American students are notoriously poor at geography. I could cite you a dozen studies that illustrate my point, but I don't know where to find them. Shortly after the American invasion of Iraq, I gave my students a black outline map of the Middle East and a list of the names of the countries. Not surprisingly at a Christian school, students did best at identifying Israel. Sadly, fewer than 25% could find Israel. A large number of students had trouble telling the diffence between water and land.
My first full time teaching job was at a very small Christian school. It was a lovely place to work and felt like a big family. If a speaker fell through for chapel, which happened quite often, we would divide the chapel into teams and play Bible trivia. For the chapel before Christmas, the questions were Christmas themed. Our headmaster asked, "Where did the wise men come from?" A smart junior's hand shot up enthusiastically (she would later be our valedictorian). Her hand was the first one up, so she stood up, confident that she was about to earn her team a point and earn herself the respect of her peers, and shouted out, "Orientar! Orientar!" After our headmaster explained that the song says, "We three kings of orient are" and that he was looking for "East", she sunk under the pew and did not show her face again until chapel was over.
Every time I hear that song I smile.
Peace
24 July 2006
Ruins on the River
In the midst of the sprawling suburbs of north Atlanta, among the Super Walmarts, Super Krogers, Super Targets, McMansions, McDonalds, and miles and miles of steaming tar, there is a green gem hidden away. Every day, tens of thousands drive down one of Atlanta's major north-south thoroughfairs in forest green SUVs, oblivious to the secret that lies but a cigarette's flick from the roaring, belching river of cars. That secret is a foaming, rumbling mountain stream hidden in a heavily forested green valley.
I don't remember what first drew me there, but I vividly remember the day I first discovered it. I say, "discovered" and truly mean it. I have heard it said that every New Yorker sees Central Park as their personal park and all other visitors are merely interlopers there. People feel that there are secret places in the park that only they have seen, and they vividly remember the moment when they rounded that corner or pushed through that bush to see their space. There is a deep sense of connection, possession even, in certain places of the world.
On the day I "discovered" this park I felt that I was the first person to see the sights that I saw and that I was some kind of English speaking conquistador viewing the ruins of an ancient civilization. It was a winter day as I pulled into a NPS parking lot built for about six cars. Mine was the only car there. As soon as a stepped onto the overgrown trail, the suburban world passed away and I was in wilderness. The thrill of discovery grew as I followed the trails across a cliff, past the rapids, and across a sand bar. The trail all but disappeared as I pushed through the thick underbrush covering the steep, rocky bank. Above the low roaring of the rapids, I began to hear a louder, more insistent crashing. Through the brush a wall of falling water began to appear. At last I stepped out into the stream and was met by a sight that left me stunned to see. How could such a thing be here and I have never heard talk of it?
I spent the day and days after exploring my new park. Ruins lined the far side of the creek, and I eventually found my way over to what turned out to be the carcass of old cotton mills. I found a perfect reading rock at a bend in the stream where I first read Jane Austen. I sat many days on the heights overlooking the stream, letting the sun warm me as I listened to the gurgling of the waters.
I went back there today and took these pictures. It is surprisingly underused. I was there for almost two hours and only saw three groups of people, all of them near the entrance. It might be the lack of large, open spaces for fine weather frolicking. It might be the fact that the city of Roswell runs several sewer lines through the park and at certain times and in certain places, there is a strong odor. Mostly, I think people just don't know that it is here.
Every time I go there I think of Van Morrison song and every time I hear the song I think of the sunny heights over the stream:
I'm tired Joey Boy
While you're out with the sheep
My life is so troubled
Now I can't go to sleep
I would walk myself out
But the streets are so dark
I shall wait till the morning
And walk in the park
This life is so simple when
One is at home
And I'm never complaining
When there's work to be done
Oh I'm tired Joey Boy of the makings of men
I would like to be cheerful again
Ambition will take you
And ride you too far and
Conservatism bring you to boredom once more
Sit down by the river
And watch the stream flow
Recall all the dreams
That you once used to know
The things you've forgotten
That took you away
To pastures not greener but meaner
Love of the simple is all that I need
I've no time for schism or lovers of greed
Go up to the mountain, go up to the glen
When silence will touch you
And heartbreak will mend.
Peace
I don't remember what first drew me there, but I vividly remember the day I first discovered it. I say, "discovered" and truly mean it. I have heard it said that every New Yorker sees Central Park as their personal park and all other visitors are merely interlopers there. People feel that there are secret places in the park that only they have seen, and they vividly remember the moment when they rounded that corner or pushed through that bush to see their space. There is a deep sense of connection, possession even, in certain places of the world.
On the day I "discovered" this park I felt that I was the first person to see the sights that I saw and that I was some kind of English speaking conquistador viewing the ruins of an ancient civilization. It was a winter day as I pulled into a NPS parking lot built for about six cars. Mine was the only car there. As soon as a stepped onto the overgrown trail, the suburban world passed away and I was in wilderness. The thrill of discovery grew as I followed the trails across a cliff, past the rapids, and across a sand bar. The trail all but disappeared as I pushed through the thick underbrush covering the steep, rocky bank. Above the low roaring of the rapids, I began to hear a louder, more insistent crashing. Through the brush a wall of falling water began to appear. At last I stepped out into the stream and was met by a sight that left me stunned to see. How could such a thing be here and I have never heard talk of it?
I spent the day and days after exploring my new park. Ruins lined the far side of the creek, and I eventually found my way over to what turned out to be the carcass of old cotton mills. I found a perfect reading rock at a bend in the stream where I first read Jane Austen. I sat many days on the heights overlooking the stream, letting the sun warm me as I listened to the gurgling of the waters.
I went back there today and took these pictures. It is surprisingly underused. I was there for almost two hours and only saw three groups of people, all of them near the entrance. It might be the lack of large, open spaces for fine weather frolicking. It might be the fact that the city of Roswell runs several sewer lines through the park and at certain times and in certain places, there is a strong odor. Mostly, I think people just don't know that it is here.
Every time I go there I think of Van Morrison song and every time I hear the song I think of the sunny heights over the stream:
I'm tired Joey Boy
While you're out with the sheep
My life is so troubled
Now I can't go to sleep
I would walk myself out
But the streets are so dark
I shall wait till the morning
And walk in the park
This life is so simple when
One is at home
And I'm never complaining
When there's work to be done
Oh I'm tired Joey Boy of the makings of men
I would like to be cheerful again
Ambition will take you
And ride you too far and
Conservatism bring you to boredom once more
Sit down by the river
And watch the stream flow
Recall all the dreams
That you once used to know
The things you've forgotten
That took you away
To pastures not greener but meaner
Love of the simple is all that I need
I've no time for schism or lovers of greed
Go up to the mountain, go up to the glen
When silence will touch you
And heartbreak will mend.
Peace
18 July 2006
One of these things is not like the other...
I have been trying to keep up with the news lately. Here is a snippet from the homepage of CNN.com from just moments ago.
Note the list of top stories and see if you notice any themes.
Story one: "Deadly"
Story two: "Depression"
Story three: "Perish"
Story four: "Murder"
Story five: "Bush" (ie something just as bad as the above; see story six)
Story six: "The cussing, spitting, open-mouth chewing Bush" (can a major news organization use that as a lead or has some deep thinker from DailyKos hacked the site?)
Story seven: "Jerry Springer"
Story eight: "Kill"
Story nine: "Killer"
Story ten: "Brad Pitt says fatherhood is 'true joy'"
Five of ten stories involve death.
One of ten stories involves impending death (tropical depression).
Two of ten stories involve something President Bush did wrong (one with video to prove it).
Two of ten stories involve icons of pop culture.
At the bottom of this list is a link with a promise to "Laugh your way through lunch". I guess you kind of need it after all that killing, scandal, cussing, spitting, and Pitting.
Is this really what people want from news? Is this who we are: obsessed with violence, destruction, crass behavior, shallow pop culture, and the wanton disrespect of figures of authority?
Peace
13 July 2006
For Shame, "Raymond V. Fretchild", Part II
"At 8:11 am on July 11, 2006, a person claiming to be "Raymond V. Fretchild" left the following comment in response to my post, "For Shame Raymond V. Fretchild."
Mr. Chintzibobs,
I happened to come across this posting after conducting a Google search of my name. Prior to my retirement in 1994; I was head of Astronaut Recruiting for the Lego Space Academy. I was a bit taken aback by your posting; I remember the letter you sent to me like it was yesterday. I was excited by your interest in the Lego Space Program; it was not often a person of your caliber applied for our space program. We always seemed to be the red headed step child to NASA. I am sorry you felt my letter was a vicious prank, however; I assure you it was legitimate. I anxiously awaited your application and deposit; checking my inbox daily. I worried night and day; hoping your application would arrive. I have to apologize to you as I lost your contact information in a tragic training accident resuting in a horrific explosion that destroyed my cubicle and I was unable to send you our followup package of Junior Astronaut Training Material. You would have then known; we were legitimate. Alas, the world will never know what a great astronaut you may have been; I believe you could have been the best of the best. Best of luck to you with the addition to your family.
Sincerly,
Raymond V. Frethchild
PS: The Polish Space Program does not require its Astronauts to be in perfect vision. In fact, we developed prescription lens for their helmets!
7/11/2006 8:38 AM
The last line is automatically inserted by blogger to show the time and date of the posted comment and is the key to unraveling the twisted truth behind the myth of Raymond V. Fretchild.
I must admit, the author of the comment weaves a compelling story, but it must be considered nothing more than another clever prank perpetrated on myself. How can I know that the story is a despicable lie? Granted, the spelling errors ("resuling" for resulting and "sincerly" for sincerely) are consistent with the original 1980 document ("Expierienced" for experienced, "traing" for training, "thre" for three, and "ad" for and). This only serves to suggest a link between the two documents; it does nothing to prove that "Raymond V. Fretchild" ever existed.
Evidence does, however, exist that fatally undermines the claims of the new Fretchild document from the very first line. The prankster claims that, "I happened to come across this posting after conducting a Google search of my name." This is demonstrably false. My hit counter logs every visit to this site. In addition it takes note of the time and date of every hit. It also records whether or not someone got to my site through a Google or other type of search. No one has ever reached my site through a search for "Raymond V. Fretchild" or any variation thereof. Worse, the only Google search to result in a hit on my site on the day in question (even within the week before it) was this one:
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&lr=&q=%22dead."
Translated, this means that someone (in Longmeadow, Massachusetts no less) did a search for the phrase "dead animal" with the words "bury" and "prank". My site comes up ninth on such a search.
According to my hit counter, that search led to my site on and at "11th July 2006 07:48:25", a time only fifty minutes before "Mr. Fretchild" posted his comment!
I don't know what you might be planning next, Raymond V. Fretchild, but I have contacted the authorities and sincerely hope that your sick "pranks" never move beyond crushing the dreams of children and burying dead animals. You should seriously consider therapy (and a spell-checker) as most serial killers get their beginnings by mutilating pets and are poor-spellers. I have also contacted the Polish embassy to inform them that a prankster has been passing himself off as a high official in a fictional Polish governmental agency.
Peace
Mr. Chintzibobs,
I happened to come across this posting after conducting a Google search of my name. Prior to my retirement in 1994; I was head of Astronaut Recruiting for the Lego Space Academy. I was a bit taken aback by your posting; I remember the letter you sent to me like it was yesterday. I was excited by your interest in the Lego Space Program; it was not often a person of your caliber applied for our space program. We always seemed to be the red headed step child to NASA. I am sorry you felt my letter was a vicious prank, however; I assure you it was legitimate. I anxiously awaited your application and deposit; checking my inbox daily. I worried night and day; hoping your application would arrive. I have to apologize to you as I lost your contact information in a tragic training accident resuting in a horrific explosion that destroyed my cubicle and I was unable to send you our followup package of Junior Astronaut Training Material. You would have then known; we were legitimate. Alas, the world will never know what a great astronaut you may have been; I believe you could have been the best of the best. Best of luck to you with the addition to your family.
Sincerly,
Raymond V. Frethchild
PS: The Polish Space Program does not require its Astronauts to be in perfect vision. In fact, we developed prescription lens for their helmets!
7/11/2006 8:38 AM
The last line is automatically inserted by blogger to show the time and date of the posted comment and is the key to unraveling the twisted truth behind the myth of Raymond V. Fretchild.
I must admit, the author of the comment weaves a compelling story, but it must be considered nothing more than another clever prank perpetrated on myself. How can I know that the story is a despicable lie? Granted, the spelling errors ("resuling" for resulting and "sincerly" for sincerely) are consistent with the original 1980 document ("Expierienced" for experienced, "traing" for training, "thre" for three, and "ad" for and). This only serves to suggest a link between the two documents; it does nothing to prove that "Raymond V. Fretchild" ever existed.
Evidence does, however, exist that fatally undermines the claims of the new Fretchild document from the very first line. The prankster claims that, "I happened to come across this posting after conducting a Google search of my name." This is demonstrably false. My hit counter logs every visit to this site. In addition it takes note of the time and date of every hit. It also records whether or not someone got to my site through a Google or other type of search. No one has ever reached my site through a search for "Raymond V. Fretchild" or any variation thereof. Worse, the only Google search to result in a hit on my site on the day in question (even within the week before it) was this one:
http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&lr=&q=%22dead."
Translated, this means that someone (in Longmeadow, Massachusetts no less) did a search for the phrase "dead animal" with the words "bury" and "prank". My site comes up ninth on such a search.
According to my hit counter, that search led to my site on and at "11th July 2006 07:48:25", a time only fifty minutes before "Mr. Fretchild" posted his comment!
I don't know what you might be planning next, Raymond V. Fretchild, but I have contacted the authorities and sincerely hope that your sick "pranks" never move beyond crushing the dreams of children and burying dead animals. You should seriously consider therapy (and a spell-checker) as most serial killers get their beginnings by mutilating pets and are poor-spellers. I have also contacted the Polish embassy to inform them that a prankster has been passing himself off as a high official in a fictional Polish governmental agency.
Peace
12 July 2006
Burning Porcupines
I am at an AP European History all week at Oglethorpe. In case you missed it, an anonymous commenter claiming to be Raymond V. Fretchild responded to my post For Shame, Raymond V. Fretchild. Read the second comment carefully. I will be dissecting it later in the week.
While in my class for teachers I heard two interesting expressions that I had never heard before. One came from a young lady of Cajun descent and fiery disposition. In response to an unpleasant activity, she exclaimed, "I would rather give birth to a flaming porcupine." The other comment came from a very young teacher who said that while she didn't mind using the word "s*cks" around us, she said "Sips" around her students. Yes, much more delicate.
More later in the week. 8:00-4:00 classes and the drive to and fro have left me drained (I was almost in a wreck both coming and going today).
Oh yeah. Another thing I heard for the first time this week (though it has been going around for a very long time according to my source): In heaven, the English are the policemen, the French are the cooks, the Germans are the engineers, the Italians are the lovers, and the Swiss organize everything. In hell, the English are the cooks, the French are the engineers, the Germans are the policemen, the Italians organize everything, and the Swiss are the lovers. Offensive or true? Or both?
Peace
While in my class for teachers I heard two interesting expressions that I had never heard before. One came from a young lady of Cajun descent and fiery disposition. In response to an unpleasant activity, she exclaimed, "I would rather give birth to a flaming porcupine." The other comment came from a very young teacher who said that while she didn't mind using the word "s*cks" around us, she said "Sips" around her students. Yes, much more delicate.
More later in the week. 8:00-4:00 classes and the drive to and fro have left me drained (I was almost in a wreck both coming and going today).
Oh yeah. Another thing I heard for the first time this week (though it has been going around for a very long time according to my source): In heaven, the English are the policemen, the French are the cooks, the Germans are the engineers, the Italians are the lovers, and the Swiss organize everything. In hell, the English are the cooks, the French are the engineers, the Germans are the policemen, the Italians organize everything, and the Swiss are the lovers. Offensive or true? Or both?
Peace
09 July 2006
Monday Miscellany: Oh, Is It for Books?
Technically, this will be posted on Sunday as I will be at a "How to Teach AP European History" seminar at Oglethorpe University this week and will be departing early tomorrow morning.
My boy is going to be quite the charmer. This summer we have been working on his vocabulary. He chooses a word to learn, we put it on a 3x5 index card, and then he practices writing and recognizing the word. He has been doing much better than I thought he would, and his summer attitude has improved with the mental engagement. His mother asked him one day if he had a favorite word in his word hoard (his box of words). He said that he did but that he couldn't tell her what it was. She pressed him on it, so he said, with perfect sincerity as he walked away, "Momma." Lock up your daughters.
We have struggled to get our boy to eat healthily. We have tried a number of things to make eating "fun". The 'prinkle butter sandwich, a peanut butter sandwich with sprinkles on it and a registered trademark, was a hit for about eight weeks. He has taken to eating grapes, but it takes him forever to consume a small handful. I listened closely yesterday and discovered that his right hand is an "Oviraptor" (egg-eating dinosaur for those you not blessed with a dinosaur obsessed boy). The grapes were eggs. It was an epic battle for survival.
Last weekend the wife and I brought home a small storage unit from Walmart to store some of the babies' stuff in. Just as I was finishing its assembly, the three-year-old girl came dancing in and asked expectantly, "Oh, is it for books?" She knows us too well.
On Sunday night I took the kids to the grandparent's house for dinner and to leave them there for a sleepover. They love sleepovers (my kids). Before I was done with my dessert, the girl looked straight at me and said in exasperation, "Why are you going yet?" There will be tears when she comes home tomorrow. Last week, while the kids were out with their aunt and cousin, my wife and I were enjoying a quiet afternoon of TV when my wife exclaimed, "Could you check outside, I hear screaming and it sounds like our daughter!" Sure enough, they were home and she wasn't ready to be home. She started screaming as soon as she saw our house. Some parents have kids that cry when the parents leave. Our child cries when she comes home to her parents.
Peace
My boy is going to be quite the charmer. This summer we have been working on his vocabulary. He chooses a word to learn, we put it on a 3x5 index card, and then he practices writing and recognizing the word. He has been doing much better than I thought he would, and his summer attitude has improved with the mental engagement. His mother asked him one day if he had a favorite word in his word hoard (his box of words). He said that he did but that he couldn't tell her what it was. She pressed him on it, so he said, with perfect sincerity as he walked away, "Momma." Lock up your daughters.
We have struggled to get our boy to eat healthily. We have tried a number of things to make eating "fun". The 'prinkle butter sandwich, a peanut butter sandwich with sprinkles on it and a registered trademark, was a hit for about eight weeks. He has taken to eating grapes, but it takes him forever to consume a small handful. I listened closely yesterday and discovered that his right hand is an "Oviraptor" (egg-eating dinosaur for those you not blessed with a dinosaur obsessed boy). The grapes were eggs. It was an epic battle for survival.
Last weekend the wife and I brought home a small storage unit from Walmart to store some of the babies' stuff in. Just as I was finishing its assembly, the three-year-old girl came dancing in and asked expectantly, "Oh, is it for books?" She knows us too well.
On Sunday night I took the kids to the grandparent's house for dinner and to leave them there for a sleepover. They love sleepovers (my kids). Before I was done with my dessert, the girl looked straight at me and said in exasperation, "Why are you going yet?" There will be tears when she comes home tomorrow. Last week, while the kids were out with their aunt and cousin, my wife and I were enjoying a quiet afternoon of TV when my wife exclaimed, "Could you check outside, I hear screaming and it sounds like our daughter!" Sure enough, they were home and she wasn't ready to be home. She started screaming as soon as she saw our house. Some parents have kids that cry when the parents leave. Our child cries when she comes home to her parents.
Peace
07 July 2006
Putting a Stop to the Summer Doldrums
The five-year-old boy seemed to be going through a type of summer doldrums. He showed little interest in his normal activities (his food items were not battling each other for domination over the known universe), was growing cranky, and was often caught staring into space over his Frosted Flakes. His parents weren't sure what was going on inside his head, but they knew that such a sullen attitude was out of the ordinary for their normally even-keeled child.
The father, guiltily theorizing that maybe he wasn't spending enough time with his son, took him on an unexpected daddy-son walk. They boy perked up as soon as his feet hit the road. His uninhibited laughter rang out as he raced from crack to crack, imagining each as a finish line. His shouts of joy in physical effort lifted his father's spirits as he thought, "This is the son I know. He is back."
Then the boy planted his face square in the middle of a cold silver pole holding up a bright red stop sign. A street that had, moments before, heard the sounds of a young boy's giddy happiness now rang out with anguished cries. "Is it bleeding?" and "I want to go home" came out between sobs as a spot of red came out on the boy's lip as if to match the unmoved sign above the pair. The contrast couldn't be greater as the two retraced their steps home, blood dripping from one's swelling upper lip while the other wondered if this was always to be the fate of fathers: the unintended cause of their children's misery.
Peace
The father, guiltily theorizing that maybe he wasn't spending enough time with his son, took him on an unexpected daddy-son walk. They boy perked up as soon as his feet hit the road. His uninhibited laughter rang out as he raced from crack to crack, imagining each as a finish line. His shouts of joy in physical effort lifted his father's spirits as he thought, "This is the son I know. He is back."
Then the boy planted his face square in the middle of a cold silver pole holding up a bright red stop sign. A street that had, moments before, heard the sounds of a young boy's giddy happiness now rang out with anguished cries. "Is it bleeding?" and "I want to go home" came out between sobs as a spot of red came out on the boy's lip as if to match the unmoved sign above the pair. The contrast couldn't be greater as the two retraced their steps home, blood dripping from one's swelling upper lip while the other wondered if this was always to be the fate of fathers: the unintended cause of their children's misery.
Peace
05 July 2006
For Shame, Raymond V. Frethchild
On January 3, 2006, the Ohoopee Online posted a human interest story about the dreams of children concerning what they want to be when they grow up. A Mr. Splitcat Chintzibobs had responded to the question, "What did you want to be when you grew up (WYGU) while you were a kid?" with the answer:
The first thing I remember wanting to be was an astronaut. I desperately wanted to fly, land on other worlds, and live a life of adventure. My evil eldest brother typed a prank letter to me from the Lego Space Academy, informing me that I had been accepted and only had to send in my $1,000,000 application fee (my brother went on to a long and successful career with a Nigerian bank). The thrilling hope that rose within me and the combination of my two greatest loves (space and Lego) fell back to earth quicker than a Soviet space capsule as everyone was very fast (and gleeful I think) to point out that you had to be a pilot to be an astronaut and that pilots can't wear glasses (I wore them young). I moved on to other dreams.
Some questioned whether any brother would be so cruel as to play with a younger brother's desperate dreams to such an extent as to actually compose an elaborate prank letter on a tricky old manual typewriter. The manipulation of a child's two great loves was judged to be either the result of a deeply twisted but brilliant mind, or a complete fabrication similar to the Dan Rather/60 Minutes story. It was posited that the Ohoopee was attempting to smear the reputation of a man whose only failing was a high school PE class in disco dancing. Granted, TOLN has been caught in few minor fabrications and exaggerations in the past, but the editors stood by this story and promised that the full truth would one day be revealed. Today is that day.
This past weekend, TOLN researchers uncovered the original document in the extensive Ohoopee archives while looking for items to include in the semi-millennial yard sale benefiting Truth in Media. Experts in Lego-fraudulance have confirmed its authenticity. The editors ask our readers to be the judge (click image for close-up):
The first thing I remember wanting to be was an astronaut. I desperately wanted to fly, land on other worlds, and live a life of adventure. My evil eldest brother typed a prank letter to me from the Lego Space Academy, informing me that I had been accepted and only had to send in my $1,000,000 application fee (my brother went on to a long and successful career with a Nigerian bank). The thrilling hope that rose within me and the combination of my two greatest loves (space and Lego) fell back to earth quicker than a Soviet space capsule as everyone was very fast (and gleeful I think) to point out that you had to be a pilot to be an astronaut and that pilots can't wear glasses (I wore them young). I moved on to other dreams.
Some questioned whether any brother would be so cruel as to play with a younger brother's desperate dreams to such an extent as to actually compose an elaborate prank letter on a tricky old manual typewriter. The manipulation of a child's two great loves was judged to be either the result of a deeply twisted but brilliant mind, or a complete fabrication similar to the Dan Rather/60 Minutes story. It was posited that the Ohoopee was attempting to smear the reputation of a man whose only failing was a high school PE class in disco dancing. Granted, TOLN has been caught in few minor fabrications and exaggerations in the past, but the editors stood by this story and promised that the full truth would one day be revealed. Today is that day.
This past weekend, TOLN researchers uncovered the original document in the extensive Ohoopee archives while looking for items to include in the semi-millennial yard sale benefiting Truth in Media. Experts in Lego-fraudulance have confirmed its authenticity. The editors ask our readers to be the judge (click image for close-up):
Mr. Splitcat Chintzibobs was an innocent 10 years old when he received this letter from "Raymond V. Frethchild". He has never quite recovered from the pain of discovering that Raymond V. Frethchild, the Lego Space Academy, and the Polish Aeronautic Space Association never existed; he occasionally Googles "Raymond V. Fretchild" in hopes that one day his twenty-two three page applications will be finally received and processed. Until that day, he religiously does three push-ups every night to stay in top physical shape, just in case.
Peace
03 July 2006
Meme: Love that House!
Via 4boydad: "List 5 things you like most about your house."
1. The price. We purchased our house just as the real estate boom began. We didn't have much to spend on our first house, but three years of apartment living and prompting from my dad led us to explore our options. Our agent searched diligently for a home in the area that we wanted and in our price range. Sadly, the only homes in our price range were former crack houses (or worse). One day he drove us to a pre-foreclosure in "great for a fixer-upper" condition. So we bought it. Now we live in a former crack house. One day I will tell you the rest of the story; it takes me about twenty-five minutes to tell when I tell my classes (it is a perfect story for the half-day before Thanksgiving when a third of the students are gone and nothing is getting done anyway).
2. The downstairs living room. This large, L-shaped living area is where we spend most of our time indoors. It has plenty of room for the kids to play, a TV area, a computer area, a fireplace, and most of our books. Because it is below grade, it stays quite cool in the summer (though it is tough to heat in the winter).
3. The backyard. Our house sits on a large, trapezoidal lot (.79 acres). The house is sited at the narrow part of the trapezoid near the street leaving the bulk of the acreage behind the house in a spreading, west-facing lawn. When we moved in, the backyard was a bit of a jungle, but I have put in many hours making it quite a pleasant place. Much remains to be done (a large crabapple tree just split in half and awaits my chainsaw, but the westerly wind that almost always seems to be blowing will make the chore bearable). The backyard is continually surprising us with some unexpected wonder. Just this year we discovered that the unusual tree in the back corner of our lot is a pecan tree. In addition the mysterious disappearance of the neighborhood cats has led to the return of reptiles to our backyard (only a couple of months ago I saw the first lizard in our yard in eight years).
4. The Two Trees: It will be hard to move if we ever have to. Each of our children has a tree in the backyard that was planted in the year they were born. Our boy has a silver maple. Our girl has a redbud. The twins will, perhaps, have red maples.
5. Location: Just before we bought our house, I was having a discussion at my temp job with a
co-temp (temps generally only talk to other temps) about living in the suburbs versus "in-town" (not quite downtown but close enough to feel urban-chic). She was a recent social work grad and wanted to move in-town for the diversity; she wanted any kids that she might have to meet all kinds of people (in a reversal of white flight, a large number of young, white suburbans have begun moving back "in-town" over the past fifteen years in Atlanta). I thought she might have a point until we moved in to our own, very suburban home. Our Iranian neighbors live across the street from our Vietnamese neighbors who live down the road from our Indian neighbors who always walk their dogs past our African-American neighbors, our Mexican neighbors, and our white neighbors (both red-necked and white-collared). Walking down the street at dinner time, one can be met by a wondrous melange of international food scents. In addition, I am only fifteen to twenty minutes from work and within thirty minutes of most of our families. Plus, we are close to a good Mexican restaurant, a good barbecue restaurant, a good Italian restaurant, a good pizza joint, a excellent movie house, a national park, a major trout stream, a thrift store, and are only three miles from the interstate.
Peace
1. The price. We purchased our house just as the real estate boom began. We didn't have much to spend on our first house, but three years of apartment living and prompting from my dad led us to explore our options. Our agent searched diligently for a home in the area that we wanted and in our price range. Sadly, the only homes in our price range were former crack houses (or worse). One day he drove us to a pre-foreclosure in "great for a fixer-upper" condition. So we bought it. Now we live in a former crack house. One day I will tell you the rest of the story; it takes me about twenty-five minutes to tell when I tell my classes (it is a perfect story for the half-day before Thanksgiving when a third of the students are gone and nothing is getting done anyway).
2. The downstairs living room. This large, L-shaped living area is where we spend most of our time indoors. It has plenty of room for the kids to play, a TV area, a computer area, a fireplace, and most of our books. Because it is below grade, it stays quite cool in the summer (though it is tough to heat in the winter).
3. The backyard. Our house sits on a large, trapezoidal lot (.79 acres). The house is sited at the narrow part of the trapezoid near the street leaving the bulk of the acreage behind the house in a spreading, west-facing lawn. When we moved in, the backyard was a bit of a jungle, but I have put in many hours making it quite a pleasant place. Much remains to be done (a large crabapple tree just split in half and awaits my chainsaw, but the westerly wind that almost always seems to be blowing will make the chore bearable). The backyard is continually surprising us with some unexpected wonder. Just this year we discovered that the unusual tree in the back corner of our lot is a pecan tree. In addition the mysterious disappearance of the neighborhood cats has led to the return of reptiles to our backyard (only a couple of months ago I saw the first lizard in our yard in eight years).
4. The Two Trees: It will be hard to move if we ever have to. Each of our children has a tree in the backyard that was planted in the year they were born. Our boy has a silver maple. Our girl has a redbud. The twins will, perhaps, have red maples.
5. Location: Just before we bought our house, I was having a discussion at my temp job with a
co-temp (temps generally only talk to other temps) about living in the suburbs versus "in-town" (not quite downtown but close enough to feel urban-chic). She was a recent social work grad and wanted to move in-town for the diversity; she wanted any kids that she might have to meet all kinds of people (in a reversal of white flight, a large number of young, white suburbans have begun moving back "in-town" over the past fifteen years in Atlanta). I thought she might have a point until we moved in to our own, very suburban home. Our Iranian neighbors live across the street from our Vietnamese neighbors who live down the road from our Indian neighbors who always walk their dogs past our African-American neighbors, our Mexican neighbors, and our white neighbors (both red-necked and white-collared). Walking down the street at dinner time, one can be met by a wondrous melange of international food scents. In addition, I am only fifteen to twenty minutes from work and within thirty minutes of most of our families. Plus, we are close to a good Mexican restaurant, a good barbecue restaurant, a good Italian restaurant, a good pizza joint, a excellent movie house, a national park, a major trout stream, a thrift store, and are only three miles from the interstate.
Peace
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