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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
