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.) 

Presto! Instant Fireplace Renovations

Pop pop ordered an insert for the fireplace. Most of the time, upgrades to the house fall under one category -- me. 

Pop pop, as most of the grandkids call my father-in-law, told me there was a package on the front porch for me. I noticed the front door still closed and locked and questioned how he knew this. Apparently, Amazon told him that it was there. Someone should shoot that Amazon photographic satellite down. How else would it know there was a box there!

Regardless, I struggled. I moaned. I strained. I groaned. And, ten minutes later, the box was in the house. It was but a mere 10 minutes more that I found something to cut the top open. All I had left was to drag the open box to the soon to be renovated fireplace.

Don’t let its minuscule size fool
you... It was a beast!

Approximately 15 minutes and eight pages of instructions later (plus instructions hurled my direction by the spectators), I had the unit in place. Then, I simply plugged it in and pressed the "on" button on the handy-dandy remote control that came with it. Voila!

Somehow, the little electric heat box with its holographic flames I put in the fireplace seemed anticlimactic. It made me yearn for my childhood and the day my dad got a real wood stove for the fireplace.

Thinking of that stove brought back some fond memories of times I spent with my dad. It seems like we spent a lot of time together cutting wood and hauling it to the house to feed that stove. We had a lot of fun adventures.

Once, he stood behind the truck and then asked me to back it out. And then there was the underground bees nest. It seems I remember the axe head flying off once. Good thing I yelled "fore" like they do in golf. My dad could have been hurt! I even had to stand on the back of the truck once to help it get traction. That might actually be related to me backing the truck out. Hmmmm...

Once, I even remember him joking with me by saying "don't cut that tree down! Do you want it to land on the truck?"

While there are other fond memories I could regale upon my readers, there is something to be said for Pop pop's genius. One Amazon purchase plus one easy click of a button equals -- presto! Instafire!