Life Just Needs a Little Spice

Variety is the spice of life. Luckily for my wife (and some others), I make life more fun and interesting with my creative, witty, and sometimes inventive texts.

With the recent snow storm North Carolina received, my coworkers got a small taste of my creativity.

Coworker: How's it going your way?
Me: (With a fish picture off a YouTube video) Fishy! But outside, white cold and slippery

It just comes naturally. The humor always spills out of me at the oddest times. While at an estate sale with my wife, I texted, "We NEED a pretzel maker!" I think she thought I was serious. She responded, "Oh dear."

Sometimes my humor helps soften the blow of something that may be unpleasant, so to speak. My sweet, darling significant other doesn't love shrimp and grits quite as much as I do... I finished dinner one night and promptly texted, "Come down so you can push yer shrimp around yer bowl some.  :) "

I took the dog for a walk in the snow storm when I got this text...

Wife: I hope you're heading home

Me: Nah... The dog wants a beer. Heading to convenience store

I like to think I handle criticism well, though I've been told otherwise. Sometimes, my cooking comes under fire. Recently, my betrothed told me I don't break up the meat enough in my Spanish Rice. 

"It's like mini-hamburgers imbedded in a rice casserole," I believe were her exact words.

After she walked off, the creative sparks in my brain just started firing and it was like I had no control over my fingers as I began texting furiously...
Me: Researched it. When the conquistadors invaded China, they put flattish balls of meat beneath the rice mixture. That was back in the 1500's-ish, or so. They wanted to show that they were embracing the culture upon which they were about to vanquish.
And this is how we get Spanish Rice!
Me: (second text) Wanted to make it authentic (meaning my previous attempts at recipe). Thought it would taste better.

Hazards of Workplace Relationships

Hopefully, for the sake of the world, my second graders will have a better grasp of reading, math, science, and perhaps politics than they do relationships as they grow and mature. In particular, marriage.

Recently, one of my kiddoes asked me if I had a girlfriend. Yes, I replied, I do.

"Really? Who is she?"

"Mrs. Haworth over in the fourth grade hall."

"Another teacher!? I thought you were married! Does your wife know?"

"I hope so. Mrs. Haworth is also my wife."

Ironically, most of my students were in my class last year as well. And, yes, some of these discussions are repeats from the previous year discussions had with the exact same students. Regardless, they're an inquisitive bunch and still pepper me with questions.

"Where did you get that ring Mr. Haworth?"

"Mrs. Haworth gave it to me about 30 years ago."

"Mr. Haworth! Girls don't give boys rings!"

"Sometimes they do. It's a wedding ring. We gave each other rings."

After a brief moment of reflection, she said, "I'm pretty sure you didn't have that ring last year. I don't remember seeing it."

Some other fun questions:

"Do you kiss her at school?"

"Why don't we see her more?"

"Do you ever switch classes?"

"Do you tell her about us?"

And my absolute favorite...

"Does she know?"

"Know what?

"That y'all are married?"

"I sure hope so. We live together and drive to work together."

That seemed to have blown her mind. Perhaps we'll just stick to the basics -- reading, math, and science.

Marriage Advice

 I had to clean my desk recently. I spent a solid three hours on it. Two more days of work should do the trick.

As I was cleaning it, I threw away 18 bookmarks (aka clothing tags, fishing product tags, etc.), saved two real book marks, found and threw away an old headlamp, and found the cord to the original first iPhone. No worries... I still have that iPhone, too.

Some of the paper scraps included lists, notes, weekly menus, and story ideas. Nestled amongst the story ideas was this little gem. A speech I gave a coworker who was about to get married.

Having been married for approximately 124 years, as my wife is fond of saying, I feel imminently qualified to dispense marriage advice to those seeking to tie the knot. Ahem.. ahem...

Advice for a Happy Couple

ALWAYS check the fridge. If one of you has ADHD, this should be done periodically. It's important. If BOTH of you have ADHD, check it more frequently. Trust me, it's imperative

NEVER begin a conversation with the phrase, "Remember that 'for better or worse' part in our vows?"

SOMETIMES, its' best to just shut up. Seriously, just shut up.

REMEMBER that you don't always have to be right, even when you are right. Please refer back to the "shut up" part listed previously.

DON'T forget to check the fridge and just shut up. Also, set your GPS, unless you're the "infallible directions" one. In that case, remind your partner to set his or her GPS. You know... just in case.

WISHING you both the best of luck! If you haven't tried to kill each other within the first 10 years, the rest is mostly smooth sailing!

WITH love from one very special unnamed coworker.

As of this writing, I'm happy to say, they're still happily married.

Noisy Travel in the Big Apple

Here in North Carolina, we toot our own horns. That's not to be confused with New Yorkers who, quite literally, honk their horns!

Having recently survived numerous bus and Uber rides through various parts of New York City, I've discovered that there seems to be a specific set of rules for horn honking while driving.

The single honk, for the most part, appears to be friendly. "Hi," "I'm behind/near you," "careful," and "don't walk in front of me" are just some translations for this singular sound.

The double honk, however, is a bit less friendly. Loosely translated, the double seems to say "Dummy!" "Move PLEASE!" and "Watch where you're going!" Up to this point, the honks are conversational and display no real cause for alarm.

The triple, however, jumps to the category as a cause for alarm. Certain vocalizations accompany this category of honk. The triple indicates the mounting ire of the driver due to unsavory, unsafe, or unthought out actions of other drivers, traffic, or even pedestrians. It may be a smart idea to have your hand on the door latch for a quick escape.

The last category is the quadruple or one long (five seconds or more) honk. Do not touch the door latch. The best course of action, if there is time, tighten your seatbelt, grab something solid, grab your significant other if you have one with your other hand, close your eyes (most importantly!), and pray. You most likely will survive this, though there is that chance that you won't.

Exaggeration? I think not. I'm a Southerner inside and out. Around this part of the world, we don't honk unless its a real emergency.

If ADD Were a Poem...

 I've reached a self-discovery phase of my life.

The humorous things that I do and that happen to and around me just don't seem quite as humorous as they once did. Don't get me wrong. They are funny, but something inside of  me has turned a corner.

I will continue to write, but, if you'll bear with me, I'm on a new journey to discover myself. I want to answer the important questions... Who am I really? What's important to me? What are my strengths and weaknesses? And why am I not my top priority?

There are a lot (a lot alot!) more questions, but that doesn't make for fun reading.

When I was diagnosed with ADD (it was all ADD 31 years ago) I didn't know what that really meant. I assumed it meant I was broken, flawed, different, and would never fit in or be like anybody else.

I saw a post on a social media platform that asked, "What is ADHD to you? How would you express it? What do you want people to know about how it makes you feel?" That post sparked me to write the following poem. This is my mental definition of ADD. I hope you like it.

The voiceless screamer
   so shrill and so loud
   unheard
   unheeded
And relatively unknown
   as it vies to break out
   to rise above
the mundane mediocrity
of everyone else's egregious
   emergencies
which rain down,
   dripping and drenching
   the unheard
   the unheeded
   and unknown
below

A Tearful Goodbye

 A dear friend, practically a family member, passed today.

I said a lengthy prayer as I delicately placed him into the trash can. The tears welled up, threatening to spill down my cheeks as I reminisced about the good times we shared together.

He was there for the intimate date nights when my wife and I married. He served us well when we added to our family a sweet baby boy. He performed phenomenally for family functions throughout the years, as well as welcoming wonders for neighbors, old and new.

His loyalty never wavered as he created crescendos of wavy, wondrous noodles, enveloped in cheese, sauce, spices and sometimes beef.

Sadly, he met his demise today in the kitchen sink. His life literally came to a crashing end due to my slippery, sardonic hands. I dropped him. 

And now, the only lasagne pan I have ever known, slipped from my life and will be forever missed.

Goodbye old friend!

Wherefore Art Thou, Cold Stone Creamery?

Some years back, a ray of hope came into my life in the form of a Cold Stone Creamery in my town. I saw the words of this amazing institution emblazoned upon the side of the building, glistening for all to see and drool.

Oh how I dreamed of those fluffy, ice creamy concoctions! The masterful way they flop ice cream upon the mixing table and blend it with their selection of healthy add-ins such as chocolate, Butterfinger bars, Oreo cookies, peanut butter, butterscotch, and so on. They also had 'healthier' options such as fruits, nuts, berries, and granola, but I digress.

A problem occurred soon after the sign went up. The problem, known officially as the COVID-19 pandemic, caused any construction or production of CSC, as I sometimes call it, to cease.

The pandemic broke my heart. I was determined, however, to be patient and told my wife that CSC would come through for me. Just wait and see.

The spring following that rough pandemic ushered in cardboard over the insides of the windows. 
"It's coming," I excitedly told my wife. "They put cardboard up to spare us the torture of seeing it slowly put together piece by piece!"
"Don't get your hopes up," she said, a bit too late. "That's not a good sign"

Her prediction proved accurate.

That cruel cardboard stayed firmly put throughout that summer and following fall and winter. Another spring, summer, fall, and winter came and went, leaving bitter disappointment in my mouth instead of a cold, sweet, heavenly treat.

And then the cardboard came down. I believe it was this past spring.

"Honey," I yelled. "It's coming! It's coming! CSC is finally coming!"
"Really," she asked. "How do you know?"
"Because the cardboard finally came down! That means someone MUST be in there doing something to save us from a life devoid of CSC!"
"Ehhhh... That's the problem with tape. It doesn't stick but for so long."
"How can you be so cold and heartless?! The Great Pumpkin... I mean CSC will appear! You just have to believe! Really!"

As of today, Tuesday, July 25, 2023, I'm petitioning the city council to eradicate the offending name off the front of that empty building on North Main Street.

Big Butt? Or Bad Jeans?

A first grade teacher suffered a wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions in a second grade classroom earlier today in a North Carolina school. Mr. Haworth, the first grade teacher, split his britches.

A keen eyed second grade teacher, Mrs. Haworth, was victimized when she spotted the offending posterior approximately seven feet in the air at the back wall of her classroom. Apparently, Mr. Haworth had been tasked with the job of hanging several dozen pictures upon the wall.

As of this writing, Mrs. Haworth is recovering from the shock by resting comfortably in a cool, dark room. Though visibly shaken, she seems to have suffered no long term damage and is not responding to further questions.

Mr. Haworth, however, seems to be suffering from a mental breakdown of sorts from the denim failure fiasco.

"I don't know how long they've been like that," Mr. Haworth told Fuzzy, Black Dogs (FBD). "I thought Mrs. Haworth was getting frisky talking about my back side. Then she upped and just walked out of the room.

"Once I discovered the hole, I said to myself, 'it just doesn't get any worse than this'. It got worse... There was a SECOND hole nearly as big as the first! To make a bad situation worse, Mr. Sir Mix-A-Lot started singing in my head...

Note the royal blue spots
which are NOT part
of the jeans!

"Oh, my, God, Becky. Look at his butt.
It's just so out there. I mean, really.
It's fallen out of his pants! Gross!
I mean it's scary looking! Aaacckk!

"I don't like that butt and I cannot lie!
I think your butt's scarred my eyes...

"There was more. That was a bit too much for me."

Our research team at FBD was unable to determine the time the infraction occurred. Between the luncheon restaurant, the small bit of staff at the school, and those at the grocery, approximately 35-40 people have potentially been exposed to this moving visual violation.

"Everybody today has been really super nice to me," Mr. Haworth said. "Until I discovered the holes, I had a really good day."

Here at FBD, we've been told the offending jeans have been properly disposed and replaced, and things have returned to normal.

First Grade Gems of Wisdom

Yet another school year has come and gone. Another batch of first graders. Another year of surprises and life lessons. Here are a few new gems of wisdom I've gleamed from the past school year...

Anything can be licked. The usual suspects of fingers, hands, and arms apply, but we've added more this year. Add to that list desks, iPads, chairs, pencils, erasers, and windows. First graders, as a whole, clearly don't have discriminating taste.

I discovered that you can prevent pencil chewing by hand sanitizing the pencils. Trust me, I know.

First graders, as a whole, are very quick to pick up on... things, in general. 
FG: Mr. Haworth! Wanna see a spider I just found?
Me: I'm... busy. But feel free to kill it if you'd like.

First graders are also an observant bunch.

FG: You have a butthole, Mr. Haworth!

Me: Why, yes, Ethel Gray. I certainly do.

FG: I can see it, Mr. Haworth!

Me: Wait... What?!

Cubbies cause pow wows. I'm thinking that next year, I may get rid of the cubbies and just install wall hooks for backpacks and coats. But if I do, I won't be able to eavesdrop on some stellar first grade gossip.

If you give one kid a piece of gum, they all want gum. That's a given. However, this year, if you punish one student, other students want to be punished too.
FG: You sent DeeDee to her desk! Why didn't you send me to my desk?!

Me: What? Um... Sure, Edward. Go to your desk. Now.

There is a direct correlation between the Bermuda Triangle and first grade classroom cubbies.
Me: Where is your lunchbox? I asked you to get it.
FG: It was in my cubby, but I can't find it.
Me: Go look again. Anne! Where is your lunch card?
FG: I set it in my cubby, Mr. Haworth.
Me: So get it, please.
FG: Um... It's not there Mr. Haworth. It's missing. Really!

Looks like the cubbies are out of here! How do I sell this idea to my principal?

The Three Week Pile Diet

Summer is quickly approaching and I just finished trying on all my shorts. Sadly, some of them did not make the cut due to winter storage shrinkage.

I stacked all the offending shorts together, placed them in an obvious place where I'll see them, and, in the process, inspired myself to come up with a brand new diet, aptly named The Three Week Diet.

Winter storage shrinkage...
It's real!

The simplicity of the plan is astonishing! In fact, it's so simple, it's sure to work.

Not only have I stacked them in an obvious place, but I've taken a picture of the pile, too. That way, I can make duplicates and place them by the cupboard, refrigerator, and other key places where food is kept. But not the secret chocolate stash. It's currently empty.

The premise behind the diet is that each time I go to get food, I have to ask myself "Will this help me get into those amazing shrinking shorts in three weeks time?"

As I think the plan out, I realize that I may need the picture taped to the dashboard of my car as well. That should be a reminder to NOT purchase the cream horns at the grocery store. Maybe a mobile picture, too. It would be placed on the grocery cart handle. A full pack of four cream horns only has a little less than 1,300 calories.

The mobile picture (and dashboard picture) will help as I go through fast food drive-throughs, the Hawia'an Ice Stand, the gas station candy section, the checkout section at the tackle store, the doughnut store around the corner from me, my favorite milkshake location... Well, you get the idea.

An update will be posted in three weeks time. It will include my progress, any tips or addendums to the diet plan, and any helpful observations I have made along the way.

Project Christmas: Phase 1

In my household, the holiday season is fraught with memories. They run the gamut from magical to  disastrous, satisfying to downright frightening. We may touch on some of these different memories as I fill you in on the different phases of Christmas in my household.

Approximately 19 years ago, when my son was about five year old, we had a decidedly unhappy Christmas and I, for one, was ready to put it behind me. I started taking down the words "Happy Holidays" when my son put in his two cents worth.

"Why do we have to be happy just for the holidays," he asked. "Can't we be happy all year long? Please leave the happy up. I think we need it." As per my son's unrelenting logic, my wife and I decided that "Happy" would remain in place year long. "Holidays" comes out to join its counterpart only during the Christmas season.

As for the fluffing of the Christmas tree, this year I'm treating it like a job. I haven't told my wife, but I expect to be paid for my acquiescence, or rather lack of whining, complaining, and excuses I come up with as to why I can't, or shouldn't, haul the tree from the deep recesses of the basement to its spot in the house.

Right now, the "Happy" and "Holidays" have joined in holy matrimony. Through no small effort of my own, the tree is in place, fluffed and ready for the lights to be strung.

So far, my wife has given me no attention, no advice, no constructive criticism, no hard glares, no bribes, and no words of encouragement. This year may turn out to be one of the best Christmas seasons yet!

As of this writing, I'm moving on to Phase 2 - the Lighting of the Tree.

Slowing Pace Sparks Creativity

Roxy, my dog, and I have been downgraded. It seems the veterinarian, my real physician and my doctor/wife all concur that I need to cut back from running to walking.

What brought this about? I hurt my knee. As in, running was becoming extremely uncomfortable and painful. Some popping and grinding seem to be emanating from Roxy's hips and back legs. So, for now, we've slowed down.

One effect of this transition is that we are noticing a lot more around us. To date, we've seen chipmunks, bunnies (14 in one morning is our personal best), hawks, cats, a plethora of squirrels and birds, and a fox. We smelled a skunk once, but, sadly, did not see it.

Regardless, the slowing of our forward momentum has sparked some interesting creativity in me. Good or bad, I'm really not sure. I'll let you be the judge of that.

Here's part of my walk inspired song. For reference purpose, it's sung to the tune of George Thorogood's tune, "One Bourbon, One Scotch, One beer."

    One bunny, one chipmunk, one hawk.
    Ya know we ain't seen our animal friends since yesterday

    I wonder what they do when we go away

    But every morning when we take our walk

    We see one bunny, one chipmunk, one hawk!

    One bunny. One chipmunk. And one hawk...

I'll keep you posted of any further creative musings sparked by our morning walks!

Dessert Difficulties Simplified

 Around my house, we take food seriously.

We formulate menus for the week. We strategize and plan our grocery lists meticulously. I proofread both for any misspellings or other unwanted grammatical mistakes or food items. And our grocery trips? Carried out with the surgical precision of a US Navy S.E.A.L. team strike.

The one area we tend to falter over is dessert. Dessert is... Well, it's difficult, to put a word to it.

We have certain parameters that our desserts have to follow. I don't eat tree nuts, so that rules out anything with pecans, walnuts, pistachios and the like. My wife is gluten sensitive, so it also has to be gluten free. Her father can't eat it if it doesn't contain raisins. Not really. I just made that up.

Needless to say, I tend to make approximately 98.3 percent of the desserts we consume. The other 1.7 percent of the time, we are purchasing something that potentially all three of us can consume AND will like.

I love root beer and and root beer flavored stuff, like Oreo cookies, for example. My two home companions (the dog excluded), do not. The two humans I cohabitate with like fruits and things on and in their desserts.

The fact of the matter is that if it can be misconstrued as healthy, it ain't dessert!

So what do my wife and I do when faced with just such a dessert dilemma while grocery shopping?

Never fear! For all those with dessert woes, I have come up with a failproof system.

Now when faced with this previously dire situation, my wife and I channel our amazing S.E.A.L. team skills and fall back on what works:

When in doubt, chocolate out.

New Dog on the Blog

One hummingbird, one chipmunk, and one bunny was today's count. Always keeps a running tally of what we see. Don't know why. Just weird.

Except the squirrels. Never counts the squirrels. Perhaps he can't count that high. Whole lot of squirrels out there. They're evil. Evil squirrels. I bark at every one that I see. Every. Single. One. Hey, it's my job.

Roxy, the
Pomeranian

About five days ago, he counted 13 bunnies. Hey, he said, that's our PB as per our usual 2.5 mile jaunt. I wasn't sure if he was communicating or just stringing meaningless syllables together!

It's his job to walk me. I expect two walks every day -- a long morning and short evening walk. He fell down on the job yesterday. Refused the evening walk. Lazy bum said, it's raining. Whatever.

Talks nonstop to me during walks. When he's not counting bunnies, chipmunks, hawks, and hummingbirds. Talks about trucks. Talks about cars. Oh, hey, chipmunk number three! Talks about flowers. Talks about yards, distance, time, temperature.

Just don't get him started talking to neighbors! When he swipes or taps the thing on his arm, it's gonna be a long talk. Next time I have to wait like that, might give that exposed ankle a nip. No talk, just walk.

Tune most of it out. Listening for Good Job, Roxy, Good Girl, Roxy, and Proud of my Roxy Girl. He sometimes mentions treats. That usually gets my full attention.

Since he hasn't formally introduced me, I'm Roxy. The new fuzzy, blonde dog. The runner chick, he calls me. Ask me how much I hate that joke. Ask me.

Y'all might hear from me from time to time, when I can get a word in edgewise. 

Remember, always take time to smell the poo. 

Power Washer Ruins July 4th Fun

It started with the appearance of a most compact, simple device. And, yes, it has a name. It's called a power washer. Specifically, it's called a Greenworks Electric Pressure Washer. 

Actual photographic evidence
of the offending item.

I didn't purchase this pressure washer. If memory serves me correctly, this mechanical monstrosity came to me via my son. Having said that, it's possible that I did in fact purchase the pressure washer.

How does it work? I have no idea. What I do know is that it takes a small stream of water (from a garden hose, of course) and magically transforms it into a torrential, intense jet of water capable of stripping dirt and gunk from wood, bark from trees, paint from cars and fur from dogs and cats. The warning diagram on the paperwork shows a severed finger! Yikes!

I'm merely conjecturing. No dogs or cats have been harmed for the express purpose of this blogpost.

The warnings in the paperwork failed to mention other harmful side effects one may encounter by using this product. "This product may ruin vacations" was not listed as a danger.

I went to my parents quaint lake house for the Fourth of July. My plans included a few beers and a lot of fishing. My mother's plans, however, veered off in different direction.

"Why don't you bring your power washer," she suggested. She and my father thought it might be nice to clean up the boat dock "a little bit."

Like the good son I am, I pressure washed the dock. I was ready to settle into some beers and some serious fishing.

"You didn't do the steps," mom said.
"You didn't ask me to do the steps," I replied.
"The dock looks so good, it'd be a shame to not do the steps," she replied.
"Okay," I said. "The steps. Check. Then I'm relaxing and enjoying myself."

Approximately 3,200 steps, 4.5 miles of brick walkway, and 6,900 square feet of decking later, I finally managed to sit down with a beer in hand to relax and enjoy the Fourth.

I woke up some time later with an unopened beer in my hand.

"Hey hon," my wife said. "You get a good nap? You slept through the fireworks."

GPS vs. Men vs. Women

Global Positioning Systems sometime make mistakes. Men, also, make mistakes sometimes. I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that women can make mistakes as well.

Please note the operative word "can." This is not to say that women make more or less mistakes than men or GPS units, or that they even make mistakes at all when it comes to driving and directions.

My wife and I were driving in the NC mountains recently. We absolutely love to incorporate the Blue Ridge Parkway into our driving route when we are in the mountains. As per our usual routine, I controlled the vehicle via the steering mechanism, but only under the careful eye of my wife.

"That car is braking in front of you," she likes to tell me. Often.

"What car?" is my usual reply. Have I ever mentioned how much she likes my humor?

Regardless, there were some detours off and back onto the Blue Ridge Parkway this past Thursday. The detour routes were not clearly marked. This, of course, led to some discussion at nearly every intersection.

GPS: Take a right at the next stop sign.

Me: There's no detour sign. No arrow. The Parkway is on the right. We should go straight.

Wife: Go left.

We went left. The GPS chimed in as we approached our  next unmarked intersection.

GPS: Go straight at the next stoplight.

Me: That probably makes sense. We'll go straight.

Wife: Go right.

I told her I think she sent us in the wrong direction. I suggested we turn around and just pop back on to the Parkway. She quietly noted my expert opinion on the matter. 

As we rounded the next corner, a giant orange with black lettering sign, replete with an arrow, directed us back to the Blue Ridge Parkway.

I turned to her. I desperately wanted to ask, but remained mute.

"You're welcome," she said. "Was just a hunch. Now keep your eyes on the road."

Relationship Revelations

I had a most startling revelation this morning. Living with me may sometimes be problematic, so to speak.

My wife and I were looking through "Milk Street," one of my absolute favorite cooking magazines. This, in and of itself, was a minor miracle. Apparently, "Oooh! That looks good," becomes somewhat annoying after the first three recipes in the magazine.

So, in a nutshell, here's how our morning went. It started with a sharp intake of air.

Her: They all look good. Don't even say it.
Me: I wasn't going to say anything. Really. A thought just popped in my head. That's all.
Her: Mmm hmm. This Stir Fry Pork with Sweet Peppers and Peanuts looks really good.
Me: We have peanuts! (We always have peanuts, but that's another story.)
Her: Do we have pork?
Me: Well... Ummm... No.
Her: Do we have scallions?
Me: If we do, they're dead and gone by now!
Her: Do we have chili-garlic sauce?
Me: What's that?
Her: But we have peanuts.
Me: Oh yes! Most definitely!
Her: Can we make the recipe?
Me: Ummm... Well... No. I suppose not.

She mumbled something about thank God for peanuts and seemed to question my sanity.

So here's the question. Do I try to adjust my less than stellar habits, or do I address her lack of tolerance for said habits?

Let's just chalk that question up as rhetoric for now. 

How the Haworth Found Christmas

It seems I'm back at it. You know, rewriting classic stories.

So, this time, I thought I would have yet another go at another Dr. Seuss classic, How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

Why, you might be asking. One, because I can. Two, because it's fun. And, three, it seemed like a great idea to couple it with my first grade students' artwork and showcase it with our crazy door design for the classroom door contest!

So, without any further adieu, I present to you How the Haworth Found Christmas.

Every Charles England student
liked Christmas a lot!
But the Haworth, who taught there
in first grade, did NOT!

The Haworth despised Christmas

for no discernible reason.

And not just Christmas Day,

but the whole darn season!

No one knows why 

he hated Christmas so much.

Rumors abounded about

no fishing, and such.

While that may be possible,

the real reason might be

that Mister Haworth’s heart

was too small! Yes sirree!!

Whatever the reason,

his heart or the trout,

old Haworth grumbled at

the students all about

who went about their days

with smiles on their faces,

dreaming of holiday break

and happier places.

For he knew every student

in his room AND in the school

were crazy excited

like insane little fools!

“And they’re ignoring mathematics,”

he mumbly grumbled,

“and reading, writing and science,”

he grumbly mumbled!

He tapped on his teacher desk,

a staccato song in his ear.

“I MUST stop Christmas

from making it’s way here!”

For, next week, he knew…

All the Charles England kids

would come in to his class

begging to see Christmas vids!

And they’d run. And they’d play.

And they’d play, play, play, play!

And they’d get so full of candy,

they’d be horrible all day!

Then the kids, first through fifth,

would refuse to sit down,

and they’d hustle and bustle

and keep moving around!

And THEN they’d do something

that made Haworth quite crazy.

They’d all go beserk

as they’re brains became hazy!

Any manners they had

would all fly away.

No one would know where

they’d disappear to that day.

And they’d talk! And they’d talk!

And they’d TALK, TALK, TALK, TALK!

Something Haworth liked the least - 

all the TALK, TALK, TALK, TALK!

Haworth stewed and he thought,

“Gotta stop the entire thing!

I’m 53 years old!

I can’t wait until Spring!”

Then Haworth had a thought.

A light bulb went off!

He had an idea

how to pull this whole thing off!

“Field Trip!” he yelled.

Students scrambled and scurried.

He watched as they hustled

and bustled and hurried

to all get lined up

to get on the buses,

while other teachers watched,

Wondering what all the fuss is.

As the last student loaded on

and the door was closed tight,

each bus cranked up

for an epic filled flight.

“Be ready for a field trip

of epic proportions!

A solid two weeks of

educational absorption!”

The vehicle turned right

and the engine started to pull.

A small voice called out

while still in sight of the school.

“Mr. Haworth,” she cried out,

“I DO like to learn…

But I prefer math

on MobyMax, IXL and Zearn.”

“I’d like to go back,”

said Carter McNook.

“I just want to

get lost deep inside a good book!”

The Haworth just stopped.

Stopped dead in his tracks.

Unable to go forward and

unwilling to turn back.

“We need our classrooms

“and teachers, Mr. Haworth, please!

“Can we go back now?

“Please, Mr. Haworth. Please!”

These children wanted to learn!

Why, they hadn’t lost their manners!

In fact, they begged Mr. Haworth

to help them find answers!

It’s been said in that bus

on that fateful day,

that Mr. Haworth finally

discovered his way

back to the reason

he first started to teach -

to help all those children

who needed someone to reach

out to them. Someone

to tell them they matter,

to say “It’s really okay,”

when they anxiously chatter.

So they turned the bus round

and headed back to the school.

But Mr. Haworth yelled out,

“I have but one great big rule!”

“As you go back

“to your classrooms today,

“enjoy yourselves! Have fun learning!

“That’s simply the best way!”

Brethren Bunny

Once upon a time, I used to write quite a bit of poetry. I'm not sure what happened, but at some point, I just stopped.

I've been thinking about it quite a bit lately. It seems to be nagging at me. Every now and then, a line pops into my head, just begging to be written down and fleshed out... a fledgling poem hoping, waiting, dreaming of seeing the light of day.

This poem has been badgering me for quite some time. It's based on a true story. It took three psychotic rabbits chasing each other for what seemed like an eternity earlier today to shake it out of my brain.

Needless to say, you might start seeing more of my poetry here on my blog. I hope you like it and, if not, at least find it entertaining.

It's titled (not entitled! Too many people misuse that term!), simply, "Brethren Bunny."

It struggled and squirmed

breathing heavily

determined to escape, to flee from me

though hopelessly entangled

     in a trap of a viny vinca garden.

Quickly and carefully

my fisherman fingers freeing it

untangling the mighty mess of vines

     and watching

                        waiting

                                    bewildered

as it stumbled slowly toward me

     unnaturally unafraid.

It sought me out

stopping by my side and

sighed its final breath

beside kindred brethren.

'Twas the Day Before Break

'Twas the day before break

And all through the classrooms

The teachers were stressing

In Meets, Canvas and Zooms.

For you see the pandemic

Created an academic mess.

It seems virtual education

Is an absolute stress!

Some children were nestled

Snuggled up in their beds,

While others played, cartwheeled,

Or stood on their heads.

Each teacher in their own

Little space they called work,

Developing lesson plans,

Spasms, and jerks...

Plans that would guide,

Hopefully teach and engage

Knowledge-hungry students,

No matter their age.

As the slide Window opened

A loud noise pierced my ear.

Someone's dog barked shrilly

When the Fed-Ex man appeared.

Then the light of heaven

Shown bright in my eyes...

Oh, Johnny's cam was pointed

Up into sunny, bright skies.

Then, wonder of wonder,

But who should appear?

It was Clive, my student

I haven't seen all year!

I dashed to my Powerschool

Roster super quick

And nimbly marked him

'Present,' clickety click!

More rapid than meerkats,

In a blink he was gone!

I asked my friends, "Did YOU

Guys see Clive? Was he on?"

"Well Johnny? Well Judy?

Help me Buddy! Help Masie!

I just saw him right there!

I know I'm not crazy!"

At the top of the screen

Clive showed up again,

Unmuted and screaming

At his big brother Ben.

"Mute yourself please!

We've a lesson to learn!

Addends are important...

WATCH OUT FOR THAT...

Fern."

I attempted my lesson

And started anew,

But Clive stole the show.

We all knew it was true.

And then in a twinkling,

I came up with a plan.

"Math Scavenger Hunt!"

I yelled. "Ann, get one can!"

"Bob find two books.

And Judy, three clothes.

Buddy, four pencils.

Now Suzy, five gift bows."

"And Clive, this is most

Important of all...

Go find six puppies,

But they have to be small."

Clive turned and he dashed.

His camera went dark.

"Mr. Haworth," I said

To myself, "you're too smart!"

The online room became calm.

The students' voices abated.

I could finally impart

Some knowledge while we waited

On Clive to appear

With his impossible task.

I'm not sure how I did it,

But I knew just what to ask.

I restarted my lesson.

We began on number three...

Seven plus nine,

Plus blank equals twenty.

I reached for a book

And as I turned around,

I heard the bang of a door

And some whining sound.

A camera flicked on

And, well, there stood Clive

Holding a large box

Filled with something... alive?

He spoke not a word.

He opened the box.

Out jumped puppy

Number one like a fox!

As five more spilled out,

My students went crazy,

Including the littlest and

Shyest of all -- dear Maisie!

With my head in my hands

I gave a low whistle.

Away went my plans

Like the down of a thistle.

As I closed my eyes

And took a deep breath,

I heard, "Who's that new kid?

Her name's Elsabeth!"*

*(Special note for my non-teacher friends: When we get observed in virtual classrooms, our assistant principals, principals, superintendents, or whoever is evaluating our performance 'show up,' they simply appear as a name on the screen.)