David Nelson Nelson's Blog, page 3
March 1, 2016
The Public School Advantage
My childhood friend wrote the following article. It is re-printed here with his permission. Dave Markward is considered an authority figure on this subject. I hope it stirs some debate. Feel free to comment and express your views.
The Public School Advantage
I have watched the presidential debates and town hall meetings with interest and anticipation. I keep thinking that there will be some questions about the candidates’ plans for public education. With total government expenditures for education approaching $1 trillion in fiscal 2016 (Chantrill, 2016), isn’t a question or two about how our next leader-in-chief feels about spending our money to educate the students who will shape our future reasonable?
On my radar only Dr. Ben Carson’s statement has appeared: “The best-educated students are home-schooled, then from private, charter and, lastly, public schools,” (Turner, 2015). I thought at the time that his statement would surely lead to some additional talk about education. I was wrong. And so, it stands, unchallenged and representing what may likely be the prevailing thought among many.
I admit that I have a warm spot in my heart for public schools. My oldest brother recently retired after 40 years as a music professor at Rhode Island College. My other older brother just retired after 45 years of work as a pharmacist. I worked for 38 years as an educator in the public schools of Illinois and Iowa.
What did we have in common? We were educated in the public schools of Dubuque, Iowa. Our elementary and junior high schools were located in the northeast part of town. Dubuquers past and present will tell you there were no silver spoons in those neighborhoods. Yet, most of the kids have gone on to do credible and, in some cases, remarkable work.
All four of my children were educated in public schools. All four have degrees from four-year universities. Two of the four are teachers in public schools with very large percentages of students living in poverty. They are hard working and dedicated to kids who don’t have the advantages many families take for granted.
I am proud of them for doing that, and they are not alone. The number of schools with large numbers of students in poverty grows each year, often becoming more concentrated as students move to the perceived ‘greener pastures’ of other public schools in neighborhoods of wealth, charter schools, private schools, or are educated at home. The comments of Dr. Carson and others may tend to exacerbate that trend. Is his an accurate statement?
At the time of Dr. Carson’s’ remarks, I was reading The Public School Advantage: Why Public Schools Outperform Private Schools(2014) by Christopher and Sarah Lubienski of the University of Illinois. It is a straightforward presentation by two professors who attended public and private schools – parochial in one case, Christian in another. Their own families send their children to schools that are public, Lutheran, evangelical, or they homeschool. In short, the Lubienskis have no axe to grind and have skin in the game in all of the entities they have researched.
They analyzed nationally representative student mathematics performance data from the 2003 National Assessment of Education Progress (NAEP) datasets consisting of a sample of over one-third of a million students in grades 4 and 8 as well as the 21,000 student sample from the National Center for Eduation Statistics (NCES) Early Childhood Longitudinal Study, Kindergarten Class of 1998-99, with follow-up assessments to determine learning growth in their first, third, fifth and eighth grade years (Pollack, 2005). These are the largest student population samples ever analyzed.
In a nutshell, the Lubienskis found: On average, private and charter schools have higher scores, but not because they are better institutions. The higher results are produced by students largely coming from more privileged backgrounds that offer greater educational support. After statistically controlling for demographics, the Lubienskis show that gains in student achievement at public schools are at least as great and often greater than those at private and charter schools.
They are not alone in their findings. Studies conducted at Stanford University, Educational Testing Service, and the University of Notre Dame produced some of the same results. In the Lubienski’s words “While the findings presented in this book may appear to be surprisingly counterintuitive, or even outlandish to some, they are increasingly in good company.”
I am sure there will be those who say, “This can’t be!” Some may refute the statistics and present different findings. And that’s OK. I’m just encouraging discussions and decisions that are based on reliable, empirical evidence rather than pre-formed, self-serving preferences.
When politicians and others offer sweeping comments about the quality of education, ask them where they are getting their statistics. I’ve told you where I am getting mine, and I invite you to take a closer look at them.
Dave MarkwardFormer Superintendent, Rock Island and Cedar Rapids SchoolsDirector of the Iowa Instructional Rounds Network
*References in this article available upon request.
References
Braun, H., Jenkins, F., and Grigg, W. (2006). Comparing Private Schools and Public Schools Using Hierarchical Linear Modeling.(NCES 2006-461). U.S. Department of Education, National Center for Education Statistics, Institute of Education Sciences. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Retrieved February 25, 2016 from https://nces.ed.gov/nationsreportcard/pdf/studies/2006461.pdf.
Carbonaro, W. (2006). Public-Private Differences in Achievement among Kindergarten Students: Differences in Learning Opportunities and Student Outcomes. American Journal of Education, 113 (1), p31-67 Retrieved February 23, 2016 from http://eric.ed.gov/?id=EJ750303.
Chantrill, Christopher. (2016). Government Spending Chart Gallery. Retrieve February 21, 2016 from http://www.usgovernmentspending.com/charts.
Lubienski, C. A., & Lubienski, S. T. (2014). The Public School Advantage: Why Public Schools Outperform Private Schools. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Pollack, J. M., Najarian, M. J., Rock, D. A., & Atkinson-Burnett, S. A. (2005). Early Childhood Longitudinal Study, Kindergarten Class of 1998-99 (ECLS-K), Psychometric Report for the Fifth Grade. Washington, DC: National Center for Education Statistics.
Reardon, S.F., Cheadle, J.E., & Robinson, J.P. (2009). The effect of Catholic schooling on math and reading development in kindergarten through fifth grade. Journal of Research on Educational Effectiveness, 2(1), 45-87. Retrieved February 24, 2016 fromhttp://cepa.stanford.edu/content/effect-catholic-schooling-math-and-reading-development-kindergarten-through-fifth-grade.
Turner, J. (November 23, 2015). Carson Highlights Education, Jobs. The Dispatch and Rock Island Argus.
The Public School Advantage
I have watched the presidential debates and town hall meetings with interest and anticipation. I keep thinking that there will be some questions about the candidates’ plans for public education. With total government expenditures for education approaching $1 trillion in fiscal 2016 (Chantrill, 2016), isn’t a question or two about how our next leader-in-chief feels about spending our money to educate the students who will shape our future reasonable?
On my radar only Dr. Ben Carson’s statement has appeared: “The best-educated students are home-schooled, then from private, charter and, lastly, public schools,” (Turner, 2015). I thought at the time that his statement would surely lead to some additional talk about education. I was wrong. And so, it stands, unchallenged and representing what may likely be the prevailing thought among many.
I admit that I have a warm spot in my heart for public schools. My oldest brother recently retired after 40 years as a music professor at Rhode Island College. My other older brother just retired after 45 years of work as a pharmacist. I worked for 38 years as an educator in the public schools of Illinois and Iowa.
What did we have in common? We were educated in the public schools of Dubuque, Iowa. Our elementary and junior high schools were located in the northeast part of town. Dubuquers past and present will tell you there were no silver spoons in those neighborhoods. Yet, most of the kids have gone on to do credible and, in some cases, remarkable work.
All four of my children were educated in public schools. All four have degrees from four-year universities. Two of the four are teachers in public schools with very large percentages of students living in poverty. They are hard working and dedicated to kids who don’t have the advantages many families take for granted.
I am proud of them for doing that, and they are not alone. The number of schools with large numbers of students in poverty grows each year, often becoming more concentrated as students move to the perceived ‘greener pastures’ of other public schools in neighborhoods of wealth, charter schools, private schools, or are educated at home. The comments of Dr. Carson and others may tend to exacerbate that trend. Is his an accurate statement?
At the time of Dr. Carson’s’ remarks, I was reading The Public School Advantage: Why Public Schools Outperform Private Schools(2014) by Christopher and Sarah Lubienski of the University of Illinois. It is a straightforward presentation by two professors who attended public and private schools – parochial in one case, Christian in another. Their own families send their children to schools that are public, Lutheran, evangelical, or they homeschool. In short, the Lubienskis have no axe to grind and have skin in the game in all of the entities they have researched.
They analyzed nationally representative student mathematics performance data from the 2003 National Assessment of Education Progress (NAEP) datasets consisting of a sample of over one-third of a million students in grades 4 and 8 as well as the 21,000 student sample from the National Center for Eduation Statistics (NCES) Early Childhood Longitudinal Study, Kindergarten Class of 1998-99, with follow-up assessments to determine learning growth in their first, third, fifth and eighth grade years (Pollack, 2005). These are the largest student population samples ever analyzed.
In a nutshell, the Lubienskis found: On average, private and charter schools have higher scores, but not because they are better institutions. The higher results are produced by students largely coming from more privileged backgrounds that offer greater educational support. After statistically controlling for demographics, the Lubienskis show that gains in student achievement at public schools are at least as great and often greater than those at private and charter schools.
They are not alone in their findings. Studies conducted at Stanford University, Educational Testing Service, and the University of Notre Dame produced some of the same results. In the Lubienski’s words “While the findings presented in this book may appear to be surprisingly counterintuitive, or even outlandish to some, they are increasingly in good company.”
I am sure there will be those who say, “This can’t be!” Some may refute the statistics and present different findings. And that’s OK. I’m just encouraging discussions and decisions that are based on reliable, empirical evidence rather than pre-formed, self-serving preferences.
When politicians and others offer sweeping comments about the quality of education, ask them where they are getting their statistics. I’ve told you where I am getting mine, and I invite you to take a closer look at them.
Dave MarkwardFormer Superintendent, Rock Island and Cedar Rapids SchoolsDirector of the Iowa Instructional Rounds Network
*References in this article available upon request.
References
Braun, H., Jenkins, F., and Grigg, W. (2006). Comparing Private Schools and Public Schools Using Hierarchical Linear Modeling.(NCES 2006-461). U.S. Department of Education, National Center for Education Statistics, Institute of Education Sciences. Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office. Retrieved February 25, 2016 from https://nces.ed.gov/nationsreportcard/pdf/studies/2006461.pdf.
Carbonaro, W. (2006). Public-Private Differences in Achievement among Kindergarten Students: Differences in Learning Opportunities and Student Outcomes. American Journal of Education, 113 (1), p31-67 Retrieved February 23, 2016 from http://eric.ed.gov/?id=EJ750303.
Chantrill, Christopher. (2016). Government Spending Chart Gallery. Retrieve February 21, 2016 from http://www.usgovernmentspending.com/charts.
Lubienski, C. A., & Lubienski, S. T. (2014). The Public School Advantage: Why Public Schools Outperform Private Schools. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.
Pollack, J. M., Najarian, M. J., Rock, D. A., & Atkinson-Burnett, S. A. (2005). Early Childhood Longitudinal Study, Kindergarten Class of 1998-99 (ECLS-K), Psychometric Report for the Fifth Grade. Washington, DC: National Center for Education Statistics.
Reardon, S.F., Cheadle, J.E., & Robinson, J.P. (2009). The effect of Catholic schooling on math and reading development in kindergarten through fifth grade. Journal of Research on Educational Effectiveness, 2(1), 45-87. Retrieved February 24, 2016 fromhttp://cepa.stanford.edu/content/effect-catholic-schooling-math-and-reading-development-kindergarten-through-fifth-grade.
Turner, J. (November 23, 2015). Carson Highlights Education, Jobs. The Dispatch and Rock Island Argus.
December 14, 2015
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Christmas Fruitcake - Yum or Yuk
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: Christmas Fruitcake - Yum or Yuk: Christmas Fruitcake - Yum or Yuk The Christmas Fruitcake © I like all kinds of traditions. I especially like the Christmas tradition of...
Christmas Fruitcake - Yum or Yuk
Christmas Fruitcake - Yum or YukThe Christmas Fruitcake ©I like all kinds of traditions. I especially like the Christmas tradition of standing in long lines at the post office to mail packages that have a high probability of getting lost or delivered six months later. The term Postal Service is an oxymoron. I like watching television reports of people standing in long lines outside closed stores, in the middle of the night waiting for the store to open. I enjoy the news showing the rush of people fighting, punching, and kicking to buy some toy that the media convinced us we should own. I wonder if that’s what is meant by tidings of good cheer? I like food and I like to eat. I like the tradition of preparing treats that are only made at Christmas. It’s fun to re-invent the learning curve because I forgot how to make an item during the past year. It’s also fun to learn the same thing new each December. I think that might be one definition of insanity. The added holiday stress is something my Type A personality enjoys. So does my pharmacist because I have to load up on anxiety medications. My heritage is German and Norwegian. We talk a little funny but we enjoy our Christmas foods.Each year at Christmas my family makes potato bread and a cookie. The bread is called lefse. It’s a large round flat piece of dough. It’s warmed in the oven, covered with butter, rolled up and vigorously chewed with every bit of jaw strength one can muster. And that’s just to bite off a piece. The Norse god, Odin, first had it served to the souls of slain warriors because it would last an eternity. My brother, Richard calls it reindeer hide. He doesn’t like the stuff. But he’s not much of a traditionalist. Lefse is a Norwegian version of beef jerky. It can last forever. Krumkake is a Norwegian waffle cookie that takes a long time to make. Each cookie is made by hand one at a time. The first bite crumbles the cookie into hundreds of tiny pieces. As a kid I always liked watching adults make a mess. Uff-Dah!There is one tradition I do not like - that is the re-appearance each December of fruitcake, the most disgusting food item ever created. Fruitcake was discovered by accident by a Greek fella named Imus Disgustus.He was sitting around one day fully crocked on some fermented apple juice and felt creative. You probably don’t know this, but he was the first person the see a chicken lay an egg. There he was, soused to the gills and saw what appeared to be a white oval-shaped thing fall from what he thought was the chicken’s butt. He scratched his head and pondered. “Hey, we can crack that thing open and eat it.”Later that day, ole Imus was out of his happy juice and was scrounging around his bachelor pad trying to find more alcohol of any type. All he could find was dried up raisins, hardened cranberries, crusty blueberries, chunks of cherries, fermented figs, dehydrated apricots and he finally came upon some brandy. He thought he’d have some fun.He decided to cook something during his drunken stupor. He mixed the five-year old, dried up ingredients with some flour, sugar, baking powder, allspice and baking soda. He tipped some brandy into the mess for good measure. And presto! He created the first fruitcake. The year was 1170 AD. There are still edible pieces of his original cake displayed in Athens at the Martha Stewart Museum for Aged Products.I got to thinking. Who in the world should be given this disgusting, vile, repulsive food as a holiday tradition? Politicians should be given fruitcake. The descriptions of the food and the profession are the same. An added benefit might be their inability to swallow and thus hinder their ability to talk. We could all prosper from that. When a politician isn’t talking, there’s no lies being told.I think we should give one to our judges each December. Surely, they would write a court order of protection that no normal citizen could be within a half-mile of fruitcake. Those folks waiting in lines in the middle of the night at closed stores would be exempt from that order because they are not normal anyway. Plus the name itself pretty much describes those people – fruitcakes.I gave a loaf to my neighbor last year. He owned a dog that barked constantly. The neighbor fella must not have liked my fruitcake. I saw the thing thrown out into his back yard. He probably figured the dog would eat it. That dog has been trying all year to eat and swallow the stuff. Ah-ha. I just noticed there has been no more barking.Workers in the pharmaceutical industry should be given fruitcake and forced to eat it. The side effects include constipation, upset stomach, difficulty swallowing and nasty residual taste, inability to speak for hours, loss of sex life (because all they are too busy chewing), painful jaws, and seventeen others.I sent one last Christmas to some prisoners sentenced to life without the possibility of parole. I figured it would take them that length of time to eat my gift. After all, fruitcake does last a lifetime. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.Some dentists set out trays with bite size morsels in their lobbies. This stuff will chip or loosen a perfectly good tooth after just three bites. I figure it’s good for the dental business. But then, maybe some of the dentists just want to use their new reciprocating saws they bought at Home Depot. I found that to be the best tool to cut this stuff into pieces.There is one time a person should never eat fruitcake. Never attempt to consume this vile concoction if you are scheduled for a colonoscopy in the next six months. The ingredients will still be embedded inside and can appear as radioactive polyps. Then your medical insurance rates will increase because you will have a new diagnosis.Lastly, I don’t know of a single person who claims to like fruitcake. If I hear of someone who claims to enjoy fruitcake, I can never locate him or her for an interview. Trust me, I have tried. They are nowhere to be found. That’s like the people who were supposedly asked questions in a national survey or a political poll. I’ve lived a long time. I know lots of people and never met a person yet who claims to have been a part of some survey.If you do ever meet one of those folks, they are probably lying. I’ll bet they will tell you that they like fruitcake also.
This story is from my book, "If The Hills Could Talk" and can be found at Amazon or my web site. www.davidnelsonauthor.com
This story is from my book, "If The Hills Could Talk" and can be found at Amazon or my web site. www.davidnelsonauthor.com
December 12, 2015
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Touch That Tingles
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: The Touch That Tingles: The Touch That Tingles Shadows danced across the wall and the silence was broken when Edith shifted her weight against the mattress. “O...
The Touch That Tingles
The Touch That Tingles
Shadows danced across the wall and the silence was broken when Edith shifted her weight against the mattress. “Oh yes, talk to Mama. God, that feels so good – so very good.”
It had been what seemed like years since the last time Edith was touched like this and was moaning with ecstasy.
Bert cleared his throat and grinned. “Ahem, I’m glad you like it so much.”
“Oh, shush. You have no idea how great this feels.”
Bert shifted his body and returned to a more comfortable position for himself. He closed his eyes. Edith lifted her other leg and also closed her eyes.
“Oh, yes, yes that’s the spot. Right there. Oh this is like heaven.”
The flickering light seemed to brighten at times when Edith bumped the bedside table while collapsing further into the mattress. The alternating effleurage movements from light stroking to deep squeezing excited her. Her eyes rolled back into her head. The touch was like an esoteric healing for her. She pulled her tongue from between her teeth and continued. “Oh, why wasn’t this done before? Every spot feels so good. Yes, yes, yes!”
Bert fluffed the pillow and opened his eyes. “Are you close? Are you almost done? I don’t know how much longer I can do this?”
During their thirty-five years of marriage neither of them had experienced such an event. Edith scratched her upper lip and sucked in the aroma of the jasmine oil when it penetrated into her brain through her nostrils. “Oh, this smells divine.”
Every sensory nerve ending was stimulated, blood flow increased and she could only wonder what life might have been like if this had been done during their entire marriage. Her tone varied from soft cooing to near shouting with the touch as fingers rose higher and deeper. The light seemed to flicker with greater intensity.
She felt the bed shift when Bert stood up. “Okay, I’ve had enough! I’m going to sleep in the guest room,” he scoffed at her while standing on his side of the bed and then continued. “How long are you going to sit there and rub your feet? And will you please tighten that dang light bulb? I can’t get to sleep between the light flickering and you over there moaning like some porn queen. Geeze!”
“I told you, I have plantar fasciitis and my therapist, David told me to massage each foot for fifteen minutes. Now, ya dang ole coot, get back into bed. I’m finished now.
Bert lay back down and Edith tightened the light bulb. Within minutes there was a harmony of snoring while the smell of jasmine hung in the night air.
Shadows danced across the wall and the silence was broken when Edith shifted her weight against the mattress. “Oh yes, talk to Mama. God, that feels so good – so very good.”
It had been what seemed like years since the last time Edith was touched like this and was moaning with ecstasy.
Bert cleared his throat and grinned. “Ahem, I’m glad you like it so much.”
“Oh, shush. You have no idea how great this feels.”
Bert shifted his body and returned to a more comfortable position for himself. He closed his eyes. Edith lifted her other leg and also closed her eyes.
“Oh, yes, yes that’s the spot. Right there. Oh this is like heaven.”
The flickering light seemed to brighten at times when Edith bumped the bedside table while collapsing further into the mattress. The alternating effleurage movements from light stroking to deep squeezing excited her. Her eyes rolled back into her head. The touch was like an esoteric healing for her. She pulled her tongue from between her teeth and continued. “Oh, why wasn’t this done before? Every spot feels so good. Yes, yes, yes!”
Bert fluffed the pillow and opened his eyes. “Are you close? Are you almost done? I don’t know how much longer I can do this?”
During their thirty-five years of marriage neither of them had experienced such an event. Edith scratched her upper lip and sucked in the aroma of the jasmine oil when it penetrated into her brain through her nostrils. “Oh, this smells divine.”
Every sensory nerve ending was stimulated, blood flow increased and she could only wonder what life might have been like if this had been done during their entire marriage. Her tone varied from soft cooing to near shouting with the touch as fingers rose higher and deeper. The light seemed to flicker with greater intensity.
She felt the bed shift when Bert stood up. “Okay, I’ve had enough! I’m going to sleep in the guest room,” he scoffed at her while standing on his side of the bed and then continued. “How long are you going to sit there and rub your feet? And will you please tighten that dang light bulb? I can’t get to sleep between the light flickering and you over there moaning like some porn queen. Geeze!”
“I told you, I have plantar fasciitis and my therapist, David told me to massage each foot for fifteen minutes. Now, ya dang ole coot, get back into bed. I’m finished now.
Bert lay back down and Edith tightened the light bulb. Within minutes there was a harmony of snoring while the smell of jasmine hung in the night air.
November 8, 2015
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: If I Had A Hammer
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: If I Had A Hammer: If I Had a Hammer Peter, Paul and Mary recorded “If I Had A Hammer” in 1962. The song was originally written in 1949. It was a catchy t...
If I Had A Hammer
If I Had a Hammer
Peter, Paul and Mary recorded “If I Had A Hammer” in 1962. The song was originally written in 1949. It was a catchy tune to a thirteen-year old kid that year. I enjoyed that song. Little did I know that years later my life motto would have the same theme.
If I had a hammer, I’d clobber anything mechanical that fell apart. Yep, that’s my answer to stuff that breaks. I have no ability to repair anything. I don’t know the difference between a ball-peen and claw hammer nor a regular and phillip’s head screwdriver. When I need help I call a “pro” if the item is expensive. If the item is a piece of cheap crap, well I go get a hammer. Which one I use to destroy it, makes no difference to me.
The following short story is a true one. It’s about my lack of patience, prowess and power to accomplish a simple task. I assembled a metal storage shed. The story is from my book PALS: Part Two and can be found at Amazon or my website www.davidnelsonauthor.com
“The Open Door Policy” ©
“Whoosh” went the air brakes from the semi tractor-trailer that was now parked in front of my house. I saw the driver walk towards my front door. Oh boy, I was excited. He was from Roadway Express and here to deliver my metal shed. A shed I intended to put to good use as storage in the pool area. But first I had to put it together.
“Where do you want this thing?” the driver asked.
I walked a fast pace in front of him, and pointed. “ Here, I’ll show you. Can you get it up here under the carport?”
He scratched his head and looked puzzled. “There’s no way my forklift will make it under here. But I’ll try to get it as close as I can.”
And the next thing I knew, the noise of the forklift starting, the loud tailgate dropping, and the racket from him loading my shed, brought out a couple neighbors and then kids on bicycles. Cars were lined up behind the semi because there was not enough room to pass. I just realized that it was 5:30 P.M. and the neighbors were coming home from work.
I felt the heavy thud on the cement as he dropped the back half of the palate and shed. The closest he could get to being under my carport was halfway. I signed the papers and turned to look at what lay in front of me. Cautious optimism fell over me and I swallowed a big gulp. I can do this thing, I said to myself. How difficult can it be?
Having been out of graduate school for three years, my thinking was still in the scientific mode. I learned to think that way because of my didactic training. I took the 147-page manual into the house, sat at the table, and began using my yellow highlighter leftover from my biostatistics class.
The first step was to take an inventory. Great. I thought. That makes perfect sense. That is logical. I could not contain my excitement, and after I finished supper, I decided to start my new project. It was only after I headed out the door that I remembered it was 7:10 P.M.
Earlier, I had skimmed the first forty-three pages of the manual and my highlighter was dry from everything I’d underlined. But that didn’t matter because the seven pages of inventory were cut and dried. Any idiot could follow those directions. Using a steak knife I sliced into the taped carton on all sides. I lifted the five-foot by seven-foot cover off and set it out of my way on the far side of the carport. That cover reminded me of a larger version of the donut boxes outside The Milk House in Dubuque. Those stolen donuts sure tasted great.
I turned on the porch lights and found the bags of screws, nuts, bolts, washers, miscellaneous parts, and unknown plastic pieces. I squatted with both knees bent, tightened my stomach, and lifted the first thirty-pound bag of fasteners out of the box. The second bag was not nearly as heavy.
I used the lid for a collection surface for all the pieces. I marked each lettered item on the lid and then placed the corresponding pieces next to it. I placed a check mark by each item in the manual. I was up to the stock letters AAAA when I finished inventorying the first bag. Thankfully, I had a piece of plywood leaning against the pool fence. I lugged the sap-soaked board under the carport to use as a collection surface for the second bag of fasteners. Weeks before I learned how well gasoline removes tree sap. After washing my hands in gas and wiping them dry, I lit a cigar and marveled at the project I would complete in a day. It was now 9:25 P.M.
Heat lightening, I thought as I opened my back door to go inside and get a cold beer. I stood in amazement and gulped a few swigs of beer. I wiped sweat from my face. I had never seen so many pieces to one single unit. And those were just the small pieces. I didn’t inventory the main parts. I used my cap to wipe the sweat from my bald head and went back inside to get a dry cap. The heat lightening continued.
The humidity was so heavy it actually felt moveable, like a person could move it with their hands and arms. Within moments my new cap and my shirt were soaked. Having a second beer and still looking at what lay in front of me, I decided the only thing to do was to attack. Something nudged at me though and I remembered thinking how impressive the frequent heat lightening was that night.
It was about an hour later when the flashlight quit for the first time. I looked everywhere for size D batteries in the house and found none. I found that when I banged the flashlight against the cement it would glow just long enough to find a piece or a part. The process slowed my progress but not my enthusiasm. I was sort-of having fun. I was no longer soaked from the humidity or heat. As a matter of fact, I remembered being somewhat cool from the drop in temperature and slight breeze. That felt nice.
Somewhere around 1 A.M., I felt a little puff of wind. I was reading the manual on or around page seventy-six. I had three sides of the shed assembled. It became quite difficult to balance those sides, hold a broken flashlight and to read instructions at the same time. The wind began to increase and I noticed how the sides made warbling sounds. As the wind increased so did the tin melody. I saw the illumination of a porch light being turned on at one of the neighbor’s houses. And then I realized: I was trapped in a three-sided metal snarl.
I used what little common sense I had and shimmied and shoved the contraption across the driveway. It sure did make a lot of noise scraping against that cement. I made it to the side of the house and propped one end against the house. Two more neighbors’ lights helped illuminate my work area. I went inside and returned with a mop. I used the mop to balance the other sides. The music from the sides whipping in the wind stopped.
When the first pine cone fell, but didn’t hit the ground because of heavy winds, I suspected I could be in trouble. I was reading the manual when I noticed a red stop sign around a boxed-in information piece. It read: ”Caution. Do NOT assemble in High Winds.”
The rains came whipping sideways, pine needles were flying through the air like darts in a tournament, and the entire packing crate was soaked from the downpour. The box top skimmed across the cement like a magic carpet. I chased it down my driveway after tripping on that damn flashlight. All the hardware was scattered throughout the box lid. Most of my lettering was bleeding beyond distinction from the rain.
I pulled the box back under the carport and secured it with the corner of the plywood. In doing so, I slid all the hardware off the wood. I went into the house to make a pot of coffee. It was 1:30 A.M. The storm passed about forty-five minutes later and I was blowing on my cup of coffee looking at the mess. I brought out an extension cord and adapters. I took three table lamps from the living room and plugged them into the outlets. Presto! It looked like Yankee Stadium lit up for a night game. I felt like telling my thoughtful neighbors I didn’t need their lights anymore. There were now five houses lit up and a few dogs barking somewhere.
I re-inventoried the pieces I could find and sat on a lawn chair trying to figure what to do. I analyzed, synthesized, and hypothesized. My next goal was to get that fourth side up and screwed down so the unit was secured. I then noticed a cartoon of someone smiling in the manual.
The caption read: “Congratulations. You have completed Part One. You only have four more parts to go. This should have taken a total of two hours to complete.” It took me eight hours. Eight hours. I am trying to make this story acceptable for all ages – so I will not write what I said. I went to bed. It was 3 A.M.
In our family, whenever we screw something up or go about an activity the wrong way, we refer to that as the Rick Factor. The term is named in honor of my brother Richard. He can go off like a rocket with any mechanical failure or any time things don’t go quite right. One time I saw him throw rocks at his car when it wouldn’t start. I watched him bend the new oven burner in two parts because he could not get it anchored correctly and smacked and cut his head on the oven door. As I lay in bed evaluating the previous eight hours or so, I smiled and called my project the Rick Factor. I promised myself that my next attempt to finish the project would be much better. I drifted off to sleep thinking of that damn flashlight.
7 A.M. came early for me, way too early. I had a fitful four hours of sleep and I dreamt I was on a magic carpet made of cardboard. During the ride, I avoided asteroids that looked like screws, bolts and pinecones. After waking, I made coffee and went back to my project. I stood under the carport evaluating all the pieces remaining to connect while I enjoyed my morning brew. I turned to go back into the house and noticed something odd. I saw five houses with their outside lights still burning. Wasting electricity, I thought.
I scraped the four-walled structure across the cement. It had been propped near the house and I needed it to be in the center of the carport. I heard a dog howl somewhere nearby. There was no wind like last night, so the structure stayed in place. I connected cross-brace AABC to its counterpart on the side at the hole marked JJKY. Using washer NNOP, I balanced the bolt, labeled GOGD and used nut labeled POOP to secure the brace. One down and seven to go, I thought.
A couple hours later I had the bracing complete and was ready for the roof panels. The next and last thing would be the installation of the doors. I noticed quite a bit of fine print on each page, but didn’t slow down to read all of it. I could see where everything was really going and was on a roll now.
It took two more hours before I finished the top and while the doors were confusing, I connected them without difficulty. I remember one place in which there was no hole drilled for my bolt. I almost drilled a new hole, but decided to step back a minute and I’m glad I did. I was trying to put the door on upside down. That would indeed have been a Rick Factor.
Now, I only had three pages left go. I was excited, happy, and having fun – right up to the point where I fell off the ladder and into the metal roof. I had been on the top rung of my ladder anchoring the panels. I had just one more panel to go and it was quite a stretch. I felt the ladder wobbling. I lost my balance and put a huge dent in the left roof panel (item number WWOW) with my elbow.
Now another part of the Rick Factor is the loss of patience when things don’t go quite like they’re supposed to go. We cuss! We throw things! We scream! We may even break stuff. I calmly dropped to the cement, walked into the shed, and with my fist, I hit that roof with all my strength. One factor about metal is that it’s near impossible to return it to its original shape after being bent. I learned that in summer school in physics class.
I climbed back to the top of the ladder and didn’t need to look far to see the damage. That panel had a pretty good-sized bubble projecting out. Ah, nobody will see it anyway, I thought. I covered every nut with special tape on the inside of the shed. This was to keep it from leaking. I was pretty proud of myself and celebrated by getting a beer and lighting a cigar.
Moments later I was blowing smoke rings across the carport and into the shed. I bit down on my cigar with my teeth and stood facing my masterpiece and closed the doors. “Son-of-a-Bitch!” I yelled. The doors did not meet!
There was a three-inch gap. I bit my cigar in half and kicked the nearly full can of beer onto my plywood work surface. I threw a pair of vice grips, two screwdrivers, and a ratchet into the front yard. I let loose with a litany of cuss words that would have made a sailor blush. Have you ever noticed how many parts there are to a flashlight? I separated all of them with a few direct smashes against the driveway. All of them.
The neighborhood kids who were using my pool at that moment slammed into me, and sprinted out the gate towards their homes. My tantrum must have frightened them. They scattered in different directions like a nest of cockroaches when a light is lit in a dark room. I had forgotten they were using my pool. That same dog from the night before howled from all the commotion coming from under my carport. I yelled, I punched my fists into the air and finally screamed. THAT, my friends, is the Rick Factor!
It was two days later that I was calm enough to re-read the instruction book. I returned to the section about the doors. In the fine print appeared a stop sign logo that mentioned the exact way to connect the door panels. When I attempted to hang the door panel upside down, I had read the identifying letters incorrectly. All the M’s looked like W’s. As fate would have it, the door panel marked W was to be placed on the opposite site.
I gave some kid a dollar to look for tools in my yard while I removed the roof panel tape. Yep, I had to remove the entire roof, change the doors, and re-apply the roof - again. I finished just in time as several of my buddies began to arrive. They came to help carry the storage shed and place it along the fence inside the pool area.
We were all enjoying a beer except for Dan. He had not touched his. He was too busy inspecting the shed. He laughed. “Hey, Nelson why is there a bubble in the roof? Does that have something to do with physics also?”
https://youtu.be/ZqJ8uShcMt8
Peter, Paul and Mary recorded “If I Had A Hammer” in 1962. The song was originally written in 1949. It was a catchy tune to a thirteen-year old kid that year. I enjoyed that song. Little did I know that years later my life motto would have the same theme.
If I had a hammer, I’d clobber anything mechanical that fell apart. Yep, that’s my answer to stuff that breaks. I have no ability to repair anything. I don’t know the difference between a ball-peen and claw hammer nor a regular and phillip’s head screwdriver. When I need help I call a “pro” if the item is expensive. If the item is a piece of cheap crap, well I go get a hammer. Which one I use to destroy it, makes no difference to me.
The following short story is a true one. It’s about my lack of patience, prowess and power to accomplish a simple task. I assembled a metal storage shed. The story is from my book PALS: Part Two and can be found at Amazon or my website www.davidnelsonauthor.com
“The Open Door Policy” ©
“Whoosh” went the air brakes from the semi tractor-trailer that was now parked in front of my house. I saw the driver walk towards my front door. Oh boy, I was excited. He was from Roadway Express and here to deliver my metal shed. A shed I intended to put to good use as storage in the pool area. But first I had to put it together.
“Where do you want this thing?” the driver asked.
I walked a fast pace in front of him, and pointed. “ Here, I’ll show you. Can you get it up here under the carport?”
He scratched his head and looked puzzled. “There’s no way my forklift will make it under here. But I’ll try to get it as close as I can.”
And the next thing I knew, the noise of the forklift starting, the loud tailgate dropping, and the racket from him loading my shed, brought out a couple neighbors and then kids on bicycles. Cars were lined up behind the semi because there was not enough room to pass. I just realized that it was 5:30 P.M. and the neighbors were coming home from work.
I felt the heavy thud on the cement as he dropped the back half of the palate and shed. The closest he could get to being under my carport was halfway. I signed the papers and turned to look at what lay in front of me. Cautious optimism fell over me and I swallowed a big gulp. I can do this thing, I said to myself. How difficult can it be?
Having been out of graduate school for three years, my thinking was still in the scientific mode. I learned to think that way because of my didactic training. I took the 147-page manual into the house, sat at the table, and began using my yellow highlighter leftover from my biostatistics class.
The first step was to take an inventory. Great. I thought. That makes perfect sense. That is logical. I could not contain my excitement, and after I finished supper, I decided to start my new project. It was only after I headed out the door that I remembered it was 7:10 P.M.
Earlier, I had skimmed the first forty-three pages of the manual and my highlighter was dry from everything I’d underlined. But that didn’t matter because the seven pages of inventory were cut and dried. Any idiot could follow those directions. Using a steak knife I sliced into the taped carton on all sides. I lifted the five-foot by seven-foot cover off and set it out of my way on the far side of the carport. That cover reminded me of a larger version of the donut boxes outside The Milk House in Dubuque. Those stolen donuts sure tasted great.
I turned on the porch lights and found the bags of screws, nuts, bolts, washers, miscellaneous parts, and unknown plastic pieces. I squatted with both knees bent, tightened my stomach, and lifted the first thirty-pound bag of fasteners out of the box. The second bag was not nearly as heavy.
I used the lid for a collection surface for all the pieces. I marked each lettered item on the lid and then placed the corresponding pieces next to it. I placed a check mark by each item in the manual. I was up to the stock letters AAAA when I finished inventorying the first bag. Thankfully, I had a piece of plywood leaning against the pool fence. I lugged the sap-soaked board under the carport to use as a collection surface for the second bag of fasteners. Weeks before I learned how well gasoline removes tree sap. After washing my hands in gas and wiping them dry, I lit a cigar and marveled at the project I would complete in a day. It was now 9:25 P.M.
Heat lightening, I thought as I opened my back door to go inside and get a cold beer. I stood in amazement and gulped a few swigs of beer. I wiped sweat from my face. I had never seen so many pieces to one single unit. And those were just the small pieces. I didn’t inventory the main parts. I used my cap to wipe the sweat from my bald head and went back inside to get a dry cap. The heat lightening continued.
The humidity was so heavy it actually felt moveable, like a person could move it with their hands and arms. Within moments my new cap and my shirt were soaked. Having a second beer and still looking at what lay in front of me, I decided the only thing to do was to attack. Something nudged at me though and I remembered thinking how impressive the frequent heat lightening was that night.
It was about an hour later when the flashlight quit for the first time. I looked everywhere for size D batteries in the house and found none. I found that when I banged the flashlight against the cement it would glow just long enough to find a piece or a part. The process slowed my progress but not my enthusiasm. I was sort-of having fun. I was no longer soaked from the humidity or heat. As a matter of fact, I remembered being somewhat cool from the drop in temperature and slight breeze. That felt nice.
Somewhere around 1 A.M., I felt a little puff of wind. I was reading the manual on or around page seventy-six. I had three sides of the shed assembled. It became quite difficult to balance those sides, hold a broken flashlight and to read instructions at the same time. The wind began to increase and I noticed how the sides made warbling sounds. As the wind increased so did the tin melody. I saw the illumination of a porch light being turned on at one of the neighbor’s houses. And then I realized: I was trapped in a three-sided metal snarl.
I used what little common sense I had and shimmied and shoved the contraption across the driveway. It sure did make a lot of noise scraping against that cement. I made it to the side of the house and propped one end against the house. Two more neighbors’ lights helped illuminate my work area. I went inside and returned with a mop. I used the mop to balance the other sides. The music from the sides whipping in the wind stopped.
When the first pine cone fell, but didn’t hit the ground because of heavy winds, I suspected I could be in trouble. I was reading the manual when I noticed a red stop sign around a boxed-in information piece. It read: ”Caution. Do NOT assemble in High Winds.”
The rains came whipping sideways, pine needles were flying through the air like darts in a tournament, and the entire packing crate was soaked from the downpour. The box top skimmed across the cement like a magic carpet. I chased it down my driveway after tripping on that damn flashlight. All the hardware was scattered throughout the box lid. Most of my lettering was bleeding beyond distinction from the rain.
I pulled the box back under the carport and secured it with the corner of the plywood. In doing so, I slid all the hardware off the wood. I went into the house to make a pot of coffee. It was 1:30 A.M. The storm passed about forty-five minutes later and I was blowing on my cup of coffee looking at the mess. I brought out an extension cord and adapters. I took three table lamps from the living room and plugged them into the outlets. Presto! It looked like Yankee Stadium lit up for a night game. I felt like telling my thoughtful neighbors I didn’t need their lights anymore. There were now five houses lit up and a few dogs barking somewhere.
I re-inventoried the pieces I could find and sat on a lawn chair trying to figure what to do. I analyzed, synthesized, and hypothesized. My next goal was to get that fourth side up and screwed down so the unit was secured. I then noticed a cartoon of someone smiling in the manual.
The caption read: “Congratulations. You have completed Part One. You only have four more parts to go. This should have taken a total of two hours to complete.” It took me eight hours. Eight hours. I am trying to make this story acceptable for all ages – so I will not write what I said. I went to bed. It was 3 A.M.
In our family, whenever we screw something up or go about an activity the wrong way, we refer to that as the Rick Factor. The term is named in honor of my brother Richard. He can go off like a rocket with any mechanical failure or any time things don’t go quite right. One time I saw him throw rocks at his car when it wouldn’t start. I watched him bend the new oven burner in two parts because he could not get it anchored correctly and smacked and cut his head on the oven door. As I lay in bed evaluating the previous eight hours or so, I smiled and called my project the Rick Factor. I promised myself that my next attempt to finish the project would be much better. I drifted off to sleep thinking of that damn flashlight.
7 A.M. came early for me, way too early. I had a fitful four hours of sleep and I dreamt I was on a magic carpet made of cardboard. During the ride, I avoided asteroids that looked like screws, bolts and pinecones. After waking, I made coffee and went back to my project. I stood under the carport evaluating all the pieces remaining to connect while I enjoyed my morning brew. I turned to go back into the house and noticed something odd. I saw five houses with their outside lights still burning. Wasting electricity, I thought.
I scraped the four-walled structure across the cement. It had been propped near the house and I needed it to be in the center of the carport. I heard a dog howl somewhere nearby. There was no wind like last night, so the structure stayed in place. I connected cross-brace AABC to its counterpart on the side at the hole marked JJKY. Using washer NNOP, I balanced the bolt, labeled GOGD and used nut labeled POOP to secure the brace. One down and seven to go, I thought.
A couple hours later I had the bracing complete and was ready for the roof panels. The next and last thing would be the installation of the doors. I noticed quite a bit of fine print on each page, but didn’t slow down to read all of it. I could see where everything was really going and was on a roll now.
It took two more hours before I finished the top and while the doors were confusing, I connected them without difficulty. I remember one place in which there was no hole drilled for my bolt. I almost drilled a new hole, but decided to step back a minute and I’m glad I did. I was trying to put the door on upside down. That would indeed have been a Rick Factor.
Now, I only had three pages left go. I was excited, happy, and having fun – right up to the point where I fell off the ladder and into the metal roof. I had been on the top rung of my ladder anchoring the panels. I had just one more panel to go and it was quite a stretch. I felt the ladder wobbling. I lost my balance and put a huge dent in the left roof panel (item number WWOW) with my elbow.
Now another part of the Rick Factor is the loss of patience when things don’t go quite like they’re supposed to go. We cuss! We throw things! We scream! We may even break stuff. I calmly dropped to the cement, walked into the shed, and with my fist, I hit that roof with all my strength. One factor about metal is that it’s near impossible to return it to its original shape after being bent. I learned that in summer school in physics class.
I climbed back to the top of the ladder and didn’t need to look far to see the damage. That panel had a pretty good-sized bubble projecting out. Ah, nobody will see it anyway, I thought. I covered every nut with special tape on the inside of the shed. This was to keep it from leaking. I was pretty proud of myself and celebrated by getting a beer and lighting a cigar.
Moments later I was blowing smoke rings across the carport and into the shed. I bit down on my cigar with my teeth and stood facing my masterpiece and closed the doors. “Son-of-a-Bitch!” I yelled. The doors did not meet!
There was a three-inch gap. I bit my cigar in half and kicked the nearly full can of beer onto my plywood work surface. I threw a pair of vice grips, two screwdrivers, and a ratchet into the front yard. I let loose with a litany of cuss words that would have made a sailor blush. Have you ever noticed how many parts there are to a flashlight? I separated all of them with a few direct smashes against the driveway. All of them.
The neighborhood kids who were using my pool at that moment slammed into me, and sprinted out the gate towards their homes. My tantrum must have frightened them. They scattered in different directions like a nest of cockroaches when a light is lit in a dark room. I had forgotten they were using my pool. That same dog from the night before howled from all the commotion coming from under my carport. I yelled, I punched my fists into the air and finally screamed. THAT, my friends, is the Rick Factor!
It was two days later that I was calm enough to re-read the instruction book. I returned to the section about the doors. In the fine print appeared a stop sign logo that mentioned the exact way to connect the door panels. When I attempted to hang the door panel upside down, I had read the identifying letters incorrectly. All the M’s looked like W’s. As fate would have it, the door panel marked W was to be placed on the opposite site.
I gave some kid a dollar to look for tools in my yard while I removed the roof panel tape. Yep, I had to remove the entire roof, change the doors, and re-apply the roof - again. I finished just in time as several of my buddies began to arrive. They came to help carry the storage shed and place it along the fence inside the pool area.
We were all enjoying a beer except for Dan. He had not touched his. He was too busy inspecting the shed. He laughed. “Hey, Nelson why is there a bubble in the roof? Does that have something to do with physics also?”
https://youtu.be/ZqJ8uShcMt8
November 2, 2015
An Old Dog & New Tricks
When Was The Last Time You Did Something For The First Time?
“Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
Aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero”Translates as:While we're talking, envious time is fleeing: pluck the day, put no trust in the future.Poet, Horace (65 BC – 8 BC)Odes Book I
Do you feel trapped, bored or sluggish in life? Do you spend more time thinking about what you can’t do than what you want to do? Do you wonder if this is all life has to offer? Maybe my experiences might offer you some food for thought.
I would challenge you to remember Horace’s advice – time is passing by and there’s no time like the present to seize the day. However, I’d add one more ingredient to the recipe for life – that is passion. For me, it is my passion and my desire to suck the marrow from life. Moments before I die, I might look back with a final fleeting glance and smile. Because, like the song title says, “I Did It My Way.”
My sixty-six years have given me many gifts. One of those gifts is to believe I can accomplish anything I choose. It’s my passion for lifelong learning that provides a sense of self-worth, lessens stress and gives meaning to life. I think a lot about life the older I get. I also think a lot about death. Many friends have died in the recent past. I sometimes wonder if they had any regrets before dying.
I hope I will not have any regrets. My goal is to experience as much as I can because as Horace said the quote above, “…envious time is fleeing.” I try to learn or participate in at least one new activity or hobby a year. Since I retired from a forty-year career as a physical therapist, I’ve been on the attack to experience and learn new activities or hobbies.
After a couple weeks of lessons a few years ago, I learned to play the alto saxophone. I never played an instrument before that time. I can now read notes and often my squawking stirs up the coyotes in the nearby mountains. I didn’t say I was any good. I simply enjoy the fact I learned something new.
Recently, I began learning how to sketch. My wife, “Trixie” complimented me on one of my drawings the other night. She smiled and said, “That’s really nice. What is it?”
“It’s an owl,” was my response. I didn’t say I was any good, you know.
Hobbies help me to develop a sense of pride, accomplishment and discover hidden talents. Since retiring, I have written six books. One of those books will be shopped in Hollywood and New York to hopefully become a movie. Also, there have been songs written about “The Shade Tree Choir.” You can find my work at www.davidnelsonauthor.com
I recently added the adventure of fishing to my checklist. The solitude of a flowing river calms my soul and affords time to think. To catch a fish or not makes no difference to me. I throw them all back into the water anyway.
New hobbies sometimes allow us to forge new friendships. You might enjoy the company of others through writing groups, golf leagues and exercise classes. I go to the gym several times a week and I manage to lose golf balls once a month or so. I’m not so good at golf either.
Some hobbies or activities can provide meaning, fun and joy to your life. Learning to make soap, creating pottery and stained glass artwork were fun. I’ve given away almost all of my creations as gifts. I believe what we give to others - we give to ourselves. It makes me feel good inside to giveaway my hand made items.
The adrenaline rush from possible dangerous situations excites me. I once caught alligators by hand. That account can be read in my book, PALS: Part Two. White water rafting the Gauley River in West Virginia, the Ocoee River in Tennessee and the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon were events I shall always remember. It doesn’t matter our age, I say, “Grab as much as you can from life anytime and anywhere.”
On a more subdued level, I learned how to make necklaces. That was on a beach in Jamaica. I thought they looked pretty good. Several bottles of Red Stripe beer will make anything look good, I guess. I learned to make baskets and a tie-dye shirt in Jamaica also. The baskets, I gave away. I still have the T-shirt. It doesn’t fit. I guess I had too many bottles of Red Stripe over the years.
I went snorkeling at night in Jamaica. That was almost as much fun as hang gliding and flying in an ultra light. I found the hot air balloon ride and parasailing kind of boring. Do you see a picture here? Do you see what I mean by sucking the marrow out of life?
Other hobbies / activities I’ve enjoyed over the years included woodworking, gardening and cooking. Well, cooking is more of a necessity I guess. “Trixie” says if I’m going to be around the house all day while she works I could learn to cook.
I read recently that the National Center for Education Statistics reported 43% of men and 49% of women participate in some sort of lifelong learning process. As a former physical therapist I understand there are certain physiological benefits to leisure activities, exercise and hobbies. Some of these include: Reduced stress, lower blood pressure, lower glucose levels, reduced depression, better sleep patterns, improved flexibility and reduced risk of a fall. Exercise can reduce the build-up of cortisol (a chemical responsible for inflammation in our arteries), improve circulation and develop greater lung capacity. I believe learning and experiencing new adventures keeps our minds sharp and our bodies in better shape. I need help with both of these.
Listen to the creaking doors in life when they open. Don’t simply peek inside. Kick that door down and jump inside with passion. I did that twice in my life.
I responded to an ad where two cowboys were riding through three States in five days on horseback. They were going to ride over one hundred miles, sleep on the ground and cover terrain hard and fast like the 1880’s cowboys. During the phone interview I was asked by one of the cowboys, “I assume you know how to ride a horse?”
“Certainly,” I lied.
After I paid my money to the fella and hung up the telephone, I grabbed the phone book. The section marked Horseback Riding Lessons was where I found my instructor. Six weeks later I was in Colorado and seven of us rode into Oklahoma and ended in New Mexico. I’m certain I didn’t have good equitation, but I had a grand time nonetheless.
That event led me to return to their Colorado ranch twice a year for many years and work cattle on horseback. We vaccinated, castrated and branded the heard after rounding them up. Each evening I entered notes in my journal related to my experiences. I created cowboy poems when I returned home. That was the origin of my vocation as a cowboy poet.
I guess you’d say I’m not an ordinary cowboy poet. I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. Our Governor and the General Assembly gave that honor to me. For over twenty years I have travelled America with my cowboy comedy show making others laugh and ponder about life. I’ve opened on stage for numerous, well-known, international performers. Often, I am the headliner. You can find more information about me on You Tube and at www.cowboycomedyshow.com
Sometimes in life additional doors will open leading to rooms we never knew existed. My work as a cowboy poet recently led me to acting and being an extra on a couple television shows and a movie.
I like the quote attributed to Aristotle when he apparently said, “Memory is the scribe of the soul.” I’ve enjoyed sharing some of my memories with you readers. I hope you would consider finding a new hobby or activity. Your life may change. Mine did.
As for me, I now need to return practicing a song on my saxophone. I plan to record it and have it played at my memorial service. It is titled, I Did It My Way.
Additional Information
Songs about one of my books:http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70http://you...
One Minute Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU
A Cowboy Poem I wrote and performed in Nashvillehttps://youtu.be/-oM0YpSmHVk
“Dum loquimur, fugerit invida
Aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero”Translates as:While we're talking, envious time is fleeing: pluck the day, put no trust in the future.Poet, Horace (65 BC – 8 BC)Odes Book I
Do you feel trapped, bored or sluggish in life? Do you spend more time thinking about what you can’t do than what you want to do? Do you wonder if this is all life has to offer? Maybe my experiences might offer you some food for thought.
I would challenge you to remember Horace’s advice – time is passing by and there’s no time like the present to seize the day. However, I’d add one more ingredient to the recipe for life – that is passion. For me, it is my passion and my desire to suck the marrow from life. Moments before I die, I might look back with a final fleeting glance and smile. Because, like the song title says, “I Did It My Way.”
My sixty-six years have given me many gifts. One of those gifts is to believe I can accomplish anything I choose. It’s my passion for lifelong learning that provides a sense of self-worth, lessens stress and gives meaning to life. I think a lot about life the older I get. I also think a lot about death. Many friends have died in the recent past. I sometimes wonder if they had any regrets before dying.
I hope I will not have any regrets. My goal is to experience as much as I can because as Horace said the quote above, “…envious time is fleeing.” I try to learn or participate in at least one new activity or hobby a year. Since I retired from a forty-year career as a physical therapist, I’ve been on the attack to experience and learn new activities or hobbies.
After a couple weeks of lessons a few years ago, I learned to play the alto saxophone. I never played an instrument before that time. I can now read notes and often my squawking stirs up the coyotes in the nearby mountains. I didn’t say I was any good. I simply enjoy the fact I learned something new.
Recently, I began learning how to sketch. My wife, “Trixie” complimented me on one of my drawings the other night. She smiled and said, “That’s really nice. What is it?”
“It’s an owl,” was my response. I didn’t say I was any good, you know.
Hobbies help me to develop a sense of pride, accomplishment and discover hidden talents. Since retiring, I have written six books. One of those books will be shopped in Hollywood and New York to hopefully become a movie. Also, there have been songs written about “The Shade Tree Choir.” You can find my work at www.davidnelsonauthor.com
I recently added the adventure of fishing to my checklist. The solitude of a flowing river calms my soul and affords time to think. To catch a fish or not makes no difference to me. I throw them all back into the water anyway.
New hobbies sometimes allow us to forge new friendships. You might enjoy the company of others through writing groups, golf leagues and exercise classes. I go to the gym several times a week and I manage to lose golf balls once a month or so. I’m not so good at golf either.
Some hobbies or activities can provide meaning, fun and joy to your life. Learning to make soap, creating pottery and stained glass artwork were fun. I’ve given away almost all of my creations as gifts. I believe what we give to others - we give to ourselves. It makes me feel good inside to giveaway my hand made items.
The adrenaline rush from possible dangerous situations excites me. I once caught alligators by hand. That account can be read in my book, PALS: Part Two. White water rafting the Gauley River in West Virginia, the Ocoee River in Tennessee and the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon were events I shall always remember. It doesn’t matter our age, I say, “Grab as much as you can from life anytime and anywhere.”
On a more subdued level, I learned how to make necklaces. That was on a beach in Jamaica. I thought they looked pretty good. Several bottles of Red Stripe beer will make anything look good, I guess. I learned to make baskets and a tie-dye shirt in Jamaica also. The baskets, I gave away. I still have the T-shirt. It doesn’t fit. I guess I had too many bottles of Red Stripe over the years.
I went snorkeling at night in Jamaica. That was almost as much fun as hang gliding and flying in an ultra light. I found the hot air balloon ride and parasailing kind of boring. Do you see a picture here? Do you see what I mean by sucking the marrow out of life?
Other hobbies / activities I’ve enjoyed over the years included woodworking, gardening and cooking. Well, cooking is more of a necessity I guess. “Trixie” says if I’m going to be around the house all day while she works I could learn to cook.
I read recently that the National Center for Education Statistics reported 43% of men and 49% of women participate in some sort of lifelong learning process. As a former physical therapist I understand there are certain physiological benefits to leisure activities, exercise and hobbies. Some of these include: Reduced stress, lower blood pressure, lower glucose levels, reduced depression, better sleep patterns, improved flexibility and reduced risk of a fall. Exercise can reduce the build-up of cortisol (a chemical responsible for inflammation in our arteries), improve circulation and develop greater lung capacity. I believe learning and experiencing new adventures keeps our minds sharp and our bodies in better shape. I need help with both of these.
Listen to the creaking doors in life when they open. Don’t simply peek inside. Kick that door down and jump inside with passion. I did that twice in my life.
I responded to an ad where two cowboys were riding through three States in five days on horseback. They were going to ride over one hundred miles, sleep on the ground and cover terrain hard and fast like the 1880’s cowboys. During the phone interview I was asked by one of the cowboys, “I assume you know how to ride a horse?”
“Certainly,” I lied.
After I paid my money to the fella and hung up the telephone, I grabbed the phone book. The section marked Horseback Riding Lessons was where I found my instructor. Six weeks later I was in Colorado and seven of us rode into Oklahoma and ended in New Mexico. I’m certain I didn’t have good equitation, but I had a grand time nonetheless.
That event led me to return to their Colorado ranch twice a year for many years and work cattle on horseback. We vaccinated, castrated and branded the heard after rounding them up. Each evening I entered notes in my journal related to my experiences. I created cowboy poems when I returned home. That was the origin of my vocation as a cowboy poet.
I guess you’d say I’m not an ordinary cowboy poet. I am the Cowboy Poet Laureate of Tennessee. Our Governor and the General Assembly gave that honor to me. For over twenty years I have travelled America with my cowboy comedy show making others laugh and ponder about life. I’ve opened on stage for numerous, well-known, international performers. Often, I am the headliner. You can find more information about me on You Tube and at www.cowboycomedyshow.com
Sometimes in life additional doors will open leading to rooms we never knew existed. My work as a cowboy poet recently led me to acting and being an extra on a couple television shows and a movie.
I like the quote attributed to Aristotle when he apparently said, “Memory is the scribe of the soul.” I’ve enjoyed sharing some of my memories with you readers. I hope you would consider finding a new hobby or activity. Your life may change. Mine did.
As for me, I now need to return practicing a song on my saxophone. I plan to record it and have it played at my memorial service. It is titled, I Did It My Way.
Additional Information
Songs about one of my books:http://youtu.be/O5I_XS6xb70http://you...
One Minute Book Trailer: http://youtu.be/y3EWghb6qnU
A Cowboy Poem I wrote and performed in Nashvillehttps://youtu.be/-oM0YpSmHVk
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: An Old Dog & New Tricks
David Nelson, Author & Cowboy Poet | PALS: An Old Dog & New Tricks: When Was The Last Time You Did Something For The First Time? “Dum loquimur, fugerit invida Aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula p...
October 18, 2015
A Child's Wrinkled Face
A Child’s Wrinkled Face
And so it was a couple years ago I asked members of a private community on
Facebook to respond to questions I proposed. I was the founder of that community
and we discussed memories from our youth. We all had one thing in common – our
hometown.
My book, If The Hills Could Talk included some of the memories from the group in
my collection of short stories. But my works aren’t about only my hometown, they
will spark the childhood memories of Baby Boomers everywhere. I left space for
for two special people to write stories – my sister and my brother. The
one that follows was written by my brother.
This story will tug on your heart as a fish maybe has tugged on your hook at some
time and some place in your life. All of my books can be found on Amazon and at my
Website, www.davidnelsonauthor.com
The LureByRichard R. Nelson
There were a few men and boys in our neighborhood who did not fish, but so few that they were considered an oddity, sort of like the two unmarried women who lived down the street in the same house and did everything together. Neither the nonfisherman, nor the unmarried women were so atypical as to generate inquiry or gossip among us boys who loved fishing and played softball on the Audubon School playground. They were just considered somewhat odd. Now, sixty years later, it seems quite apparent that the moms and dads in the neighborhood probably had plenty to say among themselves about the unmarried women, but we boys never heard of it, just as we never heard one word castigating the men and boys who did not fish. Fishing was considered a part of life in our neighborhood. There were even some women who fished, lots of them, including my mom. With a house full of kids, and an ongoing battle with postpartum depression, she did not often get the chance to sit on a stool and drop a big red and white bobber into the water hoping to swing a big Bream to shore with a ten foot bamboo pole. On those rare occasions when Dad announced we were headed to Massey's Slough or O'Leary's, Mom was the first to put on her shoes and head toward the car. Some women even fished with their husbands and kids from a boat. We didn't have a boat, but we had two and three-piece bamboo poles, which when assembled, were formidable Bluegill, Sunfish, and Crappie killers. All of my friends fished. A few of them had fancy boats, or rather, their dads had fancy boats, bought with the wages earned as a result of the UAW contract with Deere and company. And, they fished with their dads in the River, not in the sloughs and ponds adjacent to and sometimes connected with the River. Those boys told stories of catching Walleyes, Northern, and Largemouth Bass, prize gifts from the river. Among my friends, I was a second-class fisherman, forbidden by my mother from going near the river by myself. Her paranoia about me falling into the River and drowning was not without foundation. Every summer, or so it seemed, the River took a life, almost like a pagan God that demanded a sacrifice as payment for all the joy and fulfillment the River gave to the thousands who skimmed her surface, swam beneath, and floated upon her waters and walked upon her frozen crust in winter. My mother was simply afraid of the power of the Mississippi to take away her diminutive, somewhat awkward, and diffident son, one whom she had abandoned and who was forced back into her care only a few years earlier. Unlike my younger brother for whom there seemed to be no rule he would not break or boundary he would not cross, I abided by the rules. I did not escape the sting of Dad's belt entirely while growing up, but I had a low threshold for pain and a powerful memory of previous encounters with that rawhide. Following the rules kept me far away from that strip of leather. Long after all of my friends were fishing in the River, I remained a second-class fisherman until the age of eleven when technology freed me from the constraints of placid ponds and boring bamboo poles. At eleven, I joined the Boy Scouts, which offered me countless outdoor activities, including campouts and fishing along the shores of the Mississippi River. By eleven, I was also mowing yards, shoveling snow, and making downtown shopping trips for elderly neighbors. I took the city bus to the Roshek building stop downtown, picked up goods at several stores, and rode the bus back home. I saved my earnings, bought a used bicycle from a neighbor kid, and purchased a real fishing rod with an open face reel. By the summer of 1959 I could ride to the dam on the Iowa side of the river and fish below the Iowa-Wisconsin Bridge for Walleyes and Bass and Channel Cats in the River. I was now a fisherman, a first class fisherman, and our family, with some frequency, enjoyed fish dinners, the entrée provided by me. When fishing, mostly alone, along the banks of the River, a calmness washed over me and removed me from the chaos and financial urgency that engulfed our family constantly. Fishing was my escape from the constant family tension, and when I could not fish, books borrowed from St. Peters Lutheran Church, Audubon Elementary School, or CarnegieStout libraries took me to worlds far removed from my environment. At age seven, I rented a Viola from the Dubuque Community School Music Department. With four years of practice and playing in an orchestra and performing recitals, my confidence grew. I read through entire sections of libraries. I fished the River by myself. By age eleven I had hit the Trifecta - fishing, books, and music. Some people thrive on complacency. And then, there are others who always want more, enticed by the lure of the next accomplishment. I began to hear rumors that fishing on the Wisconsin side of the dam was much better than on the Iowa side. There are probably more lies told at bait and tackle shops on a Saturday morning than on all prom nights in America. While waiting to purchase minnows or spinners, those tales of giant fish caught off the Wisconsin barge or along the dam wall on the other side of the River intoxicated me. I was hooked. Not being old enough to drive, I could only imagine what it must be like to fish that angling paradise. And then, junior high happened, the worst time of my life with one exception. I became friends with a few guys from outside the neighborhood who fished and owned bicycles and whole new fishing opportunities presented themselves. They fished the paradise with regularity. The summer after seventh grade I finally fished next to the dam on the Wisconsin side of the River. Until I met those new fishing friends, I had no idea it was possible to ride a bike across the DubuqueWisconsin Bridge. The cost was ten cents each way, and that summer I rode my bike to Wisconsin, fished on that side of the River, and pedaled back to Iowa. I learned much of value on that first interstate fishing trip, none of it having to do with fishing. One junior high boy is capable of mischief. Three or four boys together can sacrifice good sense and rectitude in a heartbeat. On a hot, muggy June day we four boys met at the Point Bait Shop. We balanced rods and tackle on our bicycles. The biggest boy was able to balance a minnow bucket full of water and tiny fish on his handlebars. He had done so many times before on trips across the bridge. We pedaled to Rhomberg and strained to reach the tollbooth at the top of an incline. We each paid a dime to the man working the booth. The other three, familiar with the bridge surface, rode hard, standing up pumping the pedals and quickly outpaced me. The incline of pavement continued from the booth to the first girder on the bridge floor. I followed the lead, and as the others rode a good distance ahead of me, I came to the first girder, which was crosshatched with steel, leaving square holes evenly distributed across the floor of the bridge, allowing rain, snow and fish files to fall to the water below, a distance that seemed to be 100 feet, and I could see the treacherous River surface clearly. I was terrified. With each rotation of the front tire across the steel squares and nubs where the crosshatch met, the handle bars jerked back and forth, threatening to throw me and my fishing rod into the River below. I should have listened to my mother.The bridge was extremely narrow with mere inches between cars as they passed, east and westbound. The speed limit was very slow, so narrow was the bridge and rugged the steel nubs of the grates. For all I knew, the bridge had a weight embargo. It felt as if the bridge were moving back and forth as I crossed it. Every breeze felt like a gale. When I reached pavement on the Wisconsin side, I almost threw up. We fished for hours until both minnows and drinking water ran out. The tales were true. We caught big, slabsided Crappies, huge crappies and a few Bass. Occasionally, I got lost in the thrill of catching huge Crappies caught in the roiling water of an open dam gate. Mostly, I fixated upon the trip back across the bridge, sometimes growing dizzy with fear. The fear of death, however, is nothing compared to the fear of defying twelve-year-old peer pressure. As we gathered our gear and prepared to pedal back home, one of the boys announced that we were not going to stop to pay the ten-cent fee on the way back. I didn't get it but was quickly informed that as we reached the declining pavement on the Iowa side, we were going to speed up and ride like the wind past the toll booth. Now, I was almost petrified. This was wrong, plain and simple. I had never stolen anything, excepting pilfering apples from the neighbor's trees, and I knew this was stealing. And, moreover, I had a quarter in my pocket. The fear of the steel girders, of the dizzying height, of falling into the River and drowning was replaced by the fear of going to jail when we got caught. Speed by the toll booth we did, me the last in the line as usual. As I approached the booth, adrenaline pumped my feet on the pedals at breakneck speed. The clerk was standing outside the booth shouting at my friends, now almost a city block ahead of me. He turned toward me just as I sped past him, and in a flash, I could see surprise registered on his face. As a law abiding Boy Scout, in that moment I also thought I registered disappointment in his face. I caught up to the others at the Rhomberg Dairy Queen. We laughed, congratulated ourselves on not getting caught, and ate ice cream cones purchased with the coin stolen from the Bridge Authority. We divided the fish and I pedaled home, my stomach sour and my shoulders hunched with shame. Since that first Wisconsin trip, I have fished the same spot hundreds of times and many of America's great rivers, lakes, and impoundments, and a few in Canada as well. I have been fishing for more than sixty years. I always purchase a license. I always obey the catch and possession rules, now mostly releasing alive the fish I catch. And, if there is a special fee, a toll, an assessment of any kind associated with fishing, I pay it joyously. Fishing has always brought me calmness, peace and serenity. It always has, except for one fishing trip when I was twelve years old.
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