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What Would Socrates Do with a Coffee-Stained Philosophy Book?

27 May

This week in Books-A-Million with the girls, I dripped coffee onto a big, fancy philosophy book that I had no intention of purchasing. I brought up my mental moral code and flipped around for a minute and there it was on page twelve: “In a retail establishment, if you spoil a product you should show it to the proprietor and offer to purchase.”

I didn’t “break” the book and the stain wasn’t even on text, but it didn’t make sense to just throw it back on the shelf for someone else to discover. It was their only copy for chrissake!

Um, this wasn’t the first time either.

Before I updated my moral code in 2010, I did–I regret–return a stained book to its original spot on the shelf. My daughters weren’t around to guilt me into doing the right thing.

Who knows what kind of fury I unleashed on the world. Maybe someone else bought the book and never noticed the stain. But maybe someone was standing in line to buy it, saw the stain, and then made a scene in an attempt to have $5 knocked from the cost. Maybe this caused great distress to the employee who went home and took it out on her cat, Muffins, who, in turn, fell into a long-term malaise. You just can’t know these things.

They say “when a butterfly farts in Kentucky, it makes a monkey die of a heart attack in Delhi,” or something like that. Actually, that’s not even close to correct. Still, small decisions matter.

Socrates About to Drink the Hemlock

This time I wanted to turn it into a teaching moment, so I showed the girls what I’d done and declared proudly–with my right forefinger at my ear pointing towards the heavens, arm bent at ninety degrees–that I now had to buy the book.

“It’s just the right thing to do!” I thundered.

That night I was flipping through the book and–I don’t know if it was due to a sour mood or what–I thought “I could return this damn book without the girls even knowing.” This was also after I found out that it was $7 less on Amazon. The book just didn’t seem as awesome and my moral code was changing right before (or right behind) my eyes.

Then I turned the page and there was the receipt I thought I had thrown away. A sign? Maybe buying the book wasn’t the best thing to do. I mean, I didn’t even present the stain or my story to management. I’m sure they wouldn’t have forced me to buy the book. I had skipped an important step and messed up my teaching moment. Crap!

So as a certified neurotic, I’m torn. Part of me is screaming to return it and forget about it. I don’t enjoy wasting money and I hate clutter.

I can see Chloe picking up this old book in 2060 and tossing it into the “auction” box. Wow, I’m depressed now. 

* * * Begin Mini Rant Against Clutter * * *

In this country we keep upgrading our homes to accommodate more and more junk. Basement storage shelves overflow. Book cases sag from the weight. We rent storage sheds. We try to stop the inflow with yard sales. Then we’re old and forget what we have and then we’re even older and no longer care about what we have. We realize that the “stuff,” material possessions, never mattered that much. Then we die and our kids have to sort it all out. I’ve been on a fight against this trend for years.

* * *  End Mini Rant Against Clutter * * *

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Reading and Writing in Middle School

9 Jan

Chloe wrote a six page story for the annual Illinois Young Authors Program. This is her first paragraph:

Rayne slowly opened her bedroom door and glanced down the hallway to make sure that nobody was awake. Once she was positive, she slipped out of the small opening and silently walked down the hallway to the kitchen. She winced as her heavy feet made creaking sounds on the old wood floors. When she got to the kitchen she grabbed her blue jacket from the hook, putting it over her blue jeans and green t-shirt. Then Rayne opened the back door and walked into the night.

Last year in her fifth grade parent-teacher meeting, we had asked–after hearing nothing but positives–what area she could use improvement.

Writing.

And that didn’t surprise me. I thought the same thing when I read her early-year essays.

But I’m astonished at how her writing has improved since then. One explanation is the amount of reading she’s done. That girl loves to read. Wow, just writing that sentence fills me with joy. Let me write it again. That girl loves to read. Thanks for allowing me to fill myself with joy twice. I take credit for a portion of that love of the printed word. One, she see’s me reading every day. Also, since, well, forever, I have preached on the joys and importance of reading and warning of the dangers of watching too much television. Read all you want. Watch television with moderation. That’s the message I’ve been sending to both kids.

Nothing can improve one’s writing more than one’s reading; they go hand in hand. And I think her interest in writing increased as she read more. At the end of fifth grade, she won  honorable mention, which amounted to second place, on an essay she wrote about the importance of education. It even came with a prize–twenty dollars.

Inject a kid with some self-confidence and watch them grow. Maybe that essay was the beginning. Yesterday she asked if she needed to go to college to be an author. I said no, but it definitely helps. This was after I told her how much college she’d have to attend to become a veterinarian.

When I read her story, my first thought was her previous work. From kindergarten to fifth grade, they also illustrate their books. The drawing takes up most of the space and there’s a line or two of text. Even last year, after I suggested more of an involved story, she turned in a picture book. This year, before I knew she’d begun, she emerged from her bedroom with a stack of handwritten pages.

Beyond writing, I’ve also noticed how her work habits have changed. Fifth grade brought very little homework compared to what she’s doing now. Before, I had to get on her a bit to do her homework, but this year, after raiding the kitchen for fruit after school, she gets to work without a word from me. Yesterday, she worked all day on her “mummy sarcophagus” project . . . and with no complaints.

Dammit, there’s only one explanation: she’s growing up.

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Reading Cat Fancy Magazine Does NOT Shrink Your Wiener

7 Nov
Here’s to self-confidence and not giving a crap about what other people think of you.

As my wife and I hovered at the back door, gathering our coffee shop paraphernalia, I stopped and stared at the magazine I was about to stuff into my messenger bag (Don’t call it a purse, dammit). The weekend buzz of Sacred Grounds means tackling War and Peace is out of the question. I needed something light, easy to read, a magazine, but–this?

I subscribed to three magazines to help my oldest daughter raise money for her school. I signed up for Running Times, Bicycling, and–Cat Fancy. It makes sense: we have two awesome cats, two awesome daughters who love cats, and now a magazine dedicated to caring for and celebrating cats of all shapes, colors, and sizes. Yes, it was Cat Fancy I was hesitating to take to the coffee shop.

I’m in a lifelong fight to rid myself of quirks like this: being embarrassed to be seen in a hip coffee shop reading a magazine like Cat Fancy. I’m still evolving. But now, in the current version of me, do I really want the regulars–people I see over and over, but don’t talk to–to see me prance in with the latest edition of Cat Fancy? Okay, I don’t prance, but that word sure does fit with “fancy.”

I prance around in my fancy pants, reading my Cat Fancy.

Sacred Grounds is full of people who seem to be unaffected by self-consciousness. A guitar sits in the corner. I let it continue to sit. Other people–cool, hip people I suppose–are always strumming away on that thing like they’re in their own living room. These people would be comfortable walking in naked with my Cat Fancy taped to their face and a recent back issue folded into makeshift underwear. If you get close enough, it’s obvious they don’t care about the strange odors wafting from their bodies either. That’s what I’m aiming for: naked, stinky, and confident.

I tossed my Cat Fancy back on the shelf.

Okay where’s that damn issue of Men’s Journal I saw lying around here last week? Did we recycle that?

I think “real” men read Guns & Ammo or Field & Stream, right? Well, this guy thinks those magazines are for sissies. I read this new magazine–one so new you probably have never heard of it. It’s called I rip raw flesh from freshly killed deer with my teeth magazine.

And “real” men build things. Big things. Very. Big. Things. With their bare, calloused hands. Grrr.

I read Cat Fancy. With thin gloves. Because it gets a little drafty in here. Prrr.

Still, isn’t it impressive that I can admit this stuff online for anyone to read? I’m learning and growing every stinkin’ day. It’s fantastic. I also have been known to read Yoga Journal, Health, Spirituality & Health, and Whole Living–all targeted to women.

If you’re in need of some help like me, check out some articles that deal with building self-confidence #1 #2 #3. And please, ignore the worn stereotypes; the term “a real man” is meaningless. The healthiest of men go both ways (not like that). They feel equally confident chopping wood as they do afterwards when they settle into their favorite, cozy chair to knit a scarf.

Be well awesome people.

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The Evolution of Me, or, How I Used to Watch Football

16 Jan

I tried to watch my first football game of the season last night. I mean, it IS the playoffs. I turned on the TV, adjusted the antenna, and sat down to watch the Atlanta Falcons play the Green Bay Packers. It kind of brought back the thrill I remember of seeing the great catch, or the long kick-off return, the hard hit, whatever, but I couldn’t make it through. I turned it off at halftime to read.

Years ago, I didn’t have to think about it, it was a given that I was going to watch the Chicago Bears every week (and probably the Monday night game no matter who was playing) and definitely all the playoff games. It was just what guys are supposed to do, right? I got bored watching last year’s Super Bowl; that never happened before. I sat on the couch with a book to read during the commercials (yeah, I know, the commercials are an event in themselves, but they’re still just commercials, large corporations trying to sell us shit we don’t need) and I watched at first, but as the Super game wore on, and it turned into something not-so-super, I read more and watched less.

I used to watch tons of baseball too. For three consecutive years, I have purchased the right to watch any out-of-market baseball game online. Each year, it turns out to be a colossal waste of money because I will watch a few games in April and then forget about the rest of the loooong season (Major League Baseball loves me). But, at any point between April and October, I will know how the Cubs are doing, who’s sucking, who’s not, etc. I use the internet to follow the game, but it takes up too much time to watch.

As a kid, when the Cubs would play a game on the west coast, I couldn’t stay up to watch and then the next morning the score wouldn’t be in the newspaper either because it was too late for them to report on it. It drove me crazy that I couldn’t find out the results until THE NEXT morning.

I used to watch tons of basketball too, the Fighting Illini, the Bulls, whatever was on. Then I would devour the NCAA tournament in March and then the NBA playoffs, which drag on until summer. I haven’t watched a college basketball game since North Carolina beat Illinois in the title game in 2005.

I used to watch tennis, stock car racing, hockey. Now, you would have to walk into our house with a gun, tie me up, and force me to watch that stuff. And if it’s golf, you’re gonna hafta prop my eyes open with toothpicks. Or just shoot me.

In a couple of hours, the Bears are playing the Seahawks. It’s a Sunday afternoon, NFL playoff game with the team I’ve been watching since the age of ten.

Will I be watching?

Not sure yet.

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LARGE PRINT & Tiny Books Both Suck

14 Jan

Last night in my jammy whammies while I wished for sleep, I was in the grip of the 2009 book  Columbine, written by Dave Cullen. This guy spent 10 years–it shows!–researching and writing this fascinating book about the April 20, 1999 school shooting at Columbine High School. But I’m not writing about the book or the shooting.

I stopped looking at the clock because I didn’t want to be frightened by how late it was. Ideally, I read from 9 to 10:30. It was way past that when I put the book down and lay there thinking about blood and guns.

I read 200 pages. Impressive? Not really. We’re always ordering books through our public library system and making the mistake of ordering the LARGE PRINT version. It takes careful attention to make sure you’re not getting the audio book on CD (sometimes that’s what I’m after, though) or, even worse if it’s an old book, the audio book on cassette. What the hell am I going to do with that?

Usually it’s Jennifer who orders the LARGE PRINT books and I unmercifully make fun of her for it.

Ha Ha, you’re 90 and blind you need LARGE PRINT You have to turn the page every 5 seconds and your book is three feet thick Ha Ha.

Yeah, I am that annoying.

Last night she walked into the room, noticed the gigantic floor to ceiling print and before she could utter a word (make fun of me) I said “Yeah, I know, I pulled a Jennifer.”

Even the library clerk, a hulking, odd-looking young man, had to comment on the text size. Whoa, large print is all he said. I said What? I ordered the large print? Then he told me that it was a good book and told me a little bit of why he thought that.

Five or so years ago I ordered the late Richard Carlson’s Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff–and it’s all small stuff from Amazon and eagerly awaited its arrival. I open the box, removed some of the packing stuff, and thought they had shipped me an empty box. What a disappointment. I turned it upside down and a microscopic “book” fell out. I had mistakenly ordered some kind of abridged pocket book. Again, what the hell am I going to do with that?

I sent that thing right back to Amazon. Or did I? I just received a vision, or memory, of–and I don’t know why I would do this–throwing the worthless thing in a box destined for Goodwill. It cost, like, five bucks.

Tiny-ass book

Another time I ordered a non-fiction book about I-can’t-remember-what from the library and, in horror, watched the librarian pull a giant children’s book off of the hold shelf for me. The words were twice the size of the LARGE PRINT book I tackled last night. I guess I was embarrassed because I didn’t tell her I had made a mistake, but still tossed the book in the outside drop-off box as I left.

What a crazy world of extremes we live in where books are sometimes teeny-weeny (in a blink I lose the dang thing in the folds of a sheet) or sometimes gigantic (I’m knocked out by it when I fall asleep reading).

I just want to hang out somewhere in the middle where I’m safe.

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The Young Boy and the Lake

6 Sep

Last week, I read Hemingway’s novella, The Old Man and the Sea.

It was odd reading it because I feel Hemingway was writing about me years before I was born. I am Santiago, but a much younger one. My family kept a little cabin on Pana Lake and I did a lot of fishing in the summers. At night I would bait 15 to 20 poles and strategically place them all over our property as well as our neighbor’s, up and down the bank. The big fish came in to feed at night and the stupid little bluegills would go hide or go play poker or something. I don’t know where they would go, but during the day that was all I could ever catch–no chance of catching anything big during the day. Stupid bluegills.

I would wake early to check the lines. There are two more differences between Santiago and me. He went way out to see to catch a great marlin and I stayed on the bank of a tiny lake to catch a comparatively tiny catfish. Though my dad did tell me that there were “fish as big as you in this lake.” I remember being full of excitement in the mornings. I thought about what kind of monster fish I had snagged and were just waiting for me to land. Also, mornings were pretty cool because mom let me drink coffee when we were staying at the cabin. At home I drank Kool-Aid and milk. At the cabin, I was a man. I probably grew hair on my chest each summer from drinking that coffee. That’s what my great grandma used to say about coffee. And yes, I do remember standing before the bathroom mirror looking for signs of hair activity. Santiago probably had much hair on his chest.

I baited so many hooks because it was hard to snag a great fish when you were asleep in the cabin. With each additional line, my chances of success grew. I had to count on stupid fish that would just hook themselves. I reeled in line after line to find empty hooks. On most mornings that’s all I would find–empty hooks. One morning I caught my monster fish. It wasn’t an 1800 pound marlin. It was a carp and we didn’t weigh it but it may have been a seven pounder. It put up a fight, not for hours, but it did take a good three minutes to land (it was tired, no doubt, from struggling all night while I slept). It did not bloody my hands or wear me out. From experience, I knew right away that I wasn’t dealing with an empty hook–I had an actual fish on the line. For those three minutes I had visions of what a great fish I was about to land. A fish as big as me!

We weren’t prepared to keep a large fish, so I remember that, first, it went into a 5 gallon bucket and then into a large, broken wire and wood fish cage that we quickly repaired to that it could not escape. Just like Santiago who was not prepared for such a large catch. He had to carry the fish strapped alongside his boat. Sharks eventually devoured Santiago’s marlin and my carp somehow escaped from the cage. Same story. So weird.

When Santiago returned home, he had a head and tail and many feet of bare bones. I remember a different day from my childhood when I had a single fish on a stringer off the shore. I don’t remember why I kept this fish. It seems mean to keep a fish I had no intention of cleaning. Anyway, I remember checking on it one morning and finding nothing but a head, tail, and bare bones. This was a shock to me. I had never seen such a thing. I almost had a heart attach (rare for such a young lad). I ran to show my dad and he said a snapping turtle must have gotten a hold of it. Not sharks.

Santiago collapsed upon returning from his trip. He was exhausted. After checking my lines I would go play on the big tree swing, finish my coffee, or throw rocks into the lake. Once in awhile I would be exhausted from all of that and would have to go take a nap. I don’t know where Santiago ends and I begin.

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