Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 151

The many faces of my school

Today I begin year #23 of teaching. All of them spent in the same school. The last 20 years spent in the same classroom. As I drove into the school’s parking lot on Monday for a day of meetings and preparation, I found myself thinking about all the people who have come and gone since I began my career back in September of 1999. Specifically those most close to me.  Thomas W Perry and Jeff, both members of our bridal party, who moved on years ago. Tom is a principal today (poor soul) and Jeff left teaching to take over his father’s business so that his dad could retire. Still close friends today, but I no longer see them every day like I once did.  Plato Karafelis, my former principal, dear friend and mentor who officiated our wedding. He is now enjoying blissful retirement on the west coast. I miss him every day.  Robert I. Hugh and Andrew Mayo, friends who played the music for our ceremony. Andy is now an administrator in our district (poor soul), and this past summer, I managed to convince a now-retired Rob to start playing golf. He’s hooked. Justine Forbes Wolgemuth , another member of our bridal party who moved to Arizona when her husband landed a job out there. Still friends despite the distance.  Donna Hannon Gosk, beloved friend, mentor, co-conspirator, fellow troublemaker, and salty lady who retired years ago. We still find time for the occasional round of golf, and her words of wisdom echo in my mind almost daily.  Amy, who is like a sister to me, whose wedding I officiated, who now lives with her husband and children in Massachusetts.  Elysha Dicks, whose classroom was once separated from mine by a single door that former classroom no longer exists. In its place is a grassy field where students eat their lunch when the weather is good. Elysha now teaches kindergarten at Webster Hill School, less than a mile from where we first met, though it sometimes feels like 100 miles to me.  So many more.  I remember how Jeanne Avicolli, now retired, taught me to look first for December birthdays on my class list.  The youngest kids in your class. “Too many December birthdays,” she said, “and you’ll have a tough year.” I remember Lee Gluck walking beside me on our first day as we toured the adjacent forest, telling me amusing little things about each member of the faculty, making me laugh, and putting me at ease.  I remember our office staff – Deanie, JoAnn, and Dana Tracy – taking me aside on my first day, warning me about the many ways to avoid annoying our principal.  Dana is now a Spanish teacher. Deanie and JoAnn are retired. Deanie and her husband still come to Speak Up shows from time to time.  Before the pandemic, Deanie was still volunteering in our school.  So many good people have passed through our school over the many years I have spent teaching.  Some of whom were and still are good friends today. Others who were beloved colleagues.  A couple who I could’ve done without.  I can stand in the doorway of almost any classroom in our school and recite  the merry-go-round of teachers who once occupied the space, working hard to change the lives of children. That doesn’t even begin to count the army of parents over the years, many of whom became and in some cases still remain dear friends today. In one case, Charlie’s godparents. Also the students, now adults, many of whom remain in my life and are still my friends today.  So many people have passed through the school during my time there. So many have touched my heart. But for some reason, I found myself thinking of John Emshoff today, the custodian and friend to so many teachers and children, who passed away in a car accident on his way home from work back in 2015. Maybe it’s because I never had a chance to say goodbye to John that he so often occupies my thoughts. I wrote a post about him, filled with stories, following his death. It was later reprinted in We-Ha.com, West Hartford’s online newspaper. Maybe it’s because John is no longer with us that I find it so important to keep him in my mind today as I begin another school year. Important to say his name. Remember his impact on the lives of so many. Keep his spirit alive.  I miss John. More than six years after his death, I still think of him often. I think I’ll tell my students about him today. Share some of his stories. Ensure that John’s memory remains a part of our school.  A good way to start another year of teaching.

Don’t eat this.

Standing in line at 7-11 yesterday with a gallon of milk in hand, I noticed a display of Paqui tortilla chips.

Affixed to the side of the display was this warning.

It’s kind of amazing.

The fact that a tortilla chip requires this much in terms of a warning but is still being sold is astounding.

It’s also more than a little frightening.

The worst part of the sign, I think, is the warning that anyone who has “any medical condition” should not eat this chip.

What qualifies as “any medical condition?”

I’m awaiting hernia surgery. Does this count?

What about the small blister on my right hand from playing golf?

I’ve had some pain in my left foot over the last couple weeks. A round of steroids from my podiatrist seems to have fixed the problem, but it was still a little sore after a weekend of golfing, bike riding, and hiking through the zoo.

I may need to go back to the doctor for treatment. Does this qualify as “any medical condition?”

What about the two shards of glass that still remain in my forehead after going through a windshield in 1988? They still hurt when pressed upon, but otherwise they I sometimes forget they’re even there.

Does glass embedded under the scalp count as “any medical condition?”

I don’t mean to nitpick, but “any medical condition” is a pretty vague statement.

Of course, recording yourself eating an apparently dangerously spicy tortilla chip in exchange for a few scant moments of utterly forgettable social media attention seems even worse than vague.

It strikes me as a little dumb at best.

Back to school again.

Today is my first day back to work for the 2021-2022 school year.

I know some teachers have already returned to work, and others don’t return until after Labor Day, but this tends to be the time of year when my brethren put aside their summer delights and return to the classroom.

I wish them all the best of luck in what will surely be another challenging school year. The pandemic has not yet released its hold upon us. If anything, it’s more dangerous than ever before, particularly for those who work with children too young to be vaccinated.

I hope my fellow teachers and their administrators know this.

Happily, I live in a state where mask and vaccine mandates are expected and relatively unchallenged mitigation practices. I’m not sure what this will mean in terms of the delta variant, but it’s certainly better than living in a state with a governor and a populace that rejects science in favor of stupidity, spite, and political expediency.

If you’re a teacher in a district that isn’t protecting you and your students adequately, I’m so sorry. It’s inhumane and irrational behavior.

You’re not being treated as a valued professional.

Having now worked with many corporate clients over the last few years, I’ve begun to see the differences between professionals in the teaching realm and those in other fields who have the same level of education and experience as teachers.

Things like:

Depending on where a teacher works, a lack of a climate controlled workspace. My classroom, for example, can reach temperatures as high as 95 degrees in early September and June, which would never be permitted in other professional environments.

I know this because administrators are almost always working in climate controlled workspaces.

We’d never think of having an administrator work in 95 degree heat, nor would we expect parents and other outside visitors to be subjected to that kind of heat. That would be… well, unprofessional.

But teachers? Students?

Different story.

Here’s another:

For many teachers, there is also the inability to use a restroom when needed. Unless you are willing to turn your back on two dozen kindergarteners (or two dozen teenagers, for that matter), a teacher must wait – sometimes for an hour or two at a time – until they can find someone to watch their students while they pee.

No other professional who I know suffers the inability to use a restroom on a timely basis.

Here’s a crazy one:

Even though a teacher may have 45 minutes or even an hour for lunch, some administrators won’t allow teachers to leave the building to pick up a sandwich or swing through a drive thru or decompress in a nearby coffee shop for 15 minutes during their lunch break. They are required to remain inside the school, even if they are not supervising children in any way or have any other professional responsibilities.

These inane policies are enacted by former teachers turned administrators who treat their staff like the children they once managed rather than grown-ass adults. I’ve only suffered briefly with one of these fools, but I know teachers for whom this has been a reality for most of their careers.

Here’s another crazy one:

I don’t know a teacher who doesn’t spend their own money outfitting their classroom or supplying their students with basic needs. I am vehemently opposed to such a practice, believing that if teachers continue down this path, nothing will ever change. Still, even I occasionally spend money out of my pocket to equip my students and my classroom with necessary supplies from time to time.

I have questioned most of my corporate clients about their need to spend their own money on supplies, office furniture, and the like.

They all looked at me like I was crazy.

Because it’s crazy.

Here’s the good news:

Teachers get to work with kids. We spend our days in the presence of young people. We have the opportunity to change the life of a child forever. We have the power to do what so many teachers did for me:

Afforded me a path out of poverty.

Gave me hope for the future.

Equipped me with the tools I would need after graduating high school.

Helped me make my dreams come true.

Teachers like Mrs. Dubois, Mrs. Schultz, Lester Maroney, Mrs. Carroll, Marc Compopiano, Mr. Beane, and many more. I try to speak their names as often as possible to honor all that they did for me.

Teaching is also the single greatest economic driver in our country. Though specific dollar figures are almost impossible to assign to the result of the work we do, just imagine a world where public education is nonexistent.

The amount of GDP generated from the work of teachers is astounding, particularly when you factor in the salaries of teachers in comparison to most professions with equivalent levels of education and experience.

Take away a company like Apple or Google or Ford or  Walmart and the world would admittedly be a very different place.

Take away public education and it’s not even comparable. Not even imaginable. You no longer have an Apple, Google, Ford, or Walmart, or if they exist, they are much smaller and poorly staffed.

If teachers were ever able to place a dollar value on the results of the work we do, we’d all need to be paid a small fortune.

Instead, we get to earn a living and change the world.

Good luck, my fellow teachers. If you’re anything like my colleagues, you’re most assuredly overworked, underpaid, and extraordinary.

You probably spent enormous numbers of unpaid hours this summer, sweating in classrooms, preparing a beautiful space for your students. You’re probably worried about teaching another year in this pandemic. Maybe nervous about occupying a room with two dozen unvaccinated human beings. Frightened about your health and the health of your students.

All understandable.

Be safe.

Stay positive.

Support one another.

Give your students reasons to laugh.

In the words of my friend, Steve, “Teach ’em.”

Charlie the Street Performer

While we waited for Elysha to finish up in CVS, Charlie stepped away and began pounding on a mailbox.

I ignored him at first, assuming he would stop after a second, but when he didn’t, I called over, asking him what he was doing.

“Trying to make some money!” he said. “You know… those people who drum on the streets while people throw money at them.”

Charlie was trying his luck at busking.

But instead of a buckets or metal pails and maybe some drum sticks, he was banging his hands on a United States postal receptacle.

To his credit, he didn’t quit. He also explored every inch of that mailbox, finding the spots that offered the highest and lowest pitches. And the whole time, he performed with honest-to-goodness style and flair, creating a whole body performance.

When Elysha returned, his performance came to an abrupt end. As we walked down the street, he asked me, “How to you think I did?”

“I thought you were great,” I said.

“Then where’s my money?” he asked, sticking out his hand. “What? You don’t pay people who entertain you?”

I pointed out that I had just purchased him ice cream. It was the reason we have come to the center of town in the first place.

He told me that he’d prefer cash next time.

Make new stuff in a new way

Behold a few of Helga Stentzel’s many images of Household Surrealism.

You can see many more on her website or her Instagram feed.

What I love about this is how simple, original, and brilliant this is. Not only did she make incredible art, but she also invented an incredibly new kind of art.

It’s something anyone could’ve done. Even I could’ve done.

I’m not a visual artist. I can’t paint, sculpt, or draw. I don’t have an eye for photography. I lack the attention to detail required to be successful in the visual arts.

Elysha has said, “Put me in a lineup of ten brunettes, and Matt couldn’t pick me out.”

Not true, but there is truth in what she says. My mind processes and remembers all things audio while failing to even notice the visual.

But what Helga Stentzel has done here gives me hope. Her art certain possesses a strong visual component, but there is also a cleverness, a sense of humor, an original use of everyday materials, and a simple whimsey that I find intriguingly possible.

I wouldn’t simply steal her idea, but Helga Stentzel’s art reminds me that when we break free of convention, ignore tradition, and blaze a new path, we may not only create something utterly original, but we might find a way to working in a field we never thought possible. By eschewing the skill required to use paint, clay, pencil, and the like, art feels slightly more accessible.

Almost certainly not as brilliant as Helga Stentzel’s art, but a start.

In many ways, my novel, “Twenty-one Truths About Love,” a novel written entirely in lists, represents this kind idea. A new, perhaps more accessible approach to a traditional form of art.

The musical that I am co-writing is similar.

So maybe try to make something new. Not just something new, but make a new thing in a new way. In a way that makes sense to you, using materials or methods that are more accessible to you than traditional materials and methods.

Jack Morris was suspended and sent to bias training. I disagree with this decision.

Tigers color analyst Jack Morris has been suspended indefinitely from Detroit’s TV broadcasts after he spoke in an offensive accent when talking about Angels star Shohei Ohtani on Tuesday night.

In the top of the ninth inning of Tuesday’s game with the Angels’ Juan Lagares at-bat, Morris and Tigers play-by-play announcer Matt Shepard were discussing how the team should approach pitching to Ohtani, the Japanese two-way star who was up next. Shepard asked, “Now what do you do with Shohei Ohtani?” Morris replied in an apparent Asian accent, “Be very, very careful.”

Morris later apologized during Ohtani’s at-bat.

“Well folks, Shohei Ohtani is coming to the plate, and it’s been brought to my attention — and I sincerely apologize if I offended anybody, especially anybody in the Asian community for what I said about pitching and being careful to, about Shohei Ohtani,” Morris said. “I did not intend for any offensive thing and I apologize if I did (offend).

Let me be abundantly clear:

I am not okay with what Jack Morris said. I am constantly advising storytellers and public speakers to not use accents in their stories and speeches. I’ve actually written about this very subject in my book, Storyworthy. I’ve stated publicly in print that it’s a terrible idea.

Insensitive and wrong.

But here’s what I am thinking:

Maybe we should allow Jack Morris to make a mistake, apologize for that mistake, and move on. Maybe the indefinite suspension and bias training isn’t necessary. Maybe the 12 years and thousands of hours Jack Morris has spent broadcasting on the radio in a respectful, appropriate way should count for something.

Maybe his 18 year, unblemished, Hall of Fame career in Major League Baseball should also count for something.

Morris tried to make a joke. A bad, insensitive, inappropriate joke.

The man attempted to be funny in a way that was both not funny and racially insensitive. His broadcast partner immediately told him how inappropriate it was. Morris apologized.

Can’t he apologize with sincerity, learn from this mistake, and move on?

And yes, I know that some people were also dissatisfied with the quality of his apology. It’s admittedly not a perfect apology. But I have no patience for the apology police. Not every apology is perfect. Those who love to jump on anyone whose apology is not perfect should find better targets for their ire.

Please don’t get me wrong:

Had Morris expressed support for white supremacists or Neo-Nazis, I would feel differently. Had he implied that people of Japanese descent are not equal to people of European descent, I would feel differently. Had he insulted the country of Japan in some way, I would feel differently. Had this not been his first offense after broadcasting more than 2,000 baseball games, I would feel differently.

He did none of these things. He poorly and insensitively imitated the stereotyped accent of a Japanese person speaking English in an attempt to be funny.

Stupid for sure. Racially insensitive for sure. But worthy of an indefinite suspension given his track record?

I don’t think so.

Two years ago, during an online storytelling workshop with a group of international high school students, I told a student to stop acting like a savage when she told me that she’d clean up the dog poop off her bedroom floor after my lesson.

After the lesson was finished, my teaching assistant, a 19 year-old woman named Grace, called me to educate me on the origin of the word “savage.” She explained that it was a word used by white explorers and colonialists in order to justify the murder of indigenous people.

I had no idea. I used that word all the time.

Grace treated me with respect, kindness, and…  well, grace. She afforded me an opportunity to learn. I listened, read more about the subject on my own, then I apologized to the student the following day.

Then I thanked Grace for the way she handled the situation.

Did I deserve an indefinite suspension?

Should I have been sent to bias training?

I don’t think so.

I think we get to make certain mistakes without the hammer of human resources swinging down upon us.

I think we need to be open to people pointing out our mistakes. I think we need to approach these moments with an open mind and open heart. But I also think we should be afforded the opportunity to learn from our mistakes, apologize, and move on, absent the loss of income, need for training, and public shaming associated with a suspension.

Not in all cases, of course.

Had Jack Morris broadcast his admiration for the Proud Boys or denigrated women or perpetuated conspiracy theories about vaccines or the Capitol insurrection, I would have no problem with an indefinite suspension and bias training at the vey least.

But in the case of a stupid, racially insensitive attempt at humor?

I think an expression of understanding and regret, followed by an apology, might have been enough.

Moments of Note Summer 2021

The end of August has arrived. My children head back to school today.Elysha and I return on Monday.It seems like forever ago when Elysha, the kids, and I wandered onto the beach at Winding Trails on our first glorious summer day.June 18th to be exact. Forever ago.The end of summer is always hard on me. I worked a great deal during this past summer, but I dictated the parameters of that work. No one (other than my publisher) was forcing me to do anything. I scheduled clients for the dates and times when I was willing to work. I chose where and when I was willing to travel. I had total control over my time.This allowed for a great amount of time to be spent at the beach, on the golf course, biking, playing with the kids, boating, spending time with friends, and much more.It was a glorious summer. Almost no travel thanks to the pandemic, but still a glorious summer.But teaching is an entirely different endeavor. Rather than dictating my own schedule, teaching is a job that requires my presence on certain days and certain times in a specific location.In terms of time and flexibility, it’s a far more demanding job.It’s also a job that I still love as much as my first day of teaching back in 1999, but I simply love summer vacation more.The end of another summer is always a sad time for me.Over the course of every summer, and over the course of every year, I create and maintain a list entitled “Moments of Note.” It’s a collection of memorable moments from both the summer and the full calendar year. It’s my attempt to take a full measure of a period of time. To remember it. Hold it tight. Never allow it to slip through my fingers.It’s my way of making me feel good about my time spent. So often in life, we allow these memories to be forgotten. We look back on a summer or a year and wonder where the time went. What did we actually do? Was the time well spent? Did we do enough?My “Moments of Note” list reminds me of all that we did. It makes me feel good about the time we spent during this past summer and excites me about future summers yet to come.I read my “Moments of Note: Summer 2021” list to the family while eating ice cream earlier this week. It was fun to recall moments we might have forgotten and take full measure of all that we accomplished.It felt good.As the summer draws to a close, I find myself looking back on my list again today. Remembering the sun. Basking in its warmth. It allows me to  recapture a little bit of summertime joy and feel better about the time we spent.I can’t recommend this exercise enough.My list won’t mean anything to you. If you didn’t live this past summer with me, it’s just a collection of family adventures, new endeavors, and amusing moments. My list isn’t even worth reading, but take a moment before the days grow long and the warmth of summer wanes to make your own list.Take full measure of this past season of what I hope was fun and glory.Keep it for today and forever more. Don’t let these days slip away like beach sand through your fingers.Moments of Note: Summer 2021

We celebrate Charlie’s birthday with a party and giant water slide

We attend Luke’s birthday party, which also features a giant waterslide

I join Beth and Jen for our annual post school year dinner at Max Burger

I enter into a partnership to produce a television show for Netflix and possible film adaptations of two books

I go into business with Hiitide

I launch a new business – StoryWorthy – in partnership with Orange Marketing

I officiate the wedding of Sharon and Alex

I sign a contract to write comic books for a publisher

Elysha and I take two weeks of sailing lessons

Matt and Elysha go to Springsteen on Broadway

The family attends Winding Trails family night

The family attends the US Women’s Soccer Team game vs. Mexico at Rentschler Field

Elysha and I enjoy a weekend visit to Martha’s Vineyard on our anniversary

Charlie and Clara spend two weeks at Winding Trails camp

Charlie and I play many rounds of golf together

I compete in the New Haven Festival for Arts and Ideas story slam and won!

We attend a party at Cruz’s home

Charlie takes archery lessons

Charlie attends golf camp

Clara attends soccer camp

Charlie and I play mini golf

Clara, Charlie, and I play mini golf

I teach Charlie how to play chess

Charlie and I played chess with the giant-sized pieces at Winding Trails

Clara, Charlie, and I watch Black Widow

I travel to San Fransisco to consult with client

Elysha, Clara, and Charlie spend three days in the Berkshires while I’m in San Fransisco

Dinner and campfire with the Daigles, then the Daigles come over for dinner

Weekend in the Catskills, which includes…

Elysha, Clara, and Charlie visit Opus 40

Elysha, Clara, and Charlie visit the biggest and smallest kaleidoscope in the world

Elysha, Clara, and Charlie climb down to the edge of the river

I perform at the Phoenicia Playhouse

Late night drive home from Phoenicia featuring wide awake children and sleeping Elysha

Elysha, the kids, and I celebrate our anniversary in West Hartford Center at Rizzuto and Ben & Jerry’s

I purchase a new set of golf clubs

Dinner and campfire with Jeff, Nhi, and family

I play 18 holes of golf with Jeff, Tom, and my editor, Alice at Tunxis

I play many, many rounds of golf with Jeff, Andrew, Shep, Dan, and Rob

We meet for book club at the Damokosh’s home

Elysha and I produce and perform in an outdoor show at The Hill-stead Museum

I hire Kaia as my assistant

I compete in a Moth StorySLAM (with Kathy) at The Bell House in Brooklyn

I compete in a Moth StorySLAM (with Jeni and Amy) at The Bell House in Brooklyn

I win my seventh Moth GrandSLAM

Tobi takes a ride in the dryer

Charlie spends many, many hours playing with Luke from next door

I am interviewed by podcasters in the United States, Australia, the UK, and Canada

Our living room comes together with new furniture, fixtures, etc.

I teach a virtual storytelling workshop to frontline workers in the UK

I record a story for The Volume Knob

I compete in Steve’s cornhole tournament alongside Dan

I teach a week-long virtual storytelling workshop for international students in collaboration with Rustic Pathways

We play board and card games during Clara’s Family Game Night

Charlie, Elysha, and I take many trips on Dunning Lake via kayak, paddle board, and sailboat

Charlie plays “Cling to Daddy” a whole lot in the water

I get diagnosed with a hernia

We visit many bookstores and purchase many, many books. Clara, especially.

I speak at the East Hampton Public Library

I speak at TEDx Berkshires at Shakespeare & Company

I enjoy dinner at the home of Ethan and Jaime in Lenox following the TEDx Talk

I meet and share a meal with former Massachusetts governor Deval Patrick

Kelli and Mike visit for lunch

We attend a Yard Goats game (no-hitter until two outs in the ninth inning)

We see unexpected, inexplicable, and fantastic fireworks over the bus station on July 4

Matt and Elysha attend a Neil Diamond – Hartford Symphony tribute concert with Eddie and Kathy

We attend Yawgoog Alumni Day

I speak at the Permission To Move conference

I speak about storytelling on a Reddit forum

We go to many farmer’s markets in Coventry, sometimes with friends

We survive Hurricane Henri unscathed

We spent many, many summer days on the beach at Winding Trails, swimming reading, writing, and playing

Johnny Cash at the Farmer’s Market and many other places, too.

The folk singer at the Coventry Farmer’s Market began playing Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.”

As I listened, I found myself remembering the moment I learned about Cash’s death, back in September of 2003. I was sitting on a fence at Camp Jewell in Colebrook, CT, surrounded by a bunch of hungry fifth graders. We were beginning day two of our three day, two night overnight trip, waiting for the breakfast bell to ring, when someone told us about his death.

His wife, June Carter Cash, had died just four months earlier.

In memory of Johnny Cash, we spent the next two days listening to my friends, Rob and Andy, play his music on their guitars as we sang as many of his songs that we knew, including “Ring of Fire.”

A little more than a year later, Andy found me singing “Ring of Fire” on the stage in my classroom in an attempt to irritate my students. He then spent the next couple weeks teaching his student ensemble to play the song. Then, on the Friday before Christmas break, he convinced me to sing the song in front of the entire school during our weekly assembly.

I am not a singer of any kind, but I stood there, in front of 500 students and more than a hundred parents, singing “Ring of Fire” for no other reason than I liked the song and Andy’s students could play it.

Elysha, who was teaching in the same school with me back then and was sitting in the audience, had a flicker of concern that I might be singing “Ring of Fire” as the opening to a public marriage proposal.

I proposed 13 days later on the steps of Grand Central Station.

Still a public proposal, but in front of friends and family and hundreds of strangers.

Not students and faculty.

A couple years later, I was working as the DJ for a wedding where the only music we were permitted to play during dinner was songs by Johnny Cash. It didn’t take long for guests to approach and ask us what the hell we were doing. Even after I explained that this was a specific request of the bride and groom (and that the music would be very different during dancing), many guests still directed their anger at me.

Appropriately so. Never direct an ounce of anger at a bride and groom on their wedding day. Only a selfish fool would do such a thing.

All of these thoughts filtered through my mind as I stood in the grass at the farmer’s market, listening to that man sing Johnny Cash’s song.

That’s the beauty of art. Johnny Cash has been gone for 18 years, yet his music continues to hold a significant place in this world. His music, his lyrics, and if you’re listening to an original recording, his voice are still important parts of our culture today.

Two decades later, people still love his music.

Even better, sometimes a particular bit of creation, like “Ring of Fire,” written by June Carter Cash in 1963 and popularized by her husband that same year, can weave its way into the lives of an audience, becoming indelibly attached to unforgettable memories of time spent with children and friends outdoors, amusing teaching moments, unexpected and unwarranted public singing, marriage proposals, weddings, and more.

My deepest hope as a writer and storyteller is to produce something someday that has the lasting import and appeal of “Ring of Fire,” and that perhaps, it might even come to mean as much to someone in this world as much as this song has come to mean to me.

My Mantras

A few weeks ago, I wrote about the mantra, given to me by a teacher in middle school, that rings in my mind most often:

“A positive mental attitude is your key to success.”

I mentioned that I had other mantras that ring in my head quite often, and a reader asked me to list them. So I took some time, listened for them to pop into my mind, and made a list.

Here it is:

The mantras that guide me, inspire, and remind me to do better and be better.

______________________________

“It’s a town full of losers and I’m pulling out of here to win.” – Springsteen’s “Thunder Road”

“What one man can do, another can do.” – From the 1997 film “The Edge”

“He who avoids complaints invites happiness.” – I couldn’t remember where this one originated, so I had to look it up. Turns out it’s attributed to Abu Bakr, father-in-law of the Islamic prophet Muhammad, as well as the first caliph of Islam. No recollection where I read or was told this mantra, but it’s been in my head since college, and I’ve always liked it a lot. Complainers are the worst, so this one pops into my mind whenever I find myself on the verge of complaining.

“When they said, “Sit down” I stood up.” – Springsteen’s “Growin’ Up”

“Rage against the dying of the light.” – Dylan Thomas’s “Do not go gentle into that good night” (I have the entire poem memorized, and I recite it to myself often, but this is the line that returns to me when I feel my effort waning)

“The hard thing and the right thing are usually the same thing.” – Me, spoken by Budo, a character in “Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend”

“Teach ’em.” – Steve Brouse, a colleague who said this to a teacher who was complaining that her students didn’t already know something

Objects have stories, too. I just can’t hear them.

As Charlie and I made our way from the second hole to the third at Buena Vista, the golf course where we play, I looked right and noticed a tire sitting in a small clearing in the woods, far away from any road.

“How did that tire end up there?” I wondered, which is something I wonder a lot. More than I’d like to admit.

As a person who is interested in stories, attracted to stories, and slightly obsessed with stories, it’s not uncommon for me to become deeply curious and slightly tormented by the desire to know the stories of objects as well as people.

What is the story of this tire? Where did it come from? Who owned it? How and why did it end up in a clearing in a forested portion of a local golf course?

These thought plague me. I saw this tire more than two weeks ago, but I still find myself thinking about it from time to time.

I also wonder – more than I’d like to admit – about the fate of objects no longer in my possession:

My mother’s plastic cookie jar. A letter written to me by Kamie Norris. My black Huffy Racer. A stuffed animal named Roscoe who disappeared at Scout camp. The glass butterfly I gave to my mother for Christmas as a boy.

Many more.

Objects of importance in my life. Objects lost and never found. The unknown fate of these objects – their stories – roll around in my mind all the time. Plague me.

Like the tire. How and why it landed in that clearing in the forest will never be known. It’s story will be forever untold.

It makes me a little crazy.