a theatre company in Pasadena, California that, in addition to producing professional adult theatre, had a children’s theatre wing, giving opportunities to young people, like me.  

My mother enrolled me in a children’s production workshop with Beverly’s theatre to give me an outlet for my ‘creative’ and abundantly active imagination.  Once I became a member of this esteemed group of theatrical kids, I set my sights on having the time of my life.  Unfortunately, that meant the adults who ran the program, namely Beverly Bishop, had to be constantly on the move, chasing me in and out of every dark, cramped, and inaccessible passageway in the building.  

I rarely made my stage entrances on time because I was in a constant state of seeing what everyone else was up to, and when I was on stage, I often fell out of character, due to my fascination with everyone else’s stage prowess.  I wonder, now, if I ever was in character.  To my credit, learning lines was not a problem., but I have to wonder what the point was when I was rarely in the right place at the right time to speak them.  

Finally, the day came when the performances were given and all of the participants’ family and friends descended en mass into the little theatre to see our finely polished theatrical spectacular.  After one of the performances, my mother walked up to Beverly Bishop to introduce herself.  Ms. Bishop, apparently shocked by the sight of this lovely, young, petite lady, could only manage three words… “You’re his mother?”

You Have To Be Taught

If I’ve learned anything about little children in my life, it’s that they are a blank slate, a sponge ready to soak up any and all information presented to them.  As a kindergartener, I was no different.  I made friends quickly and easily, as most young children do, and when I did make a new friend, I was always excited to share the news. 

One day after school, I shared with my mother, the fact that I had made a new friend in school.  She was very happy and excited for me and asked me many questions about my new friend.  I began by telling her that she was a girl, and what her likes and dislikes were.  Then the conversation turned to what she looked like and whether I thought she was pretty.  I said that I thought so and began describing her.  

I described the details of her hair style, which was dark, short, and curly; I described what she was wearing that day, and then I told my mother that she had “dark skin, like a real dark tan.”  Naturally, my mother realized that my new friend was African-American.  She said, “Oh, you mean she’s black?”  I said, “No, just real, real dark.”  

When my mom and I discussed this story many years later, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that children are born with no knowledge of racial differences.  Society could debate until the cows came home, but I knew the truth, because it had happened to me.  I didn’t care what color my friend was, all I knew was that she was my friend and I liked her. 

To this day, almost 40 years later, I still keep that memory tucked safely away so that I will always remember that, as Oscar Hammerstein so eloquently wrote in the musical, South Pacific, “You Have to be Carefully Taught.”

Trick-or-Treat… Look Out!

I know it’s still early spring, but I had to share this story with you.  As the end of summer approaches every year, I begin to think about Halloween, one of my favorite holidays; that and the fact that I can start going outside again without my asbestos suit.  You have to remember that I live in Phoenix, Arizona.  Here in the desert, many of us view the end of summer the same way Minnesota residents view the spring thaw. 

When I think about Halloween, I think about the year that we hosted a big Halloween party at our house and invited all of my school friends… and Joey.  I was about nine years-old at the time and we had planned for everything, including a haunted walk through our back yard.  At the time, my mom was a foster parent to a little girl with Down syndrome, named Katherine.  This was Katherine’s first Halloween celebration and she was ready to party.  

One of the first activities we had planned was trick-or-treating, which was perfectly natural for a large mob of 6 to 10 year-old children.  So, off we went, all of us little ghouls and goblins, in search of zits, cavities, and the time of our young lives.  As we traveled from house to house, we noticed that Katherine was more excited than we anticipated, rushing around the neighborhood like a pinball with a death wish.  I use this odd expression because Katherine, at only four years-old, was just the right height to smack into anything that connected with her forehead or eyeballs.  Those things included the following: a doorknob, a car bumper, Darth Vader’s light saber, a child’s elbow, a fire hydrant, and finally, a trip through the rosebushes.   

No one could catch up with her; it was like chasing a dropped fire hose on full blast.  One of my mother’s co-workers, who had been watching the mayhem with winces and groans, finally managed to catch Katherine, and picking her up, physically took her from house to house to ensure that she had teeth with which to enjoy her candy. 

When we got back to the house and could see Katherine in the light, we were horrified.  She looked like a prisoner of war who’d been tortured for information.  Luckily, the most dangerous part of the evening was behind us.  All that lay ahead now was ice cream, cake, Halloween candy, and the much anticipated haunted walk through the Crowley back yard.   

So, off Katherine went, with ice pack, Bactine, and Band Aids, to enjoy the rest of her evening.  She was very happy, and so were we.

What I Learned from Mrs. Magee

You may recall in my earlier posting, My Imagination and Me, that I told you I occasionally had teachers who took exception with my imagination. I’d like to share a story with you about Mrs. Magee, a first grade teacher who not only disliked my imaginative tendencies, but disliked me personally. Now you may ask yourself, “How could anyone truly dislike a little six year-old child, especially a teacher?” Let me tell you, just like the trapeze artist flying through the air, this woman did it with the greatest of ease.

From what I can remember, it began with the weekly spelling tests. Our test papers had western themed graphics (cowboys, horses, etc.) printed on them and whenever I finished a test, I would draw a little cowboy way up in the corner of my paper. Now, as a young child, I didn’t realize what was happening, but I always received a grade of ‘F’ on my test, despite the fact that I spelled every word correctly. In addition, I would also receive very low grades in my quarterly report cards on all the rest of my subjects despite receiving mostly ‘A’ grades on all of my assignments.

Naturally, this didn’t add up, so during a scheduled parent-teacher conference, my mother inquired as to what was going on. Mrs. Magee hemmed and hawed, but had no real answers until it came out, during the course of the meeting, that I was the child of a single-parent adoption. Mrs. Magee’s manner changed from hostile to polite in the blink of an eye. She said to my mother, “He’s adopted? I didn’t realize. In that case, he won’t be getting anymore ‘Fs’ on his assignments.” What I could not have understood as a child was that Mrs. Magee thought I was the product of an illegitimate birth, and she was not about to treat one of those children with even a modicum of kindness or respect.

During the nearly six months I spent in Mrs. Magee’s classroom, I was the object of her discriminations on a daily basis. I would be picked last for any class activity, I received only leftovers or crumbs during class celebrations, such as birthdays, and she would encourage other children to tease and hit me.

On one particular day that is etched indelibly in my memory, I was coming out of the school restroom when another student kicked the door open from the other side, hitting me square in the forehead. I was thrown to the floor and nearly knocked unconscious. Naturally, I began to cry uncontrollably and a crowd of children gathered to see what the commotion was. Mrs. Magee arrived on the scene and the children told her what happened. Her response to me, “Why don’t you look where you’re going next time, stupid.”

 That was my last day in that school. I soon moved to another school where I stayed until we moved to Arizona in 1981. I don’t know what ever became of Mrs. Magee, but she taught me a lot… about hate… intolerance… and believe it or not… kindness. Because being on the receiving end of such discrimination is a difficult, but profound way to learn to love.