Grading their first exam, watchin' 'em sweat.

God I love this job! My 7:30pm History class had their first exam last night. The new fish are always nervous, and I always have a good time milkin' it.

OK, call me a son of a bitch, but there are very few perks to this gig, and you gotta take what enjoyment you can. I start out by lingering a bit in handing out the test. They are usually bouncing off the walls, trying to compare notes with one another, reviewing, when I walk in. One will be telling the others his or her version of what they think I want them to know, and I give them a look, and say something like "Huh? Who told you that?"

They try to get me to give them answers, or tell them hints. "So, was it the Sugar act or the Tea act?", and I just shrug my shoulders and tell them "Pff, I dunno."

I leave the briefcase on the desk with the exams in it (they won't dare touch it), and I go get myself a soda, which takes a few minutes. I usually see someone in the hall, a colleague or former student, and chat for a sec. We're not supposed to drink in the classrooms, but fuck the rules. I talk for a living, not shuffle papers, so I needs me whistle whetted now and then. Rules are for nervous people. I was given a bit of wisdom a long time ago; it's always easier to apologise than to get permission. Words to live by.

I get back to class and I walk up to the podium and begin to turn on the computer in class, which takes a minute, and pretty soon one or two students are telling me things like "Come on, I'm forgetting stuff. Lets go!" I giggle. I start to hand out the answer sheet, and a few folks always think it's the test and start putting away their notes. I tell them "This is just the answer sheet. You can continue cramming." More giggles from the audience.

Then I start handing out the exam, and as I do, I give them my standard speech. "Read each question VERY carefully (pause for effect), on accounta I'm a tricky bastard!" That gets a few laughs and moans of dread. They always laugh when I cuss in class. Not supposed to, but screw it. We're all adults here. Shit, THEY cuss in class! Soldiers for Christ sakes! The gals cuss like the guys do.

More instructions; "Please don't write on the test. When you're done, bring it up here and I'll grade it (pause for effect) and then I'll shout your grade out to the class." THAT one always gets a good giggle and moan. I had a prof who actually did that. Bastard.

Is this wrong? Am I a bad person?

Well, it's mostly harmless fun. Most of them do well, and the ones that don't, usually do better on the second or third exams. If they bomb them all, well, I'll be teachin' the class again next semester. It keeps me in a job.

On another note, I'm still scanning old pictures now and then, and I've found a few that might amuse you.



How's that form? Jesus, I look like I'm trying to beat the ball into submission, rather than hit it down the fairway. I think this is from one of the last times I played golf with dad, about 10 years ago in Ft. Worth. The golf course is the one he loved at Carswell Air Force Base, now a Reserve Fighter Base/Naval Air Station. This place was practically his second home, from the mid- '70s to the mid-'90s. He played 2 to 3 times a week, in most weathers, and used to beat all his friends, till he got a bit older and began the slide. Beautiful course, now even nicer since the Navy took it over and spent an ass load of money on the place. We've driven by now and then to check it out, when I've taken him up there for one reason or another.

I found a picture of my old '82 Trans AM the other day, in this box of old shots. Ol' Mushy cleaned it up for me a bit, master picture manipulator that he is. That's our first cat, Calico, doing a little stalking. Doesn't mom do a great job with a yard?



My folks got me this car in about '85, for graduating from college. It was about three years old then, but still in new condition. I tried to get dad to think about a Honda CRX. Wanted to be responsible, but he never listened to me. He'd just grin and do what he thought was best. Ignore what I said, buy me the one he liked, and then expect me to be grateful. Hell, it was still better than payin' for it myself, and it was cool as hell, so I didn't complain. My insurance rate went through the roof; from about $250 a year to $1200. He laughed loudly at me about that, and that pissed me off. Thinkin' about that reminded me of something that happened back in about '71 or '72. I think the situations are somewhat similar.

I had outgrown my old bike by then. It was also a red sex machine. Purdy. Bright candy apple red, with a banana seat and sissy bar. The thing then was to copy the look of an outlaw chopper. The coolest ones had the tallest sissy bars, and the longer stretched out handlebars. Some folks even rigged them to have extended front forks. We'd plaster them with these fuzzy stickers out of cereal boxes, or wherever, to personalize them. There was usually a piece of duct tape here or there, and playing cards in the spokes, attached with clothes pins. Those were the days.

My folks had ordered it when we were still in England, and I loved the hell out of it. Rode it everywhere, on all the trails around our house in Kansas City, Missouri, and even up the steep hills, standing up and pumping the peddles. I loved it and I didn't want to give it up, but dad decided it was time to get an adult size bike for me to ride. I guess I was gettin' big, and was too tall to keep riding the one I had. Wish I knew what happened to that thing. Dad probably sold it. Fuck it. You can't stay a kid forever.

The newest thing around back then were 3 speeds and 10 speeds, particularly with the cool rams horn shaped racing handle bars and no fenders. Some kid in the neighborhood rode up to my friends and I out near the woods with one of those one day, sliding to a stop and spinning out in the mud, and I was stunned at how cool it was, and how fast it was. So when dad and I went to the local T.G.&Y. up the hill one day to get my new bike, I made sure to point out the one that was the perfect choice. It was a 3 speed with no fenders and the cool handlebars. I think it was white, or grey. I can't remember, but I was smitten.

10 speeds always seemed gaudy to me. Too much bullshit. Hell, you never used more than a few of those gears anyway, right? 3 was enough. One for goin' down hill, one for goin' up hill, and one for just peddlein' yer ass off. What the hell else did you need?

While I'm pickin' out the coolest and most practical one, tryin' to get dad's attention, he's pickin' me out the most fancy bike they had. It was a 10, turd brown, with fenders and lots of chrome, and the same conventional handlebars that every other old bike had. It looked like an old woman's bike to me at the time, even though it had the nut cruncher bar of a guys bike (who thought to put that fuckin' thing there anyway?). Hell, it was more expensive than the one I wanted, but he wasn't listening.

I was horrified. How the hell was I gonna look riding that thing? He didn't listen, I can picture this like it was yesterday. I go up to him while he's talkin' to the salesman, pointing back at the one I wanted, and he's acting like I'm annoying him. His mind was made up. I might as well have not even been standing there.

Well, he bought it for me, and I learned to like it, even though it always seemed a bit too much. I rode it hard, and put it through a lot of punishment. Didn't treat it like the high toned thing it was. Finally, one day in Junior high, late to class, I left it unlocked on the bike rack with all the others, and some other kid decided he needed it more than I did. Hope that fucker got hit by a car.

To replace it, dad looked in the paper and found a nice bike up a few streets away, on another block. He paid $50 for a used 10 speed, red this time, with those cool racing handle bars that I'd wanted before. I remember how much it cost because he made me pay him for it. He got me a job mowing lawns in the neighborhood, and when I did a lawn, he got the money. $5 a lawn. Paid for the bike, and his golf balls for a while.

I figured out some time later that my dad probably hadn't had much of a childhood, working hard from a very young age, picking cotton, wearing hand-me-downs, living on another mans land, and he probably had a need to see his kid in the nicest gear. Needed to be seen as a guy who was well off, and whose family was well taken care of. Insecurity... Drives people crazy after a while I think (wink).

I drove that Trans-AM till I started teaching on the ships in 1990, by which time it was faded and worn down. I never took care of it. I was spoiled, sheltered, and had grown up with dad doing everything for me. He always felt like he was being slighted if he didn't get to make all the decisions. I'll never forget how nervous I was just putting gas in the car the first time by myself at a self serve. Jesus! I can't imagine being that young and unprepared for the world, now that I'm the man I am. The innocence and fear of everything didn't stop at gas pumps ether, but that's for another post. Still workin' that crud out, but it's fast getting behind me, with he help of a few good friends (big wink).

When I shipped out the second time to the Mediterranean, and had realized that I was going to be off on the ships most of the time for a good while, I told dad to sell the car. Turned out, his idea of getting one that a dumb kid would wet himself over eventually paid off. He got me $3000 for it. I couldn't believe it. Some man came to the house, looked under it, checked it out, and bought it for his kid. I put the money in the bank, and drove their car between ships till I decided to give up the traveling and began teaching on Ft. Hood in about '94. I needed a car, and had saved up about $5000 for the down payment. Wanted a Jeep so bad I could taste it, but dad gave me a lot of shit about that.

This time though I was determined. I was gonna be makin' the payments, so I was gonna get the car I fuckin' wanted. He tried to change my mind the whole time. I think he was seeing Jeeps as still the old bumpy things from the war that he'd driven back then. I stuck to it. I'd been around the world by myself a few times by then, and seen a few things, and I wasn't that little kid anymore. The Jeep I finally got turned out to be a great car. She was my baby for 12 years.



Had about 32,000 miles on it when I got it, and about 347,000 on it when I traded it in for $500 and a 2003 Toyota Solara, about 6 months ago. Damn, I miss that car still. 1991 Cherokee, 2 door, 5 speed stick. It got about 23 to 25 mpg, and looked cool as hell with those wheels and that red and yellow stripe down the black sides.

Funny thing was, Dad fell in love with it after I brought it home. I think he was proud that I'd made such a good choice. That's my first tent on the left, by the way. Timberline Vista. Had windows on all sides for ventilation. Still around here somewhere, dried out in a bag. Took both cool toys on many a hike, canoe and camping trip back in the '90s. We were a threesome. Now my silver/grey Solara reminds me of the feelings I had driving that red TA, blasting Floyd as loud as I could on the 6x9s, though now the new 6x9s are joined by a few more speakers, and the Floyd is mostly Roger Waters, blaring from the CD changer. It's good to grow up.

Dad loves my Solara too. Always says so when I go to pick him up for our regular Friday feed. He's not the same man that I used to hate, back in the old days. He has to wear diapers now, and he doesn't remember half the things he used to know. Most of the things he talks about now seem more like dreams, half real and half imagined. He's not that pushy, controlling bastard any more. He's a helpless old guy. Sweet, and I love him to death.

Every once and a while, old memories flash by my mind and I get a rush of anger over some stupid thing he did 35 or 40 years ago, or something much more important that he didn't do, but there's a statute of limitations on childhood crap like that. As soon as I drive up today, and I see him come out the door, and he looks at me and grins and says "Howdy padna!", I'll forget all that bullshit and we'll head out to Dynasty, where the waiters know us, and they fetch his plate for him, and treat him like a king.

I probably only have a short time left with him, and when he's gone, I'll have these memories to counterbalance all the others. I'll cry for a very long time, but I'll live on, and I'll take care of mom as she goes through the same process somewhere down the road. This is our fate, my sister and I. It's the same fate shared by so many other baby boomers these days. Our health care system has figured out how to extend life far beyond the joy of living, and our gutless readers won't let us make the decision to end it for ourselves. They are SO much wiser that we are (gag).

We're a unit unto ourselves, the Wilson family. Nobody else is allowed in. We traveled the world together, and put up with one anthers shit for years, and worked out enough of our anger so that we could keep putting up with one another till the bitter end. Now that I'm pulling away, and letting myself out of this cage, taking on my part of the role of the parent and caretaker for my own father, I'm determined to do a better job than he did. he deserves it, and It gives me immense satisfaction.

Well damn, now that I've bummed you out, go out and have a great weekend! I finally figured out how to use the flash on the Razor, but I'd bet you're sick of looking at the Generals "chicken". Take care of yourselves, and listen to your kids, and don't let them grow up to be afraid. Teach them to be brave and self assured. Do it for me. Do it for them, and do it for yourself. I'll see you later.