stories

stories

Look here for part 1: http://www.porchcoffee.org/2012/02/16/place/

One week plus some change later, I get a call. From the teacher. Here’s how the call went down:

Teacher: Hey Dave…I don’t know you want to come back [he was only a little bit joking], but I’m going to need a sub for a day in two weeks.
Inside Dave’s head: Oh no. I was really hoping no calls from this guy for a while. Those kids owned me, trounced me, played me like a fiddle and hung me out to dry. Is it even physically possible for mayhem and pure chaos to NOT fly into destruction mode at the moment I walk into that room if I walk into that room again?
Dave [with the bravado of an angry mother grizzly bear]: Absolutely, bring it on!
Inside Dave’s head: you idiot.
Teacher: Great! You know the drill, and I’ll leave the day’s plan on my desk.
Dave: Perfect. How have the freshman been, have they recovered yet from that horrible day with that wackjob sub?
Teacher [laughing]: Well, they went into a pretty hard spiral, the room turned into hell on wheels for the rest of the week. But they know they’re on a short leash, things have calmed down a little bit.
Inside Dave’s head: YOU IDIOT.
Dave: ok, sounds good!
Inside Dave’s head: really. Really?

Two weeks go by, the morning comes, I wake up, have my cup of coffee and breakfast and make the long drive to the school, deep breath and in I go. The bell rings and the kids come in, easy now Dave easy, deep breath you are nothing but pure calm and tranquility and teacher, you are the champion and you are ok these kids are great, easy now Dave, easy. Little stuff let it bounce off you like tiny hail, big stuff keep your cool and do what you know how to do. Easy now Dave, easy.

And here’s what happened: it was a great day. Everything went smooth. The kids were great.

Inside Dave’s head: Right. Go figure.

other, stories

Little Diomede Island. The village is named Diomede and I have the privilege, the million dollar job: I am Diomede’s next 7-12 math and science teacher.

‘Excited?’ No. That word doesn’t really work; here, this works  better: I’m kinda excited like the horsehead nebula is kinda big.

Reference: here’s the horsehead nebula:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Horsehead_Nebula

Yeah. Like that.

:D

Little Diomede from the side
snowy Little Diomede
Little Diomede, Alaska – The native village of Little Diomede sits on the border of Russia and the United States. (U.S. Coast Guard Photo by Petty Officer Richard Brahm)
other, stories

Place. What is it? Where’s mine and where’s yours, right? Cities, towns, pueblos and glens and farms, where’s who’s place? There are books and theories and studies about this idea, this thing: place. And I don’t need any of them. And did I really commit homonymage there? Yes, because it looked better that way.

Because today work put me in my place. Hands of stone and no gloves and no 3 minute rounds with the 30 second breaks inbetween. Me, living breathing sweating bleeding heavy bag, while work did well the role of Ali, of Fraser, of Ward.

But you know, for the unpleasantness of it, maybe one twentieth the magnitude of that unpleasantness, there is a refreshing feeling about a good ass whuppin’. Very small, probably even smaller than a twentieth of the unpleasantness. But it’s there. Bleeding heart’s a beating heart. Breathe in. out. in. out. Breathe out deep. And breathe in deep. Breathe deep. Shake it off.

Time to go home and eat and sleep. We step into the ring again tomorrow.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

stories

Dear friend now in the dusty clockless hours of the town when the streets lie black and steaming in the wake of the watertrucks and now when the drunk and the homeless have washed up in the lee of walls in alleys or abandoned lots and cats go forth highshouldered and lean in the grim perimeters about, now in these sootblacked brick or cobbled corridors where lightwire shadows make a gothic harp of cellar doors no soul shall walk save you.

Old stone walls unplumbed by weathers, lodged in their striae fossil bones, limestone scarabs rucked in the floor of this once inland sea. Thin dark trees through yon iron palings where the dead keep their own small metropolis. Curious marble architecture, stele and obelisk and cross and little rainworn stones where names grow dim with years. Earth packed with samples of the casketmaker’s trade, the dusty bones and rotted silk, the deathwear stained with carrion. Out there under the blue lamplight the trolleytracks run on to darkness, curved like cockheels in the pinchbeck dust. The steel leaks back the day’s heat, you can feel it through the floors of yours shoes. Past these corrugated warehouse walls down little sandy streets where blownout autos sulk on pedestals of cinderblock.
—
Hey Suttree, they called.
Goddamn, said J-Bone, surging from the bowels of the couch. He threw an arm around Suttree’s shoulders. Here’s my old buddy, he said. Where’s the whiskey? Give him a drink of that old crazy shit.
How you doing, Jim?
I’m doing all around, where you been? Where’s the whiskey? Here ye go. Get ye a drink, Bud.
What is it?
Early Times. Best little old drink in the world. Get ye a drink, Sut.
Suttree held it to the light. Small twigs, debris, matter, coiled in the oily liquid. He shook it. Smoke rose from the yellow floor of the bottle.
Shit almighty, he said.
Best little old drink in the world, sang out J-Bone. Have a drink, Bud.
He unthreaded the cap, sniffed, shivered, drank.
J-Bone hugged the drinking figure. Watch old Suttree take a drink, he called out.
Suttree’s eyes were squeezed shut and he was holding the bottle out to whoever would take it. Goddamn. What is that shit?
Early Times, called J-Bone. Best little old drink they is. Drink that and you wont feel a thing the next mornin.
Or any morning.
Whoo lord, give it here. Hello Early, come to your old daddy.

Yeah, right? Lyrical isn’t close to being the right word. How do you do that?

There’s an odd, not too interesting and short story of Suttree and me. I bought the book nearly two years ago, read all up to the last 80 pages, then shelved it, for a reason I didn’t understand, not worth a rat turd; really, I had no idea why. Bad book? Oh no, amazing book. It is a bit slow to read, absolutely, but that’s because it’s not hardly even a ‘book.’ The words of the first page tie together and together stop and kick and knock around and in one page there’s some myth and some lost and some found and it is the slowest reading page I’ve read. It feels like he’s more a painter than a writer, pencil his brush. And so now I crack the cover and remember how brilliantly this man uses words.

Edit:
I posted this halfway through the book, then finished it. Whewee. Not sure I like the last quarter. It’s weird, it’s definitely kinda weird; I could only reccomend this book if you’re real good and ready for a weird few final chapters.

stories

–that’s his name. Well, it’s not his name actually. But, as a substitute teacher, I have to use good memory hooks; I find out this student is from Louisiana, the name stuck fast. Also, a relevant fact for later: I have this thing I do sometimes: I bring in half a dozen doughnuts and I tell my students they win a doughnut by putting me on my heels–do something to impress me. Mind you,if you’re going to ask students for excellence, you do not use supermarket doughnuts, no that would be idiotic; thankfully there’s a little doughnut shop in town that is as wildly amazing as it is pricey.

I subbed yesterday for a photo/computers teacher. When I saw “photo/computer” in the job description, what happened wasn’t so much that I ignored the computer half, more that I never even got that far. Photo. Photo. Wait…I can spend time in a classroom doing stuff with…photography? Really?

I stopped, did a quick pinch-test, nope, not dreaming, this is real. Great!

The lesson plan took all of 5 minutes to cobble together: can’t go wrong with good photojournalism. Aaron Huey.

Louisiana picked a war photo (this one: aaronhuey.com/afghanistan), and he did not address even one of the three assigned questions. In this failure, he wrote this, perfectly succeeding:

I don’t know what to think I saw this man walking not knowing if he had a bomb on his chest or if he was on our side we kept on driving he stared at us until we disappeared I still think about that man he stared at us with a grin on his face as if he was saying “we got you we got you once you think your ok we got you.”

“Um, so, I didn’t know how to answer any of the assignment questions, so I just sorta put myself in his shoes and wrote something” Louisiana told me, handing in what he’d done, what he’d done instead of completing the assignment. Louisiana was smirking, because he wanted a doughnut.

He got one.

stories

Sometimes a few facts tell a story better than telling the story:

-I spent some time with my family in Seattle over the holidays, and as I was leaving a dear brother of mine gifted me a nice Churchill size cigar
-Cigars go bad after a few days of not being kept in a humidor, especially in dry weather
-We’re in the middle of a dry cold spell here (something like 10 or 20 below at the moment)
-I don’t have a humidor
-There sits on my back porch the stubly remains of an enjoyed cigar
-My nose is still regaining feeling. C’mon little nose, just a bit more, you can do it! Get that feeling back already!
-I am currently wearing a hoodie, synthetic down jacket, my Great Uncle Nick’s wool hunting jacket, a stocking cap, neck gator, wool gloves, long johns, heavy carhartt pants, and two pairs of socks
-I’m still shivering a little bit, even though I came back inside half an hour ago
-I smell like smoke
-I like a good cigar

funny, stories

(from two weeks ago)

Moving in the landlord showing me around opens up this huge industrial freezer in the shed, opens it up and I see vacuum packed salmon fillets it’s filled with vacuum packed salmon fillets. Feel free to help yourself, I mean don’t eat all of it, but the wife and I definitely won’t go through all of it, we won’t be here much of the winter.

Today I woke up late, nine-thirty, ate breakfast at ten-thirty, early afternoon snack of a few crackers and peanut butter. Weeks of living on ramen and beans and bread, I finally go to the huge industrial freezer in the shed. Realization at this moment: not salmon fillets. These are HUGE salmon fillets. One is like three. This made me pretty happy.

Huge salmon fillet on the counter at noon, thawed out at five. Which was good because at five the hunger came, and it came raging. Burner on high olive oil and garlic and salt in the pan, hot, in with the huge fillet sizzle crackle sizzle, put the glass lid on to keep it moist, potato in the microwave, five minutes later flip the huge fillet other side and bit more oil and garlic and salt and more sizzling and the kitchen smells so good, potato done and steaming and buttered and salmon done and crispy and up out of the pan and onto the plate with the potato.

Epilogue
Woulda been better with a good beer. Dear first paycheck, please come soon. And it woulda been even oh so much better shared, but I’m not sure how to get that done; the paycheck doesn’t help much. Oh wait actually, doesn’t match.com charge money? Hmm.

stories

(from a week ago)

Neighbor and his little boy walking out of their cabin when I walk out of my cabin to go do some business in the bath house, Hey Dave we saw a rabbit gonna go get him, the little boy dressed up in his stalking cap and jeans and boots and toting a bb gun just like the one I got Christmas morning how many years ago, Sure let me just do some quick business and I’m there. In my jeans and hoodie. It’s cold out.

My neighbor takes the road up the left and the little guy and I go right to wait, but the rabbit was too smart saw and knew he was being flushed into the blazing sight of a bb gun wielded by a dangerous 7 year old, so the rabbit doubles back past pops who doesn’t take the shot so his little boy can have another chance. They keep going, I go back to put on gloves, hands real cold, they keep going, the rabbit’s gone and the little guy’s feet are really really freezing cold Daddy I need to go back to the cabin my feet feel like ice! Daddy I can’t walk my feet are ice! So my neighbor hoists up his little boy and I carry the .22 in my right hand and the little guy’s bb gun in my left and we walk back to the cabin, I can’t feel three of my fingers even though it’s not that cold out right now, neighbor says OK lets go over to the other thicket and find another one so we go, find the rabbit highway and split and start, I’m shivering and wondering which finger I won’t feel next and then a white dash and I see where he went. Hey over here lets head back to the main road I think he stopped close by so we double back and the big white rabbit takes a few more strides toward the road then up, my neighbor still hasn’t seen him but I know I saw him, I stay put he goes up on the road and up further and back into the woods and back down and finds the rabbit. I get closer, still can’t see, Ok I can’t see him still, you see him? You see him then, ok, you take your shot. He wanted to give me a chance, but better a rabbit than a chance right? Crack like snapping a small dry branch echoes muted through dry cold air and Yup got him. Lost feeling in two more fingers on my left hand and where there is feeling it hurts like hell and now my chest feels kinda funny but not woosy because a cute rabbit just got shot, but something definitely feels not right, breathing feels funny. My neighbor goes to his cabin to grab a bite to eat and I go to the bath house to warm up and when I get in and close the door I feel really not good and my head hurts and my hands hurt where I can feel them and my breathing’s funny.

Hands under warm water, hands under warm water, things get better and five minutes later all’s well. Body into shock from cold body out of shock thanks to warm water, it’s been a while since I’ve been that cold. I step out and my neighbor’s got the rabbit on the tailgate of his truck and ready to go and he shows me how to skin and gut it, half an hour, now there’s rabbit in a pot in the fridge marinating and hearty alaska rabbit stew tomorrow. We shoot the breeze about how chicken at the grocery store is just ridiculous, how you can eat rabbit every day if you want, there’s a lot of these guys around. Go out and an hour later you have a pelt in one hand and a rabbit ready to cook in the other. Can’t even get to town and buy chicken from Safeway and get back in an hour.

Well, I will have to go to town for the veggies, but I think that’s ok.

photography, stories

I don’t know what to say, but the names of some of the people and places and things. But really, the names of the people…

“–the way in which stories posses the power they do, by which they
actually change how people think, feel and behave, and hence change
the way the world actually is–”
(N.T. Wright, but really anybody who’s thought with even half a wit about stories and us humans and what it all is ought to have the same thing in heart)

…some of the people who were part of this story. Were? That’s tough. Really tough. Jorge. Magdalena and the other Magdalena and Catarina and her little brother, sharp as a tack, Angelina and the other Angelina, Mateo, Isabela who has a name-twin in town, “Alcalde” and Alfredo, one goofy and happy and the other goofy and sharp as a tack too, Sara and Amalia and Chepita and Pablito and Mingita and Mrs. Rosa and Jefe Roni and el Mosquito Paquito, Wuicho who’s so great at math and just a great little kid and walks and talks and is as though he were in his 50’s, and Diego who really is still a child somehow, and the one dirtbike that actually worked well. And more that I don’t even have pictures for, la pocaluz that became la resplandora through hell, the Paloma, the Tortugita, Meme, Don Chepe, El Mero-Mero chingonaso viejito Don Otto, la Negra y la trapeadora Ines. La Coyotilla (arrooOOOOooooo). The Pokis and Fiona and Shrek and Claudini and Luchis. Tripa el caballeron (also known by his buds as vejillo). Danery. La Capsinita and su esposito y el Capsinito. El Camion. Wuicho the mechanic and his pop Don Enrique and Venado the crazy, the pastorcitos and the shrink and the giant cranky guy and the half-dozen canchas in town, each it’s own place. Eatin’ some ceviche and having a cold beer up with the shusha. The Shush and his crazy daughters. Tamales. Tortillas. The Cuban doctors who I hardly understood, the annoying old one and chill less-old one. All the suegros and suegras and chabashitas and chabashitos. The market. And so much more, many more. Many many more. And also more hell than I’d ever thought could be on earth, too.

Isn’t that what a chapter of life’s supposed to be anyways? Well actually I can’t think that’s the whole, but it’s gotta be a piece. Right?

 

 

stories

When a friend died in Afghanistan in 2009 I felt like the world ended; we weren’t closest friends or even really close friends and it hit me so much harder than anything I can describe. For all his friends and family and his wife and his pals, the world ended when he left it.

A few days ago 30 American troops died in Afghanistan; and one by one the calls went out to the families, in a few hours call by call thirty worlds ended in fire and smoke and burning tears.

I wasn’t a part of any one of them, but dammit I don’t want to do anything right now but sit on the floor and cry my eyes out.

funny, stories

Here in Guatemala, after the rain, these huge beetles come out. I mean, really freaking huge. And slow. Flying, slowly, loudly, seeking..uhh..well, I really have no idea what they’re doing at all. They come in numbers, too; we’re talking 5-8 at every street light, and who knows how many in the darkness in-between. The little ones are the size of a film canister, the really big ones would give your hands mass a good run for its money.

After living here for 9 months good dave gave in to bad dave, in a weak moment my goodwill caved in to crude desire. I punted a giant flying beetle.

So, did I mention that these beetles also have a giant Rhinoceros-like horn?

photography, stories

When we were kids, on May Day (today) we would pick flowers and make baskets of them and run around the neighborhood leaving them on doorsteps and ringing the doorbell and running. It’s one of those oddly surreal childhood memories that makes me wonder if just the same my life now will someday be an oddly surreal memory. And whether that would be good or bad.

Happy May Day!

 

stories

This one day I went with some of the healthcare admin folks who had 8 communities to visit. It was a long day: we started at six in the morning. I only went along for one community where we have some sponsored kids that needed shoes and backpacks–the rest of the time was tag-along. Close to the end of the day the healthcare folks had one community left to visit but got a call to go pick up an emergency–thankfully by chance a nurse was along with us. He’ll be working in one of the communities soon and wanted to visit it to see what was in store for him.

We arrived at the end of the road, the community where the emergency was is a steep half-hour walk. We waited there for a few minutes at the end of the road, and the contact who’d called us, the community healthcare-facilitator, arrived and said it’d be half an hour until the woman arrived. The emergency was a woman who’d begun labor earlier in the day and something wasn’t going right.

She arrived on a board being carried by half a dozen of the men from the community. The baby was already dead and the mother in severe condition. The dead baby’s father, grandmother and some of us who were in the pickup all climbed into the back and Don Checo put the pedal to the metal over a horrible road. It was an hour’s trip back to the hospital in Barillas. The whole time I didn’t see a single tear from any of the family members, not the grandmother nor the father. Things are like that often here, and I got to thinking about it. Maybe in country where there is so much death and pain, life has somehow a lesser felt value. I didn’t like that idea because it just seems so wrong, but nonetheless I thought it. I thought about my brothers and their wives and my parents and what it would be like if a child died in birth.

We got to the hospital where a nurse was standing outside to meet us–she placed an IV quickly and began checking vitals. The woman had begun to cry out in pain. I had already climbed out of the back of the truck–I thought about taking pictures of the nurse working, but out of respect or cowardice couldn’t bring myself to do it. As I turned to walk up to the office I glanced back at the grandmother and she was sobbing. In a moment I didn’t see her but I saw my mom and I broke down.

stories

So here’s what happened to me. First, the parasites got me, and they got me good.

Then, in a beautifully timed attack, my carton of eggs went bad.

All body aches and bad stomach pain and sometimes the full chowder-blow, parasites or bad eggs who knows. But seeing as I wasn’t really recovered from the parasites and I’ve never had parasites before to know, I figured it’s part of the process.

As they say, the best thinking is done in the bathroom. At three in the morning Sunday in the bathroom I set to doing some really good thinking and realized that my carton of eggs was bad.

Up till three in the morning Sunday, I’m pretty sure I’ve never actually felt honest anger in my heart towards a food item.

I threw them in the garbage. But I’m still angry.

I fear that the beloved American Easter traditions will never be the same for me. The next time I see that giant white and pink two-eared harbinger of those hideous illness-bearing ovalish-spheric white weapons disguised in garish pastel-themed paint, the twin-barrel is coming out quicker than you can say Cadbury’s. Three and a half inch magnum.