View and Sign Mr. Frei's Guestbook, or send msg to ktylerconk@aol.com!!
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Wussed Out
This is a test. This is a test. Is anyone still reading?
Well, Gentle Reader, I wussed out. I was all set to take the boat back up to the Adirondacks this weekend, but I didn't. I couldn't. There is just too much water down here and some days ahead - at least before summer - that promise many happy hours at the oars. Taking the boat back seemed a supressable admission that winter is here and that rowing would have to wait until next July...and I just couldn't do it. So I didn't, and it feels good. My buddy is waiting for the next (local) adventure.
But my drive north was a trip down memory lane. I crossed the Susquehanna on I-95, which afforded me a good view down the river to the expanse of the Chesapeake that I passed on my way to the harrowing landing on the Aberdeen Proving Grounds. It was a millpond. Later I crossed the loathed Delaware; again, placid glass. Further north I was over the Hudson. No rowers (or any boats at all, for that matter) were in sight, and it looked serene. When I get to retire, I'll definitely be taking advantage of the relative solitude of a late-season voyage.
Things on the highway were far less serene. Lunatics on cell phones, tailgaters, construction, tolls...all of this made rowing look like a preferred mode of transportation if a schedule were not in the mix. But the darters...oh, those darters...those are the ones who make my blood boil. A darter is a person who will take advantage of any space you leave in front of you while underway. I was taught that one should leave one car-length in front for every ten miles-per-hour you are moving. Makes sense to me; after all, why exert the total concentration that tailgating requires if the difference in arrival time is a mere two seconds?
Clearly, at highway speeds, this is an irresistable space for those who simply have to arrive seconds before you do. They dart in, I back off, another darts in, I back off some more, etc. etc. and before you know it, the darter who edged you out in Delaware is sidling up to the Starbuck's kiosk in Ramapo before you even get out of New Jersey. God, how I hate darters.
I hate them so much that, after a while, I'll start to tailgate just to play the game. I'll leave a juicy space ahead of me in the passing lane, watch a darter move up on my right, and then close the distance with him to preculde his dart. He backs off, I back off, the space opens up, he moves, I move....heh heh heh. It's a sick and twisted world.
Otherwise, life is good. The kids wrote their first major essays last weekend while I was on the road, and now begins the twenty-or-so hours it takes to read them and offer the most constructive comments I can. This can wear me down, but it's my belief that the act of writing is part of the mix of coming to see one's self as a writer, and I would not like my own endurance to become the limiting factor in their progress. Truth be told, I like reading their essays. It's especially interesting as the year goes on and one is able to see them cease and desist the early bonehead mistakes and move to a new, somewhat more sophisticated level of bone-headedness. These guys grow a lot in 8th grade, and it shows up in their writing in very gratifying ways.
On another front, we had the first incidence of grafitti at school that I can remember in a very long time. Someone "decorated" the toilet seats in the bathroom with...are you ready?...Swedish Fish - a simple mosaic of multi-colored fish set in a kind of festival pattern, evoking a Spanish motif. How do you come down hard on an entire population for the whimsy of a truly visionary artist? Sometimes a fish should be flushed, as should the subjective definition of grafitti. Now you know why I'm called Mr. Frei, the Discipline Guy, a.k.a The Pit Bull with the Soft Bite.
To paraphrase Mel Brooks, it's good, sometimes, to be the king.
Other updates? 6th grade football is still undefeated, Jimmy continues to recover from his wounds, OJ, I presume, is still looking for the real killer, and my boat is still in Bob's back yard, waiting.
And, Gentle Reader, you're still reading?
xxoo
Mr. Frei
Well, Gentle Reader, I wussed out. I was all set to take the boat back up to the Adirondacks this weekend, but I didn't. I couldn't. There is just too much water down here and some days ahead - at least before summer - that promise many happy hours at the oars. Taking the boat back seemed a supressable admission that winter is here and that rowing would have to wait until next July...and I just couldn't do it. So I didn't, and it feels good. My buddy is waiting for the next (local) adventure.
But my drive north was a trip down memory lane. I crossed the Susquehanna on I-95, which afforded me a good view down the river to the expanse of the Chesapeake that I passed on my way to the harrowing landing on the Aberdeen Proving Grounds. It was a millpond. Later I crossed the loathed Delaware; again, placid glass. Further north I was over the Hudson. No rowers (or any boats at all, for that matter) were in sight, and it looked serene. When I get to retire, I'll definitely be taking advantage of the relative solitude of a late-season voyage.
Things on the highway were far less serene. Lunatics on cell phones, tailgaters, construction, tolls...all of this made rowing look like a preferred mode of transportation if a schedule were not in the mix. But the darters...oh, those darters...those are the ones who make my blood boil. A darter is a person who will take advantage of any space you leave in front of you while underway. I was taught that one should leave one car-length in front for every ten miles-per-hour you are moving. Makes sense to me; after all, why exert the total concentration that tailgating requires if the difference in arrival time is a mere two seconds?
Clearly, at highway speeds, this is an irresistable space for those who simply have to arrive seconds before you do. They dart in, I back off, another darts in, I back off some more, etc. etc. and before you know it, the darter who edged you out in Delaware is sidling up to the Starbuck's kiosk in Ramapo before you even get out of New Jersey. God, how I hate darters.
I hate them so much that, after a while, I'll start to tailgate just to play the game. I'll leave a juicy space ahead of me in the passing lane, watch a darter move up on my right, and then close the distance with him to preculde his dart. He backs off, I back off, the space opens up, he moves, I move....heh heh heh. It's a sick and twisted world.
Otherwise, life is good. The kids wrote their first major essays last weekend while I was on the road, and now begins the twenty-or-so hours it takes to read them and offer the most constructive comments I can. This can wear me down, but it's my belief that the act of writing is part of the mix of coming to see one's self as a writer, and I would not like my own endurance to become the limiting factor in their progress. Truth be told, I like reading their essays. It's especially interesting as the year goes on and one is able to see them cease and desist the early bonehead mistakes and move to a new, somewhat more sophisticated level of bone-headedness. These guys grow a lot in 8th grade, and it shows up in their writing in very gratifying ways.
On another front, we had the first incidence of grafitti at school that I can remember in a very long time. Someone "decorated" the toilet seats in the bathroom with...are you ready?...Swedish Fish - a simple mosaic of multi-colored fish set in a kind of festival pattern, evoking a Spanish motif. How do you come down hard on an entire population for the whimsy of a truly visionary artist? Sometimes a fish should be flushed, as should the subjective definition of grafitti. Now you know why I'm called Mr. Frei, the Discipline Guy, a.k.a The Pit Bull with the Soft Bite.
To paraphrase Mel Brooks, it's good, sometimes, to be the king.
Other updates? 6th grade football is still undefeated, Jimmy continues to recover from his wounds, OJ, I presume, is still looking for the real killer, and my boat is still in Bob's back yard, waiting.
And, Gentle Reader, you're still reading?
xxoo
Mr. Frei
Monday, October 09, 2006
Bonus Blog
Greetings, Gentle Reader. Up for a bonus blog?
It won't be anything nautical; in fact, the boat gets trucked back up to the Adirondacks this weekend on Peg's truck, back to its home waters, blissfully past the frigging Delaware, along the bucolic Jersey shore, over the mighty Tappan Zee, and up the scenic Hudson to its winter home. It'll be odd making a 13-day journey in six hours or so, with no adoring rabble to greet me. Sigh.
So what's up?
I suppose the great domestic news here is our temporary acquisition of a foster dog...our second one in two months...this one named Jimmy. Mobey, our porcine seal-with-legs, was successfully adopted last month and by all accounts is well on his way to domestic bliss. He's lost 8 of the necessary 15 or so pounds that he has to lose to shake his "piglet" moniker, and we wish him well. Jimmy, the newcomer, is a beagle who was on Death Row, and at death's door; he'd been hit by a car and apparently abandoned and was a mess: a broken pelvis (I wasn't sure dogs had pelvises), a broken leg, and various nicks and scrapes.
Happily, Jimmy doesn't really understand that he's supposed to be incapacitated; he's the happiest and most affectionate 'lil guy imaginable, and when walking him it's like being with OJ, relentlessly looking for the Real Killer. He's beagle through and through, and when he's back on his feet (all four) again, it'll be tough to let him go. Peg, bless her heart, has the patience of a saint...and it is these hapless creatures who are blessed. It's reassuring to know that if I ever get hit by the car, I'll already be here.
School's going well; we continue to fathom the depths of great literature while endeavouring to create some of our own, brushing up on that pesky grammar and vocabulary along the way. My 6th grade football team takes an unblemished (2-0) record into its third game tomorrow. The last contest was a 50-38 slugfest where both teams gained a combined (estimated) 2.5 miles of offense, prompting the refs to call time-outs just to catch their breaths.
This past weekend was poignant in that I wrote my first Dartmouth letter of recommendation for a student I taught in my first year. Heavy, huh? He's National Honor Society, plays a piano like Mozart, and last year played (left handed!) defense for the #1 high school lacrosse team in the country...a real triple threat. Sadly, to paraphrase the Kinks, college admissions today "is a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world," and there are no guarantees. My letter is like the proverbial quarter and a cup of coffee, but we can hope.
I suppose I've finally landed from the high of the row. It lasted a long time; in fact, I received a final $45 check on saturday while at "Family Day" at school...a nice capstone to your own over-the-top contributions. But, truth be told, I earned it. I'd volunteered to be a "target" in a pie-throwing booth, and the eighth graders lined up ten deep to take their shots. Might it have had something to do with the test I gave them on Friday? Anyway, Jimmy (yes, like the beagle, and with a similar devil-may-care attitude) scored a direct hit with a Cool Whip missile; I've never before had every cranial cavity filled to overflowing with Kool Whip, and I don't recommend it. After the stars subsided, I kept hearing Fifth Dimension songs through a paisley haze. Just...weird.
I hope this blogette finds you well, Gentle Reader. As I drive the boat north, I'll be thinking of you-
xxoo
Mr. Frei
It won't be anything nautical; in fact, the boat gets trucked back up to the Adirondacks this weekend on Peg's truck, back to its home waters, blissfully past the frigging Delaware, along the bucolic Jersey shore, over the mighty Tappan Zee, and up the scenic Hudson to its winter home. It'll be odd making a 13-day journey in six hours or so, with no adoring rabble to greet me. Sigh.
So what's up?
I suppose the great domestic news here is our temporary acquisition of a foster dog...our second one in two months...this one named Jimmy. Mobey, our porcine seal-with-legs, was successfully adopted last month and by all accounts is well on his way to domestic bliss. He's lost 8 of the necessary 15 or so pounds that he has to lose to shake his "piglet" moniker, and we wish him well. Jimmy, the newcomer, is a beagle who was on Death Row, and at death's door; he'd been hit by a car and apparently abandoned and was a mess: a broken pelvis (I wasn't sure dogs had pelvises), a broken leg, and various nicks and scrapes.
Happily, Jimmy doesn't really understand that he's supposed to be incapacitated; he's the happiest and most affectionate 'lil guy imaginable, and when walking him it's like being with OJ, relentlessly looking for the Real Killer. He's beagle through and through, and when he's back on his feet (all four) again, it'll be tough to let him go. Peg, bless her heart, has the patience of a saint...and it is these hapless creatures who are blessed. It's reassuring to know that if I ever get hit by the car, I'll already be here.
School's going well; we continue to fathom the depths of great literature while endeavouring to create some of our own, brushing up on that pesky grammar and vocabulary along the way. My 6th grade football team takes an unblemished (2-0) record into its third game tomorrow. The last contest was a 50-38 slugfest where both teams gained a combined (estimated) 2.5 miles of offense, prompting the refs to call time-outs just to catch their breaths.
This past weekend was poignant in that I wrote my first Dartmouth letter of recommendation for a student I taught in my first year. Heavy, huh? He's National Honor Society, plays a piano like Mozart, and last year played (left handed!) defense for the #1 high school lacrosse team in the country...a real triple threat. Sadly, to paraphrase the Kinks, college admissions today "is a mixed up, muddled up, shook up world," and there are no guarantees. My letter is like the proverbial quarter and a cup of coffee, but we can hope.
I suppose I've finally landed from the high of the row. It lasted a long time; in fact, I received a final $45 check on saturday while at "Family Day" at school...a nice capstone to your own over-the-top contributions. But, truth be told, I earned it. I'd volunteered to be a "target" in a pie-throwing booth, and the eighth graders lined up ten deep to take their shots. Might it have had something to do with the test I gave them on Friday? Anyway, Jimmy (yes, like the beagle, and with a similar devil-may-care attitude) scored a direct hit with a Cool Whip missile; I've never before had every cranial cavity filled to overflowing with Kool Whip, and I don't recommend it. After the stars subsided, I kept hearing Fifth Dimension songs through a paisley haze. Just...weird.
I hope this blogette finds you well, Gentle Reader. As I drive the boat north, I'll be thinking of you-
xxoo
Mr. Frei
