Endings, and a gratuitous gratuity

The Internet lesson(s) were great fun and pretty successful. My students especially loved Google images and maps. I had them find their homes on a map of Seminole, and then asked them to click the satellite button to see a real picture. You should have heard the ooohs.

So, yeah, the last two days were everything I expected them to be: sad, fun, too fast. I didn’t, however, expect a certain something to happen. One of my student’s last day was yesterday. She had to leave in the middle of the class, and I was busy helping a group of students when she left. She told me she left something for me on my desk and I glanced over to see she had written me a note on an index card. I didn’t have time to read it until everyone was gone. On it she’d written a simple thank you, but under it she left gratitude of a more capitalist nature. Yep, she’d hidden a $50 bill underneath the note.

It was a really sweet gesture, but I knew instantly that I couldn’t keep it. I wanted to find her and return it, but she and her husband were leaving for a two-month stint in Mexico that day. I took it to my boss, who immediately informed me that I should keep it. “Ben, it’s a gift from God! Don’t you realize a gift from God when you see it?” She’s like that—one of those people who feels that every minute occurrence of everyday is a message from above. She even told me that God helped her pick out her car. Apparently, God doesn’t have the best taste.

And, apparently, God did not write the Code of Ethics for Texas Educators, which plainly states that one cannot take money from students. I—in the kindest way I could—informed her that it was, um, against the law to keep it. I didn’t add in how it was kind of morally icky too. Again her God befuddles me—not one to turn down a sweaty wad of cash. Finally she agreed to take it as a donation for the school, and I didn’t have to feel guilty or insult the woman by returning her gift.

But all in all, this experience has been terrific. I’m really sad that it is over.

.!?

Well, my time as a teacher at Mennonite High, or the Adult Learning Center, is almost over. Two more days. I’m going to use them wisely, too. We’ll be learning about something I probably shouldn’t have put off so long: the Internet. Right now I’m thinking of using Thursday to discuss various browsers and their tools, as well as introduce them to several websites like Google and Wikipedia. Friday we’re going to have an Internet scavenger hunt. The winners—they’ll be working in teams of two—will receive a writing journal as a prize. The catch is I’m getting them all journals. I may make the losers sweat it out for a few minutes though.

Ah, I’m getting forklempt just writing this entry. This whole experience has been one big, giant warm fuzzy. I’m really going to miss these ladies.

Yesterday was more of less the culmination of the school year for many students. I spent most of it waging war with laminating and binding machines in order to prepare some slick and bound writing portfolios for my students. I used most of the writing they had done in the past six weeks, which, as I was pleased to see, got progressively better with each assignment. Not so much in technical precision, really, but in insight. Our final assignment was a prompt asking the students to write about their immigration stories, as all but one are not from the US. They were really wonderful, heartbreaking, life affirming. Again, all of that warm fuzzy stuff that is making my life resemble some sort of movie on the Hallmark network.

After that it was over to the high school, the venue for our school’s end-of-the-year banquet. The teachers and other staff had to decorate the theater and cafeteria for two hours. We were chained to the changing whims of our completely unorganized school director—picture a 5’2 Latina Hitler. But we got through it. The worst part wasn’t being barked at by Frau Gomez either. It was meeting my students’ teacher for next year. She was hired for next year before I was ever asked to take over for my predecessor, so it’s not like I had a reason to feel like she had beaten me, or taken away something that was mine. But I found myself feeling very territorial around her. That, and keeping a running total of her negative qualities. Honestly, if I met this woman on the street I would think she was a crazy person. Within five minutes of meeting her she informed me of her brother’s suicide, her life as a single mother, her life as a newlywed—which lasted for two months before her new husband died of a stroke—and her various medications. The students are going to run screaming from her.

The banquet itself was a potluck, wherein my mom—my date—and I sampled many unique Mennonite dishes, and I introduced my mother to most of my students. Then we had our program. 12 of the students in the GED class earned their diplomas and were able to promenade across the stage in caps and gowns while our town’s most notorious accompanist banged out “Pomp and Circumstance” on a piano that had seen many, many better days—a very low budget graduation. But we teachers each got to address our students and give them certificates. There was also a speech by one of the first year students—not at all fluent in English—who gave an amazing speech on what it is like to not be able to communicate, and the power one suddenly finds when this problem is remedied. It was really something. All in all, I came close to weeping openly in front of 200 people at least four times.

What the hell has this job done to me?

An Open Nut

I just have to take a minute to say how much I love my job. The ladies surprise me everyday with their dedication, and today, I might have received my favorite compliment ever. While I was cleaning out the coffee pot after class—the most important aspect of teaching according to my predecessor—one of the students came up to me and thanked me for being their teacher. I’m used to the gratitude at this point. Being polite, no matter what the circumstance, is a huge component of the Mennonite culture. But she went on to say how they, the class, were like “closed nuts in their shells.” She said I had helped them “open their shells” and that I was, wait for it, an “open nut.” So. Fitting. She went on to clarify that what she meant to say was “nut opener” or “one of those funny wooden men that you put out at Christmas.” I asked her if she meant a nutcracker, and she agreed. It was such a sweet thing to say, but I think I’m going to hold on to the open nut comment. Hee. Maybe I’ll have business cards made up.

What shall I call my new business? I know! How about Business!?!?

Seminole continues to blaze a trail of creativity with its businesses' whimsical names. The latest shop to open, "Nails," is truly a welcome addition. "Hair" and "Clothes" are rumored to open sometime next month.

Worlds on Fire

I'm still debating whether or not to publish the group picture I took of my class on our field trip to the Gaines County Heritage Hall Museum. I can't decide if it is unethical to post it. After all, I didn't tell them to say cheese because I needed fodder for my blog. Thoughts?

Anyway, if you are craving any Mennonite hijinks, read below:

Morning Shenanigans: Margie, our Amelia Bedilia-like house cleaner, is forever breaking things and hiding them for us to discover, sometimes years after the fact. She is getting quite better, though. Friday, she broke a porcelain baby doll that belonged to my mom's mother, one of the only things my mom has of her mother's. Showing progress, she marched into the kitchen and fessed up immediately. There was little remorse, though. Margie seems to possess no love of priceless and highly breakable antiques that serve no function but to litter up cabinets she must dust. It is hard to be mad at her, though. Only an hour later she was sending her fifth text message of the morning to a man who obviously has no interest in her. She then elicited my advice concerning matters of the heart in a most plaintive and heartbreaking manner. My favorite bit of the conversation was when she called the He-Mennonite in question "a player" in very broken English. It was like hearing an Italian nun say "WTF."

Afternoon Shenanigans: John, one of my dad's farming employees, decided that despite the presence of a county-wide burn ban and 40 mph winds, he would dispose of excess cotton seed sacks by lighting them on fire. The result? Starting an impressive blaze that engulfed most of one of my dad's farms. Thankfully, the baby crops have yet to push their way up from 'neath the soil and the only thing scorched was John's ego and some dead weeds. The fire and sheriff's departments did come, though, and they issued him a pretty hefty fine. I was so hoping that the incident would make it onto the front page of our town's newspaper; such incidents usually do. Then both my parents could have made it onto the front page of the Sentinel for various disasters and infractions. Mom made it in 2006 for her car accident in the Wal-Mart parking lot. There was only a picture published--her mangled car--but the headline was worth a thousand words: "Cleaning up the Mess." There's still hope for my dad, though. They could be saving the story for the Wednesday edition. Cross your fingers!

Pretty

Last night's sunset.

There Will Be Blood

One of the myriad benefits of living in West Texas is that you’re never too far away from the wonders of the petroleum industry. Sometimes, if you’re lucky like me, you find some large, hideously noisy drilling apparatus has set up shop outside your of bedroom overnight! Que Fortuna!

So yeah, this is now the view from my bedroom window.

I am so digging the flags. It’s like they’re afraid Exxon Mobile or the Russians are going to try and take their pretty machine away from them. I love America! And capitalism! And Fritos and Toby Keith!

Flea Market Unplugged

Bloggy Bloggy Recap

This past week has been crazy. Brian Fellows crazy. Not so much with the animals, but with its inordinate amount of activities, at least by my standards. I will attempt to break its content down by using, drum roll, headings!

Standardized Testing—

My first trip to Lubbock for the week saw me taking the second and final state board exam I needed to pass before becoming a teacher. It was administered by a very large lesbian who laughed in the face of the rigid procedures one usually finds at testing centers. The last time I tested at Prometric—the GRE—I was glad to get out of there with out a body cavity exam. The proctor was that intense. This lady was more interested in chatting. She herself was enrolled in online classes and interrupted me about six times to discuss commonalities between my program and hers, during the test! Thankfully, it was a no-brainer, and I passed (my score report arrived via email a few days later)!

Roasting—

My second trip to Lubbock involved my dad’s teary goodbye to a certain farm credit bank that he has served as chairman of the board for the past 15 years. I didn’t think the retirement dinner they were throwing him would be that big of a deal, but there were about 100 people there, and it was more of a full-on roast than a simple dinner. There were seven or eight roasters, some better than the rest, who regaled us with some pretty rich stories about my dad’s behavior throughout his tenure, many of which I’m sure my dad would have liked to have died long ago. There were some other speeches about his accomplishments, which made me tearily proud, and one by my dad, who did his best impression of a politician seeking votes. It always amazes me how suave and dapper he can be. I’m too used to seeing him in his shorts watching television on the couch. After the roasts and the other speeches, he was awarded some hideous glass trophy thing that looked like a People’s Choice Award, along with the donation of a scholarship in his name. Again, proud. The dinner was great, too, but my favorite part of the whole evening was when one of dad’s colleagues, who sat across from us, told us the story about how his mother died by falling into a grain silo and being decapitated by the silo’s moving augers. Not appropriate, but awesome, dinner conversation.

Teaching—

So in the midst of all of this, I began my job as a teacher of the Mennonites. I’ve got 12 students, and in their cultural tradition of giving their children similar names, four of them are named Sarah and four are named Anna. This was confusing, especially during our introductory, get-to-know-you icebreaker. The game asked them to list their name and one thing they liked before going around the room and remembering each person’s answers (terribly clever, I know). Not only did they all have the same name, but the majority listed “spending time with their family” as the thing they liked. Thankfully, there was some differentiation. Some of the Sarah’s liked spending time with their families indoors, while some of the Anna’s preferred spending time with their families outdoors. Overall, it was a good first week, but it was all a little harder than I thought it would be. There is just such a language barrier, and on top of that, the students are all at such different levels of English proficiency that it is challenging to prepare class-wide instruction. I’m going to attempt and simplify things for next week. At least they didn’t run off. Someone actually brought me cookies on Friday!

Endings—

Any free time I had this week was spent finishing final projects for my education classes. I can now thankfully state that I have finished the coursework needed to become a teacher. All I lack now is student teaching this fall, putting me looking for work in the middle of the year. Hurrah. The End.

My Cup Runneth Over

Good God! I've got another Bloggy Bloggy Friend! This is my friend Brandon's site. He sort of likes music.

More Bloggy Bloggy Friends!

I'd like to introduce everyone to my friend Adrianna's blog. She's super brave and is working with sexually abused girls in Cambodia.

Random Dew

Thanks to Laurie and her friend Kevin (who is apparently Bizarro Me) for sending this jewel along. I think the Menonites would enjoy the simplicity of the place's name quite a bit.

Behold! A Bloggy Bloggy Picture Post

Part One: The latest acquisition of the Two Neds' Garage aka My Dad's Playhouse: A 1978 Cadillac El Dorado.

The thing is over 20 ft. long, and it's named the "Beulah Mae" after the dead woman whose son Dad bought it from. Ms Mae only put a few thousand miles on it during a cross-country trip, then parked it in her garage, covered it with a quilt, and let it sit that way for the next three decades.

It's hideously pimptastic, but it is supposed to fetch a pretty decent resale price considering its mint condition.

My favorite parts of the car are its working 8-track deck--it's got a "contemporary music" tape with the Godfather theme on it--and CB radio handset.

Part Two: Odds and ends from the trip to Canton and Denton.

Canton has grown sad. Crafts and misc. junk are now outnumbering the antiques. There were a few neat metal animal sculptures, though. Most were whimsical enough. My favorite is the pig who looks like it's in the middle of a number two.

But a few looked like they'd just left Mount Doom and were merrily on their way to wage war on human and hobbit kind.

I did manage to find a few treasures during the weekend, although most were from a single store in Denton's town square.

John bought me the little bird pictured below. I've got a strange penchant for anything made of blue glass, but I've wanted one of these for years. My great-grandmother had a set that I loved. They're now the property of my grandmother, and will no doubt have to live through many other deaths before they're safe in my hands. Thankfully, I have my own now, and I will not have to anxiously await the passings of aunts and uncles before I can get my greedy hands on one. The bird(s) is called the Bluebird of Happiness. So, naturally, I caged it.

Jobby Jobby Dew

It looks like the Menno-Stare will now be an integral part of my existence.

I was at the local gym a few days ago when someone tapped me on the arm. It took me a few moments to recognize she was the director of the town’s Adult Learning Center, a free learning annex where adults can learn basic skills, prepare for the GED, learn English, etc. Apparently one of the center’s teachers is leaving next week for “unknown reasons” and they need, immediately, a substitute from now until the end of the school year. She knew of my current career trajectory—don’t ask me how—and offered me the job before I could remove my iPod headphones.

So the next day I went by the place—a set of five portable buildings behind the post office—to formerly accept the position and chat with the teacher to learn more about what exactly I would be doing. As it was technically a substitute position, I expected that I’d be given lesson plans for the next six weeks, something detailed and pre-planned.

Not. The. Case.

First off, the teacher, whose “unknown reasons” must be imminent death she was so old, told me that because she’d been teaching so long, she just “winged it” everyday. There were no lesson plans, no set curriculum, just the dowager herself and a room full of Mennonite women in their 40s who could barely speak English. The soon-to-be long gone teach did manage to tell me all about the coffee pot, though: how to make the coffee, where the creamer is stored, the best place to rinse the pot out. She also took a good ten minutes to fill me in on the particulars of the thermostat. Apparently, it is a persnickety old bat. So yeah, I left with no knowledge but the grim fact that I’ll be cluelessly in charge of these women for six weeks. At least we’ll be well-caffeinated.

I’m kind of excited.

Warning! Unbridled Cheesiness Ahead!

West Texas has always seemed to me to be a place that has been forgotten. By who or what I don’t really know, but all you have to do is take a look around to see the evidence of this negligence. It’s been forgotten by culture: very little art, no feats of architecture, no steady streams of stimulating music, theater, fashion. Even ideas fail to permeate our borders. It’s also been forgotten by one of the simplest things that creates life, a substance that permits the existence of anything green, that allows for lakes and rivers, for skin that doesn’t itch daily from mucous membranes that no doubt resemble some long forgotten fossil discovered in a bed of hot clay. All of this neglect and disregard tends to make people (myself obviously excluded) tough, weathered, and sinewy, a sort of beef jerky existence.

But every now and then something happens that threatens to change all of this. Something occurs that makes you feel that, even for a moment, this place has been remembered.

Our dry spell ended at about 5:30 this morning. It’s been nearly eight months since we’ve had a drop of rain. Maybe it’s because I’ve been living in humid Central Texas for years now, lost my resistance to the desert, but there hasn’t been a day since I’ve been back that I haven’t taken a moment to think about rain. How nice it would feel on your skin, how good it would smell, how only a little of it would wash away the inches of piled-up dirt from the tops of houses, barns, churches, and cars. How good it would feel for your cells and pores to finally be able to take a damned drink.

It was about 5:32 when the thunder woke me. My parents were already outside on the front porch, holding hands, watching what has to be the best alarm clock ever invented. No one said a word to each other. We just stood there and eyed the fat speedy drops, each of us smiling a shit-eating grin. Even Muppet seemed to be aware of what she’d been missing. She shot out from the porch and did laps around the wet yard. Of course it ended almost as soon as it began. I think we had a total of 15 minutes of rain, hardly enough to help agriculturally. I know this sounds ridiculous, and I’m not much of a spiritual person, but this brief rainy spell was ridiculously uplifting for all of us. And it was, by far, the best church I’ve been to in a long, long while.

Fun with Real Dialogue

Scene: My house in West Texas. I’ve just gotten out of the car after a tiring, six-hour drive. My defenses are down, and I forget to check the caller i.d. when the phone rings, the handset too nearby to ignore. The offending caller turns out to be one who rings my parents on a weekly basis and usually during dinner. They’ve asked me repeatedly to put a stop to such calls. Will I rise to the challenge?

Me: Hello?
Bubbly Girl Voice: Hi!!!!!!!!!
Me: Hello.
BGV of the Increasing Volume Type: Is Benjamin Matthews home?
Foolish, Foolish Me: This is he.
BGV of the IVT: Super!!!! This is (insert stripper name ending in “y”)! I’m calling from the Alumni Office at Pepperdine! I’m a sophomore!
Me: (slapping myself in the face and trying, unsuccessfully, to eat the phone) How can I help you?
BGV: I was just calling to update your records! Are you still at (lists parent’s phone number)?
Me: No. Never was. Parent’s phone number.
BGV: (laughing unwittingly) Well, can I get your number?
Me: I don’t have one.
BGV: (with cheery incredulousness) No phone?
Me: Nope.
BGV: Okay, how about an email?
Me: Don’t have one of those either.
BGV: (getting annoyed) Really?
Me: (realizing annoying Pepperdine students is easy and fun) Yeppers.
BGV: How about a work phone number or permanent address?
Me: I don’t have one.
BGV: A work number or a permanent address?
Me: Neither. I’m unemployed and shiftless.
BGV: . . .
Me: . . . .
BGV: So, um, I’d like to ask you a few questions about your time at Pepperdine. You know, we’re always trying to find out what former students liked and disliked to better our ranking.
Me: (baffled at the logic of the statement above) Okay.
BGV: So, how did you like it?
Me: I didn’t.
BGV: (shocked, as if these words have never been uttered) Oh. I see you’re from Texas. Was Pepperdine just too small for you?
Me: (again, blinded by her logic) No. It was more the rampant, smothering conservatism. And all of the militant Christians.
BGV: . . .
Me: Do you like it?
BGV: Um, yeah.
Me: Really?
BGV: (Still not getting it, but finally getting to her point) So, would you be interested in joining (some alumni club) or making a one-time cash donation of $100?
Me: What do you think?
BGV: Probably not?
Me: Probably not.
BGV: (defeated. it’s kind of sad.) Okay. Well bye.
Me: Bye. Oh, hey.
BGV: (a little bubble back in the voice) Yes?
Me: Please stop calling here.

School Hard

Another apology for being such a scant poster. I'm entering the last month of my teacher training, at least as far as my classes go, and things are really starting to heat up: classes, outrageous professorial expectations, my basal body temperature. Thankfully, I've arranged for a few days off to visit the wilds of Central and East Texas, where I shall be visiting friends and participating in one of my All-Time-Favorite-Activities-of-All-Time, the flea market. I shall attempt to post a few times from the open road (eat your heart out, pre-computer-age Kerouac.

In other news, my journey as my mother's subject for her physical assessments class continues to get weirder. Last night she needed to practice taking a written medical history for someone with gastrointestinal problems. Because I wasn't feeling the least bit iffy, I was asked to take on the role of someone with, wait for it, bleeding stools. Our subsequent 30-minute chat was truly darling.

Bloggy Bloggy Friend(s)

I'd like to introduce y'all to Laurie's Little Blog, the newest and first site to join Bloggy Bloggy Dew as an affiliate! Please check it out using the link at the top right of this page. If any other Bloggy Bloggy readers have marked off their own bit of cyberspace, let me know. I smell a coalition!

Who says West Texas is ugly?

I'm going to take a highly pretentious risk and title this "Sunrise." Notice the wee structure just right of the center. It's a windmill, y'all!

Happy Anniversary, Stinkpot!

Muppet and I will be celebrating our anniversary in a few short hours. Yep, it has been one year since I drove up to the Fayette County Animal Shelter, had her shot full of painful vaccines (not to mention a Mark-O’-the-Beast Microchip), and hauled her away from the warm, furry, and familiar embrace of her siblings. Despite all of that, she has forgiven me and been a good pal. She’s only destroyed one couch, one arm chair, and one pair of shoes, and has only set me back a couple thousand bucks.

Here’s looking at many (or at least one) more years together, Muppet Bear!

And now a retrospective: 3/27/2007-3/27/2008, the Year of the Labradoodle.

Oh, and here's Muppet's favorite song. Ignore the anime.