August 31st, 2010

Trap-Eze

I do not remember what year TrapperKeeper blew up.

It was somewhere between my stint in 2nd grade and my stint in 5th. The remainder of my TrapperKeeper memories, however, are extremely vivid: They came on the scene during the middle of a school session. They began to catch my eye more and more often. Eventually, I began to beg my parents to buy me one. They refused to do so, as I was already set up with a large three-ring binder and a spiral notebook for the year (the mere fact that they thought that some binder and some notebook and a brand-named Mead TrapperKeeper were the same thing is, of course, laughable). Being Keeper-less, I developed strong feelings of jealousy towards my classmates and of inadequacy as a scholar. When the back-to-school-shopping for the next year commenced, I again begged for a TrapperKeeper and, this time, was allowed to get one! I opted for the cover with a red automobile that was probably based upon, but was not exactly, a Lamborghini Testarossa, with some palm trees in the background and possibly some neon lines scribed over the front of the scene. I’m pretty sure that owning something with that image on it is the reason that I am the full-grown, virile American male I am today. (Just as the Sparkly Lisa Frank Unicorn counterpart could very well be responsible for many of today’s virtuous, God-fearing women.) Being on time for a trend for once, I came to school with a TrapperKeeper during what was the Year of the TrapperKeeper. We all spent a ridiculous amount of time on our TrapperKeepers. Who had what design? Who had what pocket folder? Whose cheap plastic notebook clip or push-rod binder rings had already broken? Kids came up with what I guess they’d now call TrapperKeeper “hacks.” These included hole-punching and adding an extra folder. And weaving pencils through the weird flexible mesh storage flap. And giving their sportscar or unicorn sunglasses and a mustache with a ballpoint pen. Was it worth sacrificing the integrity of the TrapperKeeper for such pimpery? Such decisions! God, what a time to be alive! Then came the inevitable crack-down. They were such attention-diverters that they made a rule that ’Keepers had to be stowed in our lift-top desks, or at the very least, on the metal cross-brace under our chairs when teaching was occurring. We could handle them just long enough to remove a worksheet or piece of paper at the beginning of the lesson.

This semester, I went back to school.

Sort of.

Ok, what I’ve really done is finally taken advantage of the tuition waiver I get as a university employee and enrolled in one undergraduate-level class, outside of my normal work hours, as a non-degree student. (Still: school!)

As I was getting ready for the first day of class, and trying to determine what to retrieve from my bag for note-taking, appearing prepared and studious, etc. all I could imagine producing was a brand-named Mead TrapperKeeper. The reasons for this are many and varied:

1. The Mead TrapperKeeper is the last specific school supply I remember using. (I must have gotten by by scribbling things on pre-used notebooks and the backs of matchbooks for the last six years of my academic career.)

2. I have completely forgotten what the lecture environment is like and what it requires of the pupil. (The last time I was in a proper classroom was in 2001, when I took the last of my general-ed requirements for picture-making school).

3. Given that it’s been a while since I’ve been one, I have no idea what today’s student is packing. (I hear something called a “lapped-top” is big right now.)

The class I’m taking is Introduction to Permaculture. Permaculture is an ecologically-minded design-discipline. It is aimed, among other things, at getting humans to reduce the amount of non-renewable and manufactured materials we use. So, even though my friend Megan informs me that TrapperKeepers are still/once-again alive and kicking, I’m doing my best to resist the cheap, plastic temptation.

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October 13th, 2009

Day 13: Flying Bish’

Steph’s little nephew Bishop could best be described as a “bruiser.” He’s three years old now and if his strength and vigor grow correspondingly with his size, he will most certainly have a career in the NFL or possibly as The Juggernaut.

The last time he came to visit us as at our house was a little under a year ago. I had just raked and their was a large mound of leaves in the corner of our yard. Like any exuberant lad, he ran over and started playing in the pile. He would jump as high as he could, hurl himself in, and them drag himself out, laughing hysterically the whole time.

I was standing nearby, watching him do this and somehow, maybe from playing with grown-ups in a pool, he got the idea that if I were holding him, he could spring, from there, into the leaves and that this would be even more fun and hilarious. He wasn’t much on talking at this point, but one way or another he got his idea across to me.

Now I realize, at this age, most kids are tougher and more resilient than you’d think. (This is why I’m a fan of toddlers. You can grab them, shake them up, hold them upside down, etc. and they’re fine. Newborns on the other hand, you have to treat like glass cylinders of plutonium.) Still, I wasn’t sure about this proposal. I didn’t know the kid that well. Even though he was acting like he wanted me to pick him up, he could get weirded out. And there was a chance he could get hurt. Something in eyes seemed to tell me he could handle it though…and I am a champion raker. I mean this was a thick, fluffy pile. You have could dropped a Volkswagen off a five-story building into that leaf pile and it would have landed with a soft bounce, completely intact.

So cut to half-an-hour later, and I am swinging him back and forth by one leg, whirling him around in circles, twisting him around in the air, then letting go at the exact moment that maximized his altitude. And he is making crash landings and immediately coming back for more. And he is laughing harder every time. And I am laughing harder than him. And Steph and his mom are watching us and shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, as women are required to do when boys are having their rough and tumble fun. All was right with the world.

Steph’s sister Jaime and Bishop were stopping in to see all their family on the east coast during this trip. They went up to Virginia the next day, and we followed that weekend. There was some downtime the first full day we were there, so I thought “I’ll make a giant leaf pile. Bishop needs to get some energy out and I know it’s something he likes to do.”

I spent a good two hours working in the yard, sweating and straining, moving leaves from all sectors and amassing them. It was going to be worth it of course.

When I was done, I went back inside and showed Bishop what I had made out the window. He seemed sort of indifferent to it, but I thought maybe it was just because he couldn’t tell exactly what it was yet. Steph backed me up in assuring everyone that he was going to enjoy this and that this was something they might want to see. They got Bishop in his play clothes and put on his jacket, everyone put their shoes on, we all went outside, and Bishop just stood there staring at the big amorphous blob I’d created as if to say “What am I supposed to do with this, exactly?”

In retrospect, what I should have done was maybe introduce him to the pile slowly, sort of let him discover it on his own, and then make the associations with how much fun we had a few days ago, in his own time. I don’t know, I’m no child psychologist. What I do know is I abruptly snatch him off of the ground, like a sack of potatoes, and sent him somersaulting into the cushioning with a “Wheeeeeeeee!”

He plopped down, then picked up his head and shot me a look that I will never forget. It was shock, confusion, hurt, and anger all rolled into one. Then he started crying. So everyone had to come together to comfort him. And then it was “Well, thanks for raking the yard at least, Bob” and it was time to go back inside.

I stood outside a bit longer, alone and bewildered in the autumn silence. A slight breeze came through and carried a few leaves away from the top of the heap.

The moral of the story here is: you can’t go back again. Don’t force circumstances to try to make them like good times you’ve had before. There’s nothing but disappointment down that road.

That, and before you go violently throwing the youngest member of your better half’s family to the ground in front of all her relatives, make sure you’re good and married in.

Tags: 14 posts, Family, Recollections - 1 Comment »

October 9th, 2009

Day 9: The Crêpes of Wrath

I’ve been attempting to brush up on my French as Kate’s now in Montreal and we will definitely be going to visit her in the next year.

I have a strained relationship with French though, as it made a hearty contribution to the most picked-on-iest (absolutely a word) school year of my life.

I was in sixth grade and about halfway through the year we started a unit on France in Social Studies. Our teacher somehow found an actual, real-life French person that was in the area and was willing to come in and talk to us about her country.

So the Frenchwoman gave us her pretty standard presentation, which took up most of a class period. There was a little time for Q&A at the end and, of course, rather than ask about the place’s history and culture, all anyone wanted to know was what everyday objects were called in a different language. We learned that “chemise” was shirt and “crayon” was pencil. Then someone got us onto names. So many people were so excited about hearing theirs, that she elected to just go up and down the rows and do a translation for everyone.

When she got to me and I told her my name was “Bobby” and she said “Bobby?” to make sure it she heard correctly. It came out: “Booby.”

Yes, she actually said “booby,” quite loudly, in front of a group of 30 middle school students. I have no doubt that the soundwaves from the eruption of laughter were visible from space.

Our teacher half-heartedly tried to get the bedlam under control, while clearly fighting back the giggles herself. For the rest of that day’s class, and every day after for the rest of the year, I was hounded relentlessly.

What can you do in a situation like that? I was one of quietest, scrawniest, least-threatening kids at my school. Getting mad would have done nothing but egg people on. And who would I have gotten mad at? Every single other person in the world, all of whom obviously found my predicament hilarious? So I just rolled my eyes to indicate to all these people who were now focused on me that I understood that I was being joked about, and then laughed along a little bit and acted like I didn’t really mind being teased.

Of course I did mind being teased.

The callous, unreserved way in which everyone (even the one or two people that I sort of considered friends) in that room poked fun at me made it obvious just what little regard they had for me. Looking back though, I sort of subconsciously understood that we were even. I didn’t have much regard for them either. To this day, I can’t think of a single middle school teacher or classmate I liked.

When they poked fun at me for the “Booby” thing they were basically indicating that, in their eyes, I looked stupid, but bullies had already informed me that I looked stupid for a myriad of other reasons. I was used to it.

I honestly think what bothered me the most is that it was just so lazy. When everyone was still riotously entertained by this incident five or ten minutes later, I remember saying to myself: “Ok come on, that only sounded that way because this lady has a foreign accent because she is from somewhere other than the five-mile radius where all of us live and, it would appear, don’t travel outside very much.” To make matters worse, I never got anything more interesting than “Hey Booby!” followed by the heckler cackling incessantly. For like four months. No one ever built on it. It was as if these people were our earliest prehistoric ancestors, and they’d been delivered the gift of fire on a silver platter, and all they’d done was stare at it blankly from 50 feet away until the flames died out. Even the f-ing cavemen knew when it was time to jump on an opportunity and make something more of it. Ya know, maybe try roasting some of that mammoth meat. At least those cracks about my Kmart shoes and my lack of athletic ability and the fact that I had a big head showed some interest in word choice and powers of observation.

Yes, at the tender age of 11, I had to admit to myself that there is a large segment of the human population that would be perfectly happy if every humorous experience they ever witnessed involved, say, a loud fart or a fat person falling down.

Incidentally, years later I found out that the way you would say my actual name in French is “Ro-bear.”

I’m sorry but that’s pretty lame.

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