State Fair

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Caramel Apples, Cotton Candy, Elephant Ears, Fried anything, Footlong Corndogs…(my personal favorite) sweet potato or minced meat pie gathered with wonderful straw hat adorned fellows, bellowing, “howdy pardner” on a tractor.  Is there anything more innocent, precious and simple?  Just down home good folk wearing cut off jean shorts who can’t get more gosh darned genuinely kind. Well, it’s that time of year.  It’s time for a great State Fair.

Step right up and win an ashtray!

Other than rock fights, potato fights, wiffleball games, basement boxing matches, and an occasional sibling showing up on Christmas with a worn down 20 dollar snowmobile, (which we proceeded to destroy), Spokane had little to offer………other than the annual STATE FAIR!

There were pigs, chickens, rabbits, bulls, cows, ducks, horses, cats, and every other animal anyone could eventually eat while living in Spokane.  It was our five dollar Disneyland.  There were also rides.  I remember thinking to myself, “should I sacrifice this money on a corn dog, or ride the “zipper” or perhaps, the “sizzler”?  Knowing I could perhaps do all three, I was both dumb enough and smart enough to skip the corn dog because it would be projectile vomited on one of the rides, thus wasting one dollar and ruining someone’s shirt.

The innocence of those days makes me remember that we didn’t have to drink and get thrown out of a bar to have fun.  We simply needed a snow cone, a funnel cake, and as a good friend once told me, “you gotta get the crusty pup”.  That’s a corny dog to you and me.

Deciding to further research this complex subject, I combed the streets of Seattle and Bremerton, Washington, interviewing people seeking memories of past State Fairs.  My wife thought this was a frivolous idea, therefore, I did it anyway.  Some of the people requested their names should be changed to protect their innocence.

Top Ten State Fair experiences and or prizes…..in no particular order:  These are all tape recorded responses so forgive me for the lack of sentence structuring.

1: Craig Handjob:  “winning ashtrays and beer steins only to carry them back on my bike to my mom and dad who didn’t drink or smoke”

2: John Dwellingson: “proudly displaying my half Iron Maiden mesh T-shirt I just won for my first girlfriend”

3: Taco Stone: “displaying so much corn on the cob in my teeth that people thought I had never been to a dentist”

4: Britter Bear Gannon:   (that’s her native American name) “won a goldfish after playing a game costing my parents 50 dollars.  It was dead by the time we got home”.  (Ironically, she ended up marrying a dead fish)

5: Larry Johnson: “won or found a cat.  I was stoned at the time so I really don’t remember.  (Coincidentally, he ended up marrying a woman who is allergic to cats.  He no longer smokes pot).  These were fascinating people!

6: Jackhole Brownstain:  “winner of the best pornstar mustache competition”

7: Yawn Larson:  “I ate an entire watermelon, including the rind and seeds.  Threw up for two days but won an etched ACDC mirror”

8: Seamus Mcgillicutty: “I saw the biggest balls of my life on a bull.  I haven’t been to a fair since”  (some of these testimonials are sad)

9: Conner Russell: “my dad was going to beat up the man running the pony rides because he didn’t think it was safe enough”

10:  Russ (he used this name as though it was the equivalent to Cher, Madonna, or Prince)  After only providing this mysterious name, he said to me only two words.  “demolition derby”.  He then strolled off to find the closest monster truck show.

Initially, I began making fun of the idea of State Fairs as being complex.  Currently, I am amazed at the capacity and complexity a State Fair maintains.  There’s just too much to offer.  Therefore, I would like to ask my friendly followers to add anything I am missing.  But take caution, because I have the 12 foot corndog of dreams story to offer regarding The Spokane County Fair.  It involves a man only known to some as, The Old Man.  Not the dude.  The Old Man.

Just wait until I talk about Carnivals.  That may be dubiously better, or flat out worse.

Ben

Swearing (F bombs)

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This is a shout out for my dear friend, Dave.  “Hey you, yeah you, F You!”.  Dave and I used to utilize this language when boating on lakes or rivers as high school punks.  Dave was and is a very colorful and extremely intelligent man who always made me laugh and still can.

Growing older,16 or 17,Dave and I recognized that humor didn’t have to be profanity laced.  Tom taught us this value. Dave and I would get a kick out of my brother, Tom, probably during a stint of Lent, using phrases such as, “That guy is a sack of potatoes”, rather than, “What a sack of shit”.  Dave was wonderful because laughter is so medicinal.   He recognized Tom’s sense of humor, and our free summers at the lake were magical.  Tom, in terrific shape, and four years our senior would say funny things such as,  “Listen you pack of cigarettes, stay away from these guys”.  No one wished to mess with my brother, Tom, including Dave and me, but it was pretty cute hearing one of my idols not requiring profanity to be tough.

Dave and I remain great friends, yet sadly, we don’t see or talk with one another as much as I’d enjoy.  When seeing him at our 20 year high school reunion, he did not disappoint.  Selfishly, I thought to myself, “I chose great friends”…..we just chose different paths.

Facebook

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Commonly, I have made fun of “FACEBOOK”.  My mother, Margaret, and brother, Glenn, won’t know this term, but everyone else in the civilized world will know what facebook is.  Therefore, I won’t go into further detail.  I will, however, provide this blog as though it were facebook worthy.  There will be quotes from famous authors.  I will talk about my weekend.  I will, once again, mention one of my many brothers who are perhaps making you weary. Additionally, there may be a picture of someone you don’t give a shit about.  Fortunately for you, we don’t have children.  Baseball will, of course, be utilized as a stupid analogy for anything… even if it’s in reference to lobster, neighbors, tic tack toe, or gambling.

Here we go.  Britt, my wife, and Tom, my brother, and I spent a glorious last weekend in Seattle.  We cooked wonderful food, dined at local establishments, attended a ballgame, visited the farmer’s market, walked through Lincoln Park, pissed in the neighbor’s yard, developed resumes, and most importantly, played pinball at a place called Shorty’s.  It isn’t a place for dwarfs, gnomes or midgets, just a cute name for a pinball bar where old school games we used to play at 7 elevens during the late 1970’s go to survive. Isn’t this intriguing?

Some face bookers need to get a lesson from this.  If you cut yourself shaving, no one cares.  If you’re cheating on your wife, no one wants to know.  If your son or daughter is playing a soccer game on any given Saturday, your friends will run for the hills.

Tom provided a wonderful point this last weekend.  He gave me terrific feedback concerning one of my posts.  Brother Tom kindly said, “I like your writing, but did you have any point with the post “Baseball and Couches”?  He was dead on.  Not only did he have a point, but I was embarrassed because I had no point.  Additional embarrassment manifested from the basic fact I wasn’t drunk when I wrote that piece of shit.  At least, that could have been an excuse.

Back to Facebook and points:  Here lies my ultimate point.  John Steinbeck once delivered fabulously simple words in the book, Of Mice and Men.  He articulated, far better than me, an idea which made some sense.   Within the novel, the character known as Crooks, an extremely lonely black stable man stated, “Books ain’t no good”.  People need people. Personally, I’m not a facebook type of guy, but now I understand why it helps just to say something to someone….face to face, e-mail, or Facebook. Even if no one really cares, or they don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, social interaction makes all of us feel a little better.

Keep facebooking

Customer Service

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Working from home has many perks.  Being white also has many perks.  How about that intro?!

My wife and I have been juicing lately.  For those who don’t know this term, for us, it has nothing to do with Barry Bonds, Mark McQuire, Sammy Sosa, and perhaps ten billion other ballplayers using human growth hormones.  Rather than increasing our girth and head size, we are choosing a much healthier lifestyle.

Britt and I purchased the “Deluxe Hydrophonic Blowpunk Juicer” recognized by many as allowing mortality to “just be a thing of the past”.  (Silly Bible….what does it know?) Since we are finally happy with our lives, we thought living may be a better option than dying.  I know where she’s going, but I don’t want to know where I’m going.  Therefore, I spend early mornings prancing around grocery stores finding the freshest of fruits and vegetables.  When I use “grocery stores” as a plural, I mean that I choose to find the stores employing the friendliest of employees.  For me, a fresh smile and a laugh is sometimes better and worth more than fresh fruit.

As a morning person, I tend to be a bit more chippy than the average ho, or hobo.  I run into them constantly when arriving at establishments at six in the morning.  (That usually runs me an extra three or four dollars) And, I understand when a cashier is either beginning his or her shift or ending it.  I have developed an art form recognizing whether someone may be the “cashier nazi” (Seinfeld reference number ten thousand) or the “cashier prince or princess” (depending on the store’s location).

These are the facts. The lady working the cashier this morning was clearly black.  The man before me was clearly white.  He seemed to be a fine fellow save for the elongated details he was providing regarding his 401 K plan.  As clearly white as he was, she was clearly as bored, and I was clearly becoming a bit agitated.  Blueberries don’t last too long in this mild weather.  After two or three minutes, nicely, I recommended a great accountant and solid psychiatrist for this man who was driving the kind black woman and the ever so patient white man insane.  Finally, he exited Thriftway, and the cashier and I both breathed a sigh of relief.  She smiled and said, “I’m sorry for the wait”.  I smiled and said, “Don’t worry, I’m on vacation”……which I always seem to be on.

She had every right to be surly with me, after dealing with this crackerjack for ten minutes.  Quite the contrary, she knew I was going to smile and get the hell out of there when the blueberries were good.  However, while she was ringing up my fruits and veggies, I did say, very delicately, “I hope you are off soon so you can enjoy this weather”.  Again, she smiled and said, “I just had four days off, fool! I’ve had plenty of sun”.  Recognizing her sense of humor, I replied, “yeah, I can see that you’ve gained some color”.  She slapped the table and laughed more than I’ve made anyone laugh in years, and said, “That’s a good one”.  Then she added, “The blueberries are on me”.  I declined her offer but said thanks.  I could still hear her laughing as I was exiting the store.  That was good service.

It’s tough being in a new area where you don’t have many friends.  The only people I really talk with, face to face, other than my wife, are cashiers.  This one made my day, and I hope I made her day a little brighter.

I think I have found a new friendly cashier.

Ben

Be careful who you root for

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While watching “Baseball Tonight” with Britt, I began telling her yet another story about baseball.  As a youngster, stupidly admiring ballplayers, Tom, Greg and I would take what little money we had and purchase caps (hats) we could not afford.   Since my oldest brother, Mike, who in the 1970’s was drafted by the Pittsburgh Pirates, Greg picked the most ridiculous cap available only because my mother loved the Pirates and Mike was a great catcher like Greg.  Tom and I took it to another level.  We wished to kick it up a notch, or dollar, by begging mom on her Sears credit card to buy us some ridiculously cheesy plastic helmets with which we would travel around Spokane wearing and thinking we were cool.  Talk about not being cool…..unless we weren’t in Gannon Stadium playing wiffleball, we looked like the only reason we should be wearing these helmets was because we may end up on a swing set, or God Forbid, monkey bars.

Tom chose the Cincinnati Reds helmet because, at the time, Pete Rose was one of our favorites.  I chose the LA Dodgers helmet because I loved the team, and I was a huge admirer of Steve Garvey, one of the all time Dodger greats. (many of the team members played minor league ball in Spokane) My sister, Maggie would often make fun of me by describing me walking down the church aisle waiting for Dodger Garvey to solidify our married bliss.  I remember reading a biography about first baseman, Steve Garvey to my mom, who so gently tried not to fall asleep.  Now I know why she was trying to fall asleep.  Steve Garvey turned out to be what some people call, other than Wilt Chamberlain, and George Washington, “The Father of our Country”.   He cheated on more girlfriends than he did on wives.

I am not a person who passes judgment at the age of 38.  Acknowledging my mistakes is one of a few reasons I can pray about keeping me out of Hell.  But, at the age of six or seven, devoting hours to people you revere, and reading books they didn’t write, and were completely phony, I think I had a right to dislike and not respect Steve Garvey.

Tom’s Pete Rose helmet gambles for itself.  Although being banned from baseball for gambling, he seems to be, genuinely, if you will, a complete D Bag.  My father, when I was admiring these players at a young age told me Pete Rose wasn’t someone I should look up to.  It wasn’t the gambling my father disliked; I could tell, in his eyes, my father just simply thought he wasn’t nice.

Baseball, like so many other wonderful sports has its’ share of A-Holes.  I guess what I learned most from my father wasn’t on the field.  It was the manner with which he taught me to look into someone’s eyes and see both the bad or, hopefully, the good.  Other than being a goofball, I do think I have a gift for recognizing when a person is good or not so good.  (I don’t wish to use the word “evil”…..that may make me return to church on a weekly basis.)

Be good,

Ben

Cock Tales and Dreamers

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Priding myself on writing moderately decent introductions, I don’t quite know how to begin this flog.  Please forgive me, but allow me to try……..because it’s kind of funny, yet crosses some boundaries within my writing.

As most intelligent earthlings throughout the Milky Way know, the movie “Cocktail” is one, if thee not worst and most talked about movies of all time.  I feel embarrassed just writing this.  I feel further embarrassment because I watched this hilarious film, in its’ entirety with a girl who actually thought it was good.  This girl did not become my wife. Once again, humor is far more attractive than Tom Cruise.  That’s one of the many reasons I married Britt, who can bust my gut better than Joe Frazier could hit Ali.  She thought the movie was simply ridiculous . I then decided who may make a terrific mate for me, much like a primate chooses a  wonderful spouse.  It wasn’t the beauty, the brain, the love she provides,( she possesses all), it was more important matters such as if she liked or disliked movies such as “I must be on cracktail to like this movie”.  In my mind, if she loves the movie, “Cocktail” other than making fun of it, she’s out.  If she likes”Jaws”, “The Sting”, and “Meatballs”…..she’s in.

I am trying to be delicate this morning writing this blog because I worry about offending people regarding the ultimate conclusion.  Oh, screw it.  When Britt does not wish to have relations and I do,  she says something funny, or does a goofy dance rendering me, or it, useless.  It works every time and I love it…..sort of.

Other than writing about cocks, I wish to write of my dreams. I dream of being a writer.  When I dream of reading the reviews on the back cover of my book, I don’t imagine reading things like, “captivating from beginning to end”, “endlessly thrilling”, “fabulously provocative”, “diabolically riveting”, “tragically fascinating”, “courageously unique”, “magnificently brutal….I give it five stars for brutality points”, and “Why did I read the Bible when I could have read this shit?”.  No.  I wish it to read, ” You made me laugh so hard I couldn’t get a boner”.

Seattle/New Yank Times

Disclaimer:  If I offended anyone following my blog, (especially Britt’s wonderful parents and random family members)  please understand that semi clean humor can ease some of our pain.

Anonymous

Shakespeare is a pain in the asspeare

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Although recognizing the writing brilliance of Shakespeare, I become offended by him lacking the knowledge to write for dimwits like me.  The toilet is a place to read for 5 or, like my friend, Jon, perhaps 10 minutes.  It’s not a venue for thinking.  It’s for laughing.

“Brevity is the essence of wit”.

The end.

Ben

Wow!  someone just informed me that Shakespeare is dead.  I guess that tells you a little bit about my English degree from Washington State University.  Darn it.

Crisco

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After the age of about 10, I  finally acknowledged bathing, asking mom for some clothes which weren’t my brothers’ and cutting my hair was a good idea.  It was not just my coming of age, but a roaring boomtown year for the Gannon family.  Our father, Rodney Edward Gannon, was witnessing not only the evolution of Ben, but additionally, the evolution of his wallet.  Finally recognizing he possessed money in it which could be used for more items than just 20 gallons of milk per week and two dollar steaks cooked on Hillbilly High while being burnt to a crisp by my wonderful mother, Margaret, dad bought something enhancing our memories forever.  He and mom, along with my brother in law, Denny, and his wife, my sister Mary, purchased a motorhome, or more appropriately referred to as, with a family of 13 children, “a traveling circus”.

I’ll be honest, not once did all 13 of us gather into this bucket.  Many of my older siblings were married with children and living all over the planet.  However, we did manage to pack in a fair portion of in-laws, nephews, nieces, bitches, A Holes, and ne’er-do-wells.  The last word in the previous sentence was commonly used to describe our family.  At the age of ten, I thought it may be a term of affection, not knowing what the actual definition was.  I could, however, use it in a sentence after hearing it several times, “Oh those Gannons, besides the father and mother, are a bunch of ne’er-do-wells”.  After opening a dictionary for the first time, I discovered the word wasn’t quite so affectionate.  The true definition is as follows: “an idle, worthless person; a person who is ineffectual, unsuccessful, or completely lacking in merit; good for nothing”.  Fortunately, that is not what this story is about, and within this story, I shall prove to you why we really weren’t, and I’d like to confidently say, aren’t ne’er-do-wells.

Traveling to the great rural city of Canada…..oops…Britt just informed me it’s a nation…. we camped for several glorious days one summer.  By we, I should clarify the people, depending on my skewed memory, present on this journey.  I feel as though I should immortalize these people as though we were on the Space Shuttle.  Considering our large family, it was a small gathering of loving siblings: Dad, Mom, Denny, Mary, Maggie, Greg, Tom, Monica, and the most important of us all, my nephew, Thee legendary Chris Hilsabeck.

While setting up camp at a place which may or may not have been called “Sheep Crick”, we realized that although most of us, provided there was a snow storm or hurricane, could possibly survive sleeping in the motorhome.  However, equally recognizing each persons’ personality, we thought it may be prudent to set up some tents for the few willing to sleep on canvas or dirt. Much like the Donner Party, I believe my father understood that if we collectively slept in the motorhome, even with ample supplies, we would still probably eat each other purely out of spite.

The process of setting up camp, tents or a sleeping bag on dirt requires a few important details and strategies:  impatience, the innate ability to argue, and complete disregard for infants and toddlers who may or may not be in the motorhome.

I can’t really confirm or deny which family member discovered this, but someone found my two year old nephew, Chris, stuck in the steering wheel of the motorhome.  While outside debating who would be forced to sleep with dad in a tent (the man snored louder than beagles bark and farted louder than a whale can sing) Chris, even at the age of two, brilliantly, thought the idea of crawling through a steering wheel might possibly be fun, and perhaps draw the attention of these people; aunts, uncles, moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas who were clearly far less mature than him.

When we found him hovering like superman over the dashboard, it was like an Irish Potato Famine Fire Drill in that vehicle.  We simply could not rescue him.  I didn’t really give a crap about his steering wheel incarceration, in fact, I was getting a pretty good kick out of  this situation along with his other aunts and uncles on board.  My thoughts of his father, Denny, driving his two year old son stuck in a steering wheel five hours to Spokane, Washington was just way too funny.  For about a half hour, I was rooting for him to remain in that wheel, just entertaining the notion (in my feeble mind) of this actually occurring.  Now, that would have made a good story.

Sadly, someone found a bucket of the ancient Chinese secret for releasing a child from a steering wheel: Crisco.  Upon applying the lubricant, he was indeed freed from this circular prison, and although mentally scarred for life, he lives happily in Spokane with his beautiful wife, Missy, and their two children who requested to remain anonymous and are not allowed in motorhomes.

Crisco should have created a new and improved advertising campaign for their product reading:  Great for providing excess calories in your fried chicken, AND, your children will never be stuck in a steering wheel again.

I have very few morals, but if there is one to this ridiculously true (I think) story, I’d say Gannons are actually good for something, even if it’s just getting a person out of a steering wheel.

Honestly,

Benjamin J. Gannon

Trick or Treats (Big Gulp and the Bumble)

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While maintaining the summertime theme, this title means absolutely zero regarding Halloween.  I’ll save that for my November blog.  Treats are reserved for those desiring Ding Dongs, Zingers, Wang Doodlers, Twinkies, Pong Paks, and Slappy Sams…..hold on……I may be confusing treats with fireworks. On the flip flop side, there are tricks.  Only one should be reserved for ballplayers!  AND IT’S NOT TREATS!

Let me calm down and explain.  My brother, Tom, and I coached a little league ball team one, and only one summer, for the tricks, not the treats. Coerced (manipulated) by Tom, I accepted the job (his son, Quinn, was a member of the team).  It was difficult denying his offer of no pay, jalapeno heat and pissed off parents knowing zippydadooda NOTHING about baseball.

Showing up at the ballpark two hours before the game, Tom, Russ (my pitching coach comrade), and I would prepare the field.  Russ was our non paid residential good person  preparing the mound for pitchers.  Preparing a mound requires far more time than raking and pounding dirt while sweating profusely.  That’s the easy part.  The hard part is keeping kids with dirt bikes trying to do bunny hops off the prepared pitcher’s mound.  We volunteered our time quite gracefully and enjoyed a few moments over those few hot months.  By a few, I think I mean two, or perhaps, what felt like, five. God Bless our souls.

That summer of coaching could best be characterized by the trinity of fans.  We had the Bumble, Big Gulp, and one other genuinely good man, named Earl, sponsoring  one of our players within the “Big Brother Organization”.  As a spectator and father, Big Gulp’s secondary concern was to bitch and moan about our coaching and where his son should be in the batting order or pitching rotation.  His primary concern was to drink an endless supply of Big Gulps during the game, thus increasing 7-11’s stock drastically in the 1990’s.  Luckily for us coaches, it was nice that he could stick something like a straw, 64 ounces of cola or his foot in his mouth, sparing us from additional whining.

Tom, Russ and I were growing weary of this fellow, but when recognizing someone actually has something, mentally, wrong with them, you make a conscience decision not to beat the hell out of them.  One fine day, ruined by having to coach little league baseball, Tom received a phone call from Big Gulp.  Big Gulp (he reads like a comic book hero) gave notice to Tom that he would not be attending the day’s game, but wanted his son to be the starting pitcher.  Diplomatically, Tom said there was a chance his son may start but wished to speak with me, the assistant coach,before making the decision.  None too pleased with Tom’s non guarantee,  Big Gulp provided meaningless statistics in an attempt to solidify his argument.  Without succumbing to persuasion, and out of curiosity, Tom side swiped the conversation by asking Big Gulp why he wouldn’t be in the stands, or grass that day.  Turns out, Big Gulp had an Elvis Presley impersonation gig that day out of town.  We stopped hating him and felt sorry for him and his child from that day forth.  It did explain some things……such as the side burns.  That was one of the enjoyable moments.

Photo courtesy of Washington State Dept of Motor Vehicles and Licensing

Bumbles don’t really bounce.  The gentleman, or sidekick, perhaps band member of Big Gulp was a man we affectionately labeled “The Bumble”.  His son, equally as crappy as Big Gulp’s, also played on the team.  By play, I mean he wore a uniform and carried a bat.  The Bumble, however, was exceptionally nice, but maintained a gift of gabble, or babble.  Though maintaining his kindness and good sportsmanship, he simply never shut up.

Referencing “The Bumble”, only those thirsting for Rudolph, Charlie Brown, Frosty, and countless other 1970’s classics may remember.  The Bumble was introduced as a Yeti slash Sasquatch like creature haunting, in fact terrifying, bedrooms, closets and tinsel town themed animated Christmas neighborhoods.  That poor giant biped turned out to be a cute, cuddly, furry creature who no one really understood…..other than Tom and me…..until we met the real Bumble.

Humor is so medicinal.  Sometimes it comes without words.  It does arrive with hand or feet gestures, or even a smug grin acknowledging the ridiculousness of a situation.  Suffering through these baseball games, Tom, Russ, I and anyone within 100 miles of this ballpark yearned for something more than mere humor.   We sought relief.  Not from the heat or children who hadn’t tossed a ball before 10 years of age, let alone conception, we just wished to find some solace with summer.  The Bumble provided that solace one day when Tom looked at me and said, “Do you know who he looks like?”.  I replied, “Yeah, The Bumble”.  Tom and I both laughed and the summer felt like winter, without the storms, the ice, red noses and frozen fingers.  Once again, I loved baseball.

Coaching anything requires patience, knowledge, persistence, acceptance, sternness, and two or three straight jackets.  Representing the civilized world, Earl was one of the few members of the baseball and athletic community certifying why sports, humanity, and humility can coexist.

As an intimidating figure, one of which upon approaching Tom and me after a game, we collectively said, “Oh boy, here we go again.  How is this guy going to educate us about the sport of baseball?”  This man approached us, presented his hand, and said, in the most kind and genuine of ways, “Thank you… you have done a wonderful job”.  Acknowledging we hadn’t done a wonderful job, we exhaled relief knowing someone cared not just about baseball, but two or three cats taking time out of their schedule to coach the art of baseball.  This man who approached us was working full time and mentoring a young man who has turned out to be a wonderful adult.  I think that’s when we stopped bitching about summer.

Tom and I were speechless.  Simply, we replied, “You’re welcome”.

Formerly, I was going to bitch about the treats required by parents after a game.  Tom and I received a request to provide treats after the last game.  Our reply was, in a Gannonuttshell……”Negative”.

On a sideshow note,  regarding the appreciative and nice intimidating guy approaching Tom and me following the game……well, twelve years later, I married his daughter.  Isn’t baseball miraculous?  What a treat!

Summer here and there

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The end of summer is near.  How demoralizing.  Speaking from a teacher’s perspective, this is fabulously crucial to a mind fixated on three special months. Immortalizing summer is quite appropriate for the following posts.   In fact, for those of you who follow this post, I implore you to provide feedback on why summertime is so special.  Sadly, living in Seattle, we haven’t experienced a summer….not like the ones I remember.

Summer School was the primary reason I kept up my grades.  Summer School wasn’t summer cool.  Not being a terrific fan of studies, I continued turning in my papers on time while crossing my eyes and dotting my tees.  That’s the only way I could avoid the despicable thought of spending June, July, and August in a classroom.  It made perfect sense to me.  As dad stated, “If you don’t get the grades, you don’t get the baseball”. That was my motivation for finally learning how to cross my t’s and dot my i’s.

Not being solid enough to make the baseball gig work, I focused on less respectful occupations.  Ultimately, I became a teacher……..Why?:June, July and August.  (those who know me recognize the fact or fiction within this statement)

Camping, fishing, cross country trips, finally being forced to work through some agonizing summer heat….well, my summer memories are embedded in my mind, good, bad, or great, like the Royal Flush you can’t forget.

The following blogs will represent the summers my friends, enemies, neighbors, co-workers, may or may not have forgotten.