Mrs. Wade — My first grade teacher. I think this woman was my first love. I was a year younger than my classmates, but she never treated me any differently. She had hair the color of autumn leaves, perfect for the beginning of the school year, and was just plump enough to be cute and cuddly. She always greeted us with a smile and a hug, two things I wasn’t so used to seeing on a daily basis. And she always spoke with excitement and enthusiasm, no matter what we were studying.

Mrs. Stone — My second grade teacher. Talk about a wake-up call. She was by far the meanest woman I had ever met, at least at that point. I’m not sure how old she was, but to a six-year-old, gray hair = pretty darn old. She barely smiled, often spoke with a hateful, bitter tone, and just flat out did not like hyper little boys. I can’t hardly remember one single lesson she taught us, but I do remember being told to “Sit down” and “shut up” a few times. I had a weak stomach in second grade and I remember she was reading us a story. I suddenly felt as if I were going to vomit. I begged and pleaded to go to the restroom, or even the trash can, without luck. So, after a few minutes of no longer being able to wait, I walked to the front of the room, turned to Mrs. Stone, and vomited on her shoes. Believe it or not, she didn’t even flinch. She stared at her feet, stared at me, mumbled a bitter-sounding, “Well…” and pointed to the door. I sat in the back of the room near the bathroom for the rest of the year.

Mr. Copley — My fourth grade teacher and the first teacher who became a close friend as I grew up. He was funny, taught class in an interactive and engaging way, and I could really tell he cared about us. He was a portly gentleman with a full beard and an infectious smile. Once, while working on an assignment, I could not settle down. He called me to his desk, wrapped his arms around me tightly, and asked, “Do you know what I’m doing? I’m squeezing the meanness out of you. Is it working?” I smiled and mumbled, “Nope.” We laughed together and when I returned to my seat, I was settled (at least until the next day). Mr. Copley was also the first teacher to inspire me to write. A few years ago, Mr. Copley died in a motorcycle accident. I found out about it well after it happened, so I did not get to say goodbye. Thank you, Mr. Copley, for being the first teacher I could also call “friend”.

Mrs. Priddy — My elementary school phys ed teacher. Though I’ve never been athletic, I have always been fond of exercise if it were fun and active. Mrs. Priddy was the most dynamic phys ed teacher I have ever had, back when phys ed was fun and it was okay to jump around and do your own thing, to make physical activity like a game rather than a sport. In middle school, all we did was play a lot of basketball and do some warm-ups before. In Mrs. Priddy’s class, we jumped through hoops, tossed giant balls back and forth, pretended to me riding horses, spun around in circles, flapped our arms like giant birds, all for the sake of physical activity. I see her often today and I am sure she is proud of me and my unique physical abilities. Thank you, Mrs. Priddy.

Mrs. Racer — My ninth grade English teacher. After two years of misery in junior high, I finally found a teacher I could really enjoy. She incited my love for literature and writing and made me into a devoted fan of Stephen King. She was one of the boldest, most out-of-the-box teachers I have ever known and became one of my good friends after I graduated. I remember she would close her door and read forbidden Stephen King stories to us because they were good literature. She was even brave enough to read most of The Stand to us. I was a depressing mess in ninth grade, often wishing my life could end soon and quickly, and she filled me with confidence every day by giving me a safe place where I knew I could express myself without fear of judgment or humiliation. I came to her room often, crying about whatever was bothering me that day, and she would encourage me to hold strong, chin up. And, of course, my struggles were encouraged to be the topic of my writing. She is my greatest inspiration as a teacher and I strive to be as inspiring to my students as she was to me.

Mr. Miller — My high school Biology teacher. Mr. Miller was a hard-edged, strict science teacher who taught with a slight, old-fashioned, southern African-American accent, in which he said words like “particularily”. He ate grapes on a daily basis because he believed the made you smarter, and took science and learning very seriously. he had a reputation for being the strictest and most difficult teacher in the school. The most exciting aspect of his class, though, was that students had to do 4 dissections. I loved science (still do) and was looking forward to the chance to cut open some animals. Our first dissection was a crayfish. At the beginning of class, trays were on every desk with a crayfish already lying on top, with various dissecting tools next to the tray. Mr. Miller handed out a sheet with squares, and each square was labeled. Our goal was to remove the parts, place them on the correct square, and he would come around with a clipboard and give us a grade. All grades would be posted on the wall with student ID #s the next day. “Be sure to put youh name on youh papuhs,” he said, as we enthusiastically began to cut open the crayfish. I had studied the crayfish’s anatomy extensively and I was ready for this. As I worked, Mr. Miller wandered from desk to desk, mumbling things like, “Good, good,” as he nodded, or he shook his head, frowned, and mumbled, “Mmm, mmm, mmm.” I knew I was going to get a nod and a “good, good.” As he finally reached my desk, he glanced at it briefly, raised his eyebrows, and said, “Huh.” Huh? The next day, grades were posted: 0 out of 200. How? What did I do wrong. I respectfully approached Mr. Miller at the end of class. “Did I get every one wrong or something?” He grinned. “Nope, you actually got them all right. But ye didn’t put youh name on youh papuh.” I was crushed, but I learned a valuable lesson. I passed his class with a “B”, the highest in my class.

Dr. Stuart McGehee — The greatest college history professor I have ever known. Dr. McGehee is one of the most loved and talked about professors at West Virginia State University. With an encyclopedic knowledge of history and a wit unmatched by any other history professor, McGehee’s class is guaranteed to get students back into history again. His primary form of teaching is lecture, but his contagious enthusiasm and excellent speaking skills make it easy to forget you have sat through an hour lecture on the Louisiana Purchase. But don’t let his teaching fool you. McGehee is also a very serious scholar who expects the same from his students. Tardiness is inexcusable. Attendance is mandatory. And his tests? Mostly short answer and essay questions. But my love for history was rekindled during Dr. McGehee’s class.

Dr. Juris Lidaka — By far the funniest and most intelligent professor I have ever had, Dr. Lidaka is a true scholar, with thick-lens glasses and a shiny bald head. He spends his weekends in a library, translating ancient languages and studying various topics related to English history and linguistics. I had never even heard the word “linguist” before I met Dr. Lidaka. I took three classes from Dr. Lidaka and they all began the same. He warned us about his exams, stating that no one would receive an “A” and most of us would not even pass. Then, he proceeded to point out his vision problem, a lazy eye that could be distracting if you were not careful. “Sometimes, you’ll think I’m looking at you, but I’m actually looking over there. And sometimes, you’ll think I’m looking over there, but I am in fact looking at you.” He had the most atrocious hand writing I have seen from any professor, and he addressed this, as well. “If you ask me to translate my handwriting, I will begin to speak to you in an obscure foreign language of my choice, because while my handwriting is messy, it is written in English.” This is also the same professor who, during a discussion about the Venerable Beade, warned us not to refer to him as “Venereal Disease”. While Lidaka’s tests were really difficult and required time in the library, his classes really motivated us to be scholars ourselves.

So that’s it. I’m sorry it’s such a long list. I actually have about three more professors I could write about. There’s just something quirky and eccentric about a the best college professors that makes them so legendary. Thanks for bearing with me.

Why can’t I have that same attitude with this blog?  I just realized I haven’t posted anything since September.  It’s not that I haven’t had time, or that I don’t have anything to write about (quite the opposite, actually).  It’s just… like that friend you meant to call, but every time you looked at the number, some mental block kicked in and you put it off until later… and later… and later.  I’ve never been able to explain that.  I love all of my friends and would jump at the opportunity to spend some time with any of them, but for some reason I neglect to call them.  And they must feel the same somehow because they don’t call me either.

Since September, I must have checked my blog several times a week, and I always glanced at the “Write” tab, and then logged off without doing anything.  Why?  Not sure.

Regardless, I’m back, visiting an old friend.  I bought a pair of hiking boots, looking forward to a beautiful summer, and a pair of Converse All Stars, looking forward to some 80s style dance moves this spring (long story).  I’ll do my best to post when I can, to keep from ignoring the “Write” tab, and hope to hear from some readers soon.

I did a search on one of my favorite parks, Kings Island, and found a page that shows how the names of the roller coaster have changed.  I think I mentioned in a previous post that Paramount was no more, so the new owners dropped the movie names.  This is what they came up with:

I know how much some people love to watch political debates.  I personally hate them.  Too often, the conversation steers away from the topics and onto how much the candidates hate each other.  So, how to get my healthy dose of debating and arguing?  Movie reviews.

Think about it.  The reviews are almost always on topic and if you read enough reviews of the same movie, you get a nice argument between people who love the movie and people who hate it.

For example, I was browsing reviews for the movie Surf’s Up (It was on, I was bored).  A lot of the reviews complimented the movie’s script and its creative mockumentary style.  There were also some rave reviews from people who loved penguins, surfing, and John Heder.  However, I stumbled onto this hilarious little gem from flixster.com that just made my day:

“HORRIBLE. Lets put together two things I am sick of: Reality TV and Penguins…F. ME. CAn I give it 0 stars?”

Not that I agree with his review, but it was just really funny to me that it followed one that said, “The mockumentary stuff is really very well done,” and right above one that says, “incorporating the mockumentary film style with the animation genre was just brilliant.”

This just reminds me of going to see a movie with a big group of friends.  Inevitably, someone in your group is going to hate it when everyone else loves it, or vice versa.  The car trip home is unforgettable because no one stops talking (or arguing) about the movie.  That’s why I love movies so much.  I just don’t think I’m at that stage in my life where I can argue about politics without getting a headache and wanting to scream until my lungs explode.  But movies, I could go on and on.

Try it some time.  Go see a movie with some friends and argue about it as long as possible.  You’ll feel better and I’ll bet your appreciation of the movie will skyrocket.

Until later — “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

Algazi, Alvarez, Alpern, Ametrano, Andrews, Aran, Arnstein, Ashford, Bailey Ballout, Bamberger, Baptista, Barr, Barrows, Baskerville, Bassiri, Bell, Bokgese, Brandao, Bravo, Brooke, Brightman, Billy, Blau, Bohen, Bohn, Borsuk, Brendle, Butler, Calle, Cantwell, Carrell, Chinlund, Cirker, Cohen, Collas, Couch, Callegher, Calcaterra, Cook, Carey, Cassell, Chen, Chung, Clarke, Cohn, Carton, Crowley, Curbelo, Dellamanna, Diaz, Dirar, Duncan, Dagostino, Delakas, Dillon, Donaghey, Daly, Dawson, Edery, Ellis, Elliott, Eastman, Easton, Famous, Fermin, Fialco, Finklestein, Farber, Falkin, Feinman, Friedman, Gardner, Gelpi, Glascock, Grandfield, Greenbaum Greenwood, Gruber, Garil, Goff, Gladwell, Greenup, Gannon, Ganshaw, Garcia, Gennis, Gerard, Gericke, Gilbert, Glassman, Glazer, Gomendio, Gonzalez, Greenstein, Guglielmo, Gurman, Haberkorn, Hoskins, Hussein, Hamm, Hardwick, Harrell, Hauptman, Hawkins, Henderson, Hayman, Hibara, Hehmann, Herbst, Hedges, Hogan, Hoffman, Horowitz, Hsu, Huber, Ikiz, Jaroschy, Johann, Jacobs, Jara, Johnson, Kassel, Keegan, Kuroda, Kavanau, Keller, Kevill, Kiew, Kimbrough, Kline, Kossoff, Kotzitzky, Kahn, Kiesler, Kosser, Korte, Leibowitz, Lin, Liu, Lowrance, Lundh, Laux, Leifer, Leung, Levine, Leiw, Lockwood, Logrono, Lohnes, Lowet, Laber, Leonardi, Marten, McLean, Michaels, Miranda, Moy, Marin, Muir, Murphy, Marodon, Matos, Mendoza, Muraki, Neck, Needham, Noboa, Null, O’Flynn, O’Neill, Orlowski, Perkins, Pieper, Pierre, Pons, Pruska, Paulino, Popper, Potter, Purpura, Palma, Perez, Portocarrero, Punwasi, Rader, Rankin, Ray, Reyes, Richardson, Ritter, Roos, Rose, Rosenfeld, Roth, Rutherford, Rustin, Ramos, Regan, Reisman, Renkert, Roberts, Rowan, Rene, Rosario, Rothbart, Saperstein, Schoenbrod, Schwed, Sears, Statosky, Sutphen, Sheehy, Silverton, Silverman, Silverstein, Sklar, Slotkin, Speros, Stollman, Sadowski, Schles, Shapiro, Sigdel, Snow, Spencer, Steinkol, Stewart, Stires, Stopnik, Stonehill, Tayss, Tilney, Temple, Torfield, Townsend, Trimpin, Turchin, Villa, Vasillov, Voda, Waring, Weber, Weinstein, Wang, Wegimont, Weed, Weishaus.  

When I took this test, I scored a 72.  Gladwell says that “the first–and most obvious–criterion is that Connectors know lots of people.”  One of my close high school friends used to joke that I know everyone because whenever we were out, I would see four or five people or more that I knew.  There was a running joke that if I went to a different state, I would still see someone I know.

I never took this joke seriously until a few years ago my wife and I were at King’s Island and I bumped into a lady I used to teach with.  The next summer, I was in line for a ride at Cedar Point and realized I was just a few people behind one of the school counselors at GW. 

Wait… it gets better.  The following year, I traveled to Disney World with my wife and kids.  Keep in mind that Disney has four parks, each of which has hundreds if not thousands of people in attendance.  We were walking through Magic Kingdom when I spotted a student of mine and her father, sitting on a bench.

Gladwell says, “Sprinkled among every walk of life, in other words, are a handful of people with a truly extraordinary knack of making friends and acquaintances. They are Connectors.”  I don’t know if I’m a connector or not, but I do know a lot of people.  Gladwell also points out that most people score around 20 or less.

It isn’t hard to believe that I know a lot of people.  I have worked in fast food, retail, and at the local movie theater.  And as a teacher, I have approximately 125 students and I get to know many of their parents, as well.  So I get the opportunity to get to know 200+ people a year.  And I’m grateful for every one of them.

Try this test out and see how you score.  I was thinking of trying it with a local phone book, but I don’t know if it would be as effective.

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

Take Free Global Personality Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

Man, what harsh results. Especially the part about being “overly talkative… at the expense too often of developing your own individual interests…” Am I really that awful? I agree with the whole “overly flexible” and “improvised… at the expense too often of reliability, work ethic, and long term accomplishment.”

Come to think of it, I remember a conversation I had with a college friend that went something like this:

Friend: “You know, the thing I admire most about you is also the thing I hate most.”

Me: “What’s that?”

Friend: “You’ll talk to anybody. It’s like no one is a stranger to you and you know so many people. You’re like a politician or a celebrity or something.”

Me: “Okay? And you hate that… why?”

Friend: “You are under the mistaken assumption that everyone wants to or even needs to talk to you. You force your conversations onto people who may or may not even care what you have to say.”

Me: (pause) “Yeah, but… isn’t that how we became friends?”

Friend: (longer pause) “I said I admired it and hated it.”

So that’s me. “Overly talkative, outgoing, sociable and interacting at the expense too often of developing your own individual interests and internally based identity.” But that is how I have made (and in some cases kept) 90% of my friends.

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

1. Listen to a song from your past: This is more successful if you choose a song from a very significant time in your life and if you haven’t heard the song for a long time. The other day, I heard “Freshman” by the Verve Pipe and I was transported to trying to scrunch into the back seat of a Chevy Cavalier with three friends on our way to the mall. Most of those faces are strangers to me now but hearing this song brought all of them flowing back. “For the life of me, I cannot remember what made us think that we were wise and we’d never compromise…We’ve tried to wash our hands of all of this. We never talk of our lack in relationships and how we’re guilt stricken sobbin’ with our heads on the floor. We fell through the ice when we tried not to slip…” Man, that was some good stuff.

2. Watch a movie: This is also more effective if you haven’t seen the film for a while and if you once watched it with someone close to you. I rummaged through my VHS tapes and found my copies of Casino and Goodfellas. Once again, memories of propping my feet up on the arm of my friend’s basement couch with the rest of the group sprawled out on the floor, in lounge chairs, staying up until 4 a.m. for our Mobster Movie Marathon. Other films of this famous insomnia inducer included Godfather I and II (we cursed III), Scarface, and Heat.

3. Read one of your favorite children’s books: This is a sad one. This summer, one of my fellow CWVWP participants taught a grammar lesson in which she passed out copies of Amelia Bedelia books to us. I spotted the one I wanted right away. Amelia Bedelia Goes Camping. Just seeing that book brought a wave of memories that nearly sent me out of the room in tears. And I had to fight them back again as I read the book aloud. My grandfather took me to the Cross Lanes library when I was about five or six and this was one of the books I chose. He read it to me in his gruff smoker’s voice, his country accent adding to the humor. Six years later, he died of a stroke on Christmas Eve. Seeing that book… man… it was like looking right into his face again. Moments like that can sweep you off of your feet before you know it.

So, that’s my adventure into the old vault. Heed my warning, though. Objects in the rear-view mirror are closer than they appear.

Until later– “There’s no turning back now that you opened up to your mind.”

            It quickly became a tradition to spend the night at my best friend Eugene’s house every Friday night, sometimes as many as six or seven of us, sleeping on the floor or  (when the weather cooperated) outside on the porch.  We would stay up late, talking, watching television, playing video games until someone finally wizened up and said, “Guys, we need to get some sleep.”

            Although I was usually one of the last to fall asleep, I was always the first one up, sometimes before sunrise.  I would quietly get showered, dressed, hair fixed, teeth brushed.  Then I would carefully, cautiously wake up every guy in the group by flipping on lights or shaking them with my foot.

            “Get up, guys, come on, let’s go, we’ve gotta catch the bus.”  Of course, they would all groan.  At times, it would be like waltzing through a lion’s den, pulling each lion by the ear.  But I always persisted and the guys would get up, one by one.  There was always a special order to things.  Since
Eugene was our host, he was first of the late risers to the shower.  Will would call “shotgun” on the shower next.  Then, as the door opened, steam pouring out and filling the hallway, John would kick Will in the shin, sending him to the floor, and proudly carry his clothes to the bathroom.  Jamie would apologize for his brother’s harassment and promise Will that he could have the shower next.  As John swung the door open, spilling out yet another blast of steam, Jamie would sneak behind Will’s back and into the bathroom.

            This went on until Will was last and all hot water had been exhausted.  He always handled it like a trooper, only whining a little after his shower.  We laughed as he shivered and assured him that next time he had dibs on the shower, after
Eugene, of course.

            We rarely took more money than was necessary to catch the bus.  Why should we?  We weren’t going to the mall to shop.  We were going to spend the most valuable days of our live with each other.  Oh, yeah, and to meet girls.  Many of our relationships started and ended in the hallways of the mall, out in the parking garage, and sometimes on the bus trips to and from.

            It may sound odd, but one of my favorite things to do once we arrived was to ride the elevator from the third-floor picnic area to the first floor.  There was a small pool of water beneath the elevators with small fountains sprouting up all around.  I used to imagine that the elevator would keep going down, below the water, and there would be this new secret world under the surface of the mall.

            And now, ten years later, I am sitting on a carpeted floor that used to be the water fountains, watching nearby Starbuck’s customers as they sip their coffees slowly, wishing time would stop and keep them there just a little longer.

           Much has changed.  The escalator is still there, the same up-escalator that I tried to walk down and nearly broke my ankle.  The same escalator where I learned that if you kick it in just the right place hard enough, it will stop running.  But now sadly, the fountain is gone.  Just carpet and tables for coffee drinkers.  The childish part of me thinks the carpet was put there to hide the underground kingdom once and for all.  Will got married and no longer speaks to any of us.  Jamie joined the Army National Guard and is somewhere in Iraq.  John still lives with his father and makes a little bit of money repairing firearms in his basement.  Eugene moved to Sheffield, Ohio where he enjoys a daily view of Erie Lake and works in one of the tallest buildings in Cleveland.

           And I am still the old me, father of two and happily married, wondering if there is another world beneath my feet, wishing I could try the escalator thing again.  The same old stories are calling to me:  Spencer’s, Hot Topic, F.Y.E.  And like before, I’m not here to shop.  I’m here just to enjoy.