Pencils

 The newly appointed Secretary of Education, Dr. Miguel Cardona delivered some acceptance remarks this morning.  At the conclusion of his presentation, he quoted a Spanish saying that was most appropriate.  Translated, it means, "We gain strength from joining together."

Hearing these words of wisdom came on the heels of reading an article directed at teachers who are having trouble keeping their students engaged.  With the loss of traditional classrooms comes the added pressure to get students to buy into the whole world of virtual education.  There are ways but that means taking routine lessons and super-charging them with some little things that are designed to get students' attention in dynamic if not dramatic ways.  Ways, I would submit that are unforgettable.  

In the words of a tried and true professional, focus on some "grabbers" at the outset and see if they don't serve you well.  Here's an example.  I have taught many novels by John Steinbeck.  Within their structure are always deeper, overarching themes that many students have difficulty seeing.  While this skill might seem elementary, it is often what makes the difference between appreciating any work of literature and building the motivation to read.  

I once had the time and resources to pair novels in my American Literature class.  So works in the more traditional cannon could be paired with newer or similar or books written by underrepresented authors.  In dealing with Steinbeck, his fascination with "phalanx theory" is crucial.  This is the belief that people behave differently in groups, and that the consciousness of group identity can be a powerful force in social change and social justice.  

Here's how I learned to introduce that concept.  The day before introducing this idea I would get myself a new package of pencils.  In a good school year, I might be able to include them with my classroom supplies order.  If not I liked to go to a stationery store and buy a 12 pack of the brand that had bright yellow pencils with the word American printed on them in royal blue. I would act like a magician in front of the class and produce the package of pencils.  Immediate attention because many were thinking that I might be handing them out.  Slowly I'd take one brand new sparkling pencil out of the pack and then grasp it so that I was holding each end in one hand.  "Watch carefully," I'd say.  Then, sliding my hands toward the middle I'd abruptly snap the pencil in half.  There was an immediate element of surprise.  What teacher deliberately destroys a writing utensil?  Interest and motivation rise.  Then I'd take the package of 11 remaining pencils and try to break them all at once.  No dice. I couldn't even break one when I held the remaining eleven. In fact, I'd tell the class, it can't be done.  The final phase of this brief demo involves inviting who the class considers to be the strongest person in the room to break the 11 pencils at once.  Usually an athlete, the student would give it a try or two or three before giving up.  So what have we learned?  Together there is strength.  

Simple as this is, it makes the point indelible.  

Oh Brother Where Art Thou From?

 They are only small phrases, but we hear them all the time.  Perhaps a different or embellished way of spouting a cliche?  Perhaps something someone said in our formative years that wouldn't leave us alone.  So enchanting that we made it part of our permanent response file.

I'm talking about those expressions people say, repeatedly, that somehow stick with us over the years.  Case in point: Lots of folks say "Oh Brother," when astonished or faced with sudden disappointment.  I say "Oh Brother, Bob."  That's because about 40 years ago I had a girlfriend whose family emulated their father who had a brother named Bob.  My friend's father would say "Oh Brother, Bob as a small child responding to an older brother.  The phrase stuck was passed on to every family member, and then to me when exposed to its constant use.  Perhaps adding "Bob" gives it more appeal, more sting, more astonishment?  Probably not.  Still, I've noticed when I use the phrase while watching a baseball or football game or reacting to some of the unprecedented political developments of the past year, people pick it up.

Here's another that has stayed with me.  People often say "For cryin' out loud" when angry or upset.  I say "For cryin' on a bucket."  This comes from a neighbor and his family that shared my childhood.  Two mischievous brothers who lived just down the street from me were always getting disciplined by their father.  Dad, a Boston native transplanted to Southern California would shriek "Oh for cryin' in a bucket."  His words were always heeded, but we'd all find some time to giggle about that phrase afterward.

There are others, and I'm sure you have a few yourself.  I've noticed that terms and phrases are fairly popular these days.  Waving a finger like a metronome is all too common on the basketball court.  If in an excited sports watching frenzy, I find that the defense held, or a feared hitter from the opposition strikes out ending a threat, I'll blurt out, "You better just forgeet about it!"  That's because one of the neighborhood kids I played baseball with had a shop teacher in middle school who used to turn down his students' requests with that expression.  He adopted it and brought the phrase to all neighborhood affairs from that time on.  As a 16-year-old driver, if someone cut him off or wanted t make a sudden left turn in front of him, he'd blurt out, "You better just forgeet about it."  I catch myself saying those words on occasion some 60 years later.  

This is urban folklore at its best. it survives and becomes part of our oral tradition.  As the world becomes smaller through encroaching technology, what was once a local expression in a small corner of one country count end up anywhere.

Back In The Day

 My old high school (the one I attended, not taught at) has a Facebook page.  "People Who Attended________-High School." Mostly it's Baby Boomers discussing their favorite songs from the 60s, whatever happened to a favorite pizza place, or hangout, and sharing scanned photos from old football games or dances.  Seems to me that the people who frequent this page are the ones clinging to their youthful identities a bit more than most.  I think too, that many of them still live within the boundaries of the school district.  In any case, whenever I look there, a name rings a bell, the death of a former teacher is announced, or more frequently these days, the passing of a former student is the topic of discussion.

My high school years were 1962-65.  It was the era of car clubs for boys, social clubs for girls, and lots of recognition for school athletics. There was a dance every Friday night.  That's right, every Friday night.  Sometimes admission was only 25 cents because the music was Top 40 records.  Occasionally a live band provided the music.  Admission climbed to 75 cents or a dollar.  On rare occasions, performers with hit records currently in the top 10 would belt out their music in the gym, complete with sequins that gleamed off a twirling disco ball.  And that was pre-disco too.  But that meant that everybody had someplace to go on Friday night.  Even if only for an hour, people stopped by, talked to a favorite teacher chaperoning that night, and met new friends.

In those days the Senior classes had names, colors, class sweaters, and mottos.  It was a big deal.  Nothing like that exists now.  My own students found it difficult to believe that there was a dance every Friday.  During my last few years in the classroom, I saw more dances canceled than actually happen.  Things are more complicated today and therefore more expensive.  But it is not my intent to judge or compare these two time frames.  Things change.  What is lost and what is gained is not always an even tradeoff.  We really cannot go home again and we know it.  

Yet, those who would extol the virtues of that simpler time seem lost in the impossibility of progress.  It may or may not be more complicated for high school kids to enjoy a social activity today, but do we stop trying?  It's easy to watch those old films, laugh at the old photos, comment on how naive people seem, but who and where is the last laugh.  There is no sound reason that we can't have school again.  And no sound reason why some things can't be simplified so people have fun in the process.

Losing Touch

 Our lives are becoming more virtual every day.  Seems as if the combination of the pandemic and the necessity to persevere with everything we desire has created a newfound dependence on our digital connections.  We buy clothing, linen, food, and now most of our holiday gifts online.  School is no longer about buildings and putting our seats together to work cooperatively.  

We already know that things will not be the same if/when we experience some sort of normalcy, but now it seems as if some of those changes are coming into sharp focus exponentially.  Who will we be when our relationships with others outside our inner family circles tail off.  When the way we interact with others becomes limited?  Our experiences are transforming before our eyes.  

What will be lost and gained without the in-person school?  Even now, as we watch live telecast sports events we see the haunting transformations.  Most notably are the empty arenas with cardboard cut-out figures populating the stands.  With shades of "Where's Waldo?" they ring silent as the voiceless audience who paid nothing for admittance is incapable of making a sound.  But sound accompanies most every play.  The canned crowd noise rises and falls with the crack of a bat, or when a halfback busts through the line.  An ace in a tennis match evokes wild applause from yesteryear.  But those artificial...I mean virtual sounds ring out on TV, radio, and internet speakers only.

It's been reported that the great arenas are eerily quiet on the field of play.  Moreover, the refs and umpires can hear almost everything the players say.  Not good sometimes.  Not good most times, I suspect.

With gyms closed it's fair to say that our physical health might suffer even more effects.  Dental and doctor visits have suffered.  Both, another opportunity to lose tough with real people.  

But...maybe the reverse will happen.  With the upcoming vaccinations, perhaps we actually will return to the way things were at the outset of 2020.  Perhaps we will realize how good we had it and commit to never losing the things we took for granted.  These small joys have the potential to impact lives.  Lives that long for the interactions with others that help us define and understand who we are and are becoming.

Thanks

 Looks like the Thanksgiving table will be much smaller this year.  Most folks will honor the  CDC cautions and keep their distance as COVID 19 seeks to darken the winter months with a spike.  People are probably missing their family members more this year after months of Zoom calls, Face Times, and all manner of restricted, distanced covered-up behaviors.  

Hopefully, the new normal will have a positive side, health benefits, of course, but also a reflection on the importance of family and not taking things for granted.  

Doing the holidays alone is an experience I wish for everyone.  Sure, it's rather sad, but at the same time can be enriching.  I've done it a few times, and like any good therapist will tell you, "it's just a day."

Whether you sit with no one,  just one, or your entire family, Thanksgiving, in particular, is the stuff of memories.  Rich in family lore, it was, for many years the only non-corrupted holiday.  All that has changed with Black Friday sales, pre-Black Friday Sales, and now pre-pre sales that would have people replace digesting their dinner with standing in line and crowding into stores for a chance to spend their money ahead of everyone else.  What's more, they do it.

When I think about the Thanksgiving table that my sister and I sat around, the stories easily come to mind.  My parents, my Aunt, and Uncle, often my Uncle's mother (whom we called Grandma), and my sister and me came together for the traditional meal roughly 15 times between 1950 and 1965.  Today, only my sister and I remain.  

I was given a turkey drumstick as a 3-year-old, so the story goes, and apparently put on a good show in displaying my pleasure.  The association stuck and a drumstick was reserved for me every year thereafter. Dark meat has always been my preference anyway, so I gladly kept up the tradition.  Long about 12:30 or 1:00 I'd wander into the kitchen where my aunt, sister, and mom ruled the roost, and sometimes get lucky trading some errand for the privilege of licking the mixer blades from the mashed potatoes.

One year, I was sitting on a piano bench brought to the table for my sister and me.  After a full meal, I forgot that my seat had no back and promptly fell over backward while trying to stretch my back.  Fortunately, by the time late evening turkey sandwiches appeared, all was forgotten.

Of all the memories, one stands out as the most memorable and most humorous.  It concerns the time my aunt and uncle were doing their best imitation of The Bickersons* about the timing of a homemade pumpkin pie.  As the pie sat cooling, my uncle contended that the pie was underbaked and needed more time. My aunt asserted it was done baking and just needed to set.  She won.  40 minutes later, when it came time to cut the pie, my uncle made two cuts and inserted a silver spatula under the crust.  He then lifted the slice gently and prepared to place it gingerly on a plate.  The pie filling trembled, the crust gave way, and the disintegrating piece of pie tumbled to the white tablecloth below.  

"The pie is underbaked," declared my uncle.  Nobody heard him because the laughter was way too loud.

*The Bickersons was a radio comedy sketch series where a couple spent most of their time verbally assaulting each other.  Look it up, it's still funny all these years later.

Take a Look

 Take a good look at the faces.  These are the people.  Look at the rigidity.  See their smiles.  Hear their voices and match that sound with the countenances you see.

Take a good look at the faces.  They lie without batting an eye.  

She is asked, will the President attend the inauguration of President-elect Biden?  She replies that the President will attend his own inauguration.  That is not the question; that is not going to happen.  

Take a good look at the faces of these people.  These are the people who lust for power.  When that power is no more, they conveniently lapse into an alternative universe for their alternative facts.  

Take a good look at the faces.  They belong to the wrong people.  The wrong people in the halls of power. Wrong. All, all, wrong.  

Maybe their brains are wired differently than most others.  They certainly act like it.  Maybe they are not able to perceive what most find obvious.  Maybe they do.  Maybe they are sociopathic...all of them.  Maybe they are simply evil.  They are unable to process what seems so obvious to so many.

In the meantime, the country and all its people are at risk.  They are vulnerable as the unclad emperor plans his coup.  He fires and re-hires.  He silently broods and consumes.  He connives, he ignores, he spews rubbish.  

Take a good look at the faces.  These are the people who would throw you under the bus.  Who would put you on the trucks, when they roll.  Who would fail to wear a mask, fail to feel what you feel, fail to abide by the law and order that drips from their forked tongues.  

Blue Yonder

 

So we wait for the incumbent to concede.  Most of us have stopped waiting because it's not possible.  Blood from a turnip and all that.  The refrain pulsing in my brain is this Dylan song.  I've listened to various versions in the last few days, but the original still shines bright.  

Often when we return to a Dylan song after years of letting it lie, we find that the images are fresh and have new meanings for our time.  Like his idol, Woody Guthrie, Dylan is able to do that.

The orphan with the gun sees the saints have begun to stir

The sailors are seasick and the army is silent...holding onto nothing but a red hat.

The harvest of coincidence leaves the artist without a brush to hold

stepping stones lead away, but to where?

Change your clothes don't answer the door

Turn off the lights

It's all over now.

You must leave now, take what you need, you think will last
But whatever you wish to keep, you better grab it fast
Yonder stands your orphan with his gun
Crying like a fire in the sun

Look out, the saints are comin' through
And it's all over now, Baby Blue

The highway is for gamblers, better use your sense
Take what you have gathered from coincidence
The empty-handed painter from your streets
Is drawing crazy patterns on your sheets

The sky too is folding under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue

All your seasick sailors, they're all rowing home
Your empty-handed army is all going home
Your lover who just walked out the door
Has taken all his blankets from the floor

The carpet too is moving under you
And it's all over now, Baby Blue

Leave your stepping stones behind there, something calls for you
Forget the dead you've left, they will not follow you
The vagabond who's rapping at your door
Is standing in the clothes that you once wore

Strike another match, go start anew
And it's all over now, Baby Blue

The Man Who Lives in the Parking Lot

A man lives in the parking lot.  Nobody knows how he first got there because the chain-link fence that surrounds the small lot was there first.  But he's there, inside his home of blue tarp.  A gate that would open the parking lot to cars exists,  if that is what the owner wanted.  He must not.  Does he even know somebody is living there?

Around my hometown, there are inner tent cities in the inner-city.  The people huddle in all manner of camping tents that are often surrounded by campfires, piles of trash, bicycles, grocery carts, and abandoned furniture.  But the parking lot near my home has only one occupant.  

I know someone is in there because I heard his voice once. Either he was talking on a phone or he had a visitor because he was ranting to someone about "the money."  But that is the only context I have for his conversation.  I did not stay to listen.  

If anybody minds that he lives in the parking lot, they have yet to make that known.  In fact, he may be granted the space by the owner of one of the stores that access the lot.  The building adjacent contains, two small restaurants, one wine shop, an optometrist, and an abandoned storefront.  

There are no cars parked in the parking lot.  Only the hump of a blue tarp in one corner. What holds it up cannot be determined.  It could be some sort of pole or two, a shopping cart, stacks of something, or tools like shovels and brooms.  Perhaps the occupant of the lot enters and exits through one of the rear doors from the businesses in front.  I've never seen anyone climb the chain-link fence.  Maybe the man in the parking lot stays under the tarp most of the time.  There is a "Porta Poddy" not too far away.  It's possible. 

The man who lives in the parking lot has found a solitary home.  Perhaps he is not lonely. He must be cold.  He is definitely a mystery.

More questions than facts exist about this situation.  

Worthwhile

 Even though it seems like half the country is in denial, we are in the middle of a pandemic that shows no signs of slowing up. In fact, if the statistics of the past week are any indication, the predicted "long dark winter" expected by many health professionals is at our doorstep. 

Historically, there will be many attempts to document the social history of this time.  That is, how are people faring in their day to day lives?  What kinds of changes have we adapted to, what do we now do and forget to do now that going outside means wearing a mask or not being able to use cash, or the diminished hours that many retail stores and restaurants have adopted?

Will the President and administration that refuses to take responsibility be elected to a second term?  Despite what the polls say, I think it's still possible that the Denier in Chief, with all his whining and voter suppression tactics, could still pull this election out of the jaws of defeat.  It will take time before anyone on any side breathes anything close to a sigh of relief about the outcome.   

No matter what the method, a voting booth, an envelope in a mailbox, driving your ballot to an official collection box, people are still voting in private.  They say one thing to the pollster and their family and friends and then turn around and vote their deepest fears and biases while alone.  That happens.  

And, just who are these undecided voters.  Anybody still undecided in this divisive atmosphere is some piece of work.  The choice couldn't be more clear.  So what accounts for their indecision.  If I may, let me offer an explanation.  F*E*A*R.   

Values Checklist:

They've been conditioned by decades of advertisements and unreliable sources.  They often claim they haven't done their research yet.  I wonder what that looks like?  Are those folks the same when it comes to choosing the color to paint a room, or buying a pair of shoes?

Some just may choose not to vote at all.  The perfect candidate does not exist.  That should be the mantra.   I've got an idea.  Let's have a nationwide values clarification activity.  Back in the early 70s when I began my teaching career, Values Clarification was all the rage.  We taught the concept of values as principles and ideas that people deemed worthwhile. It's important to have a Values Checklist, so people can be reminded of the concepts and principles that comprise their values. That was followed by clarification activities like scenarios that required people to rank order their values and then see where those choices conflicted with what other people thought.  Knowing what you value and why helps people make decisions they can live with.

Shelf Life

 My downsizing continues.  The new target is the release of some books I've been carrying around for decades.  Much of this cache comes from my college years in the late 1960s.  What better place to find a new home for some of this material than a small independent bookshop with the appropriate name of Revolution Books.  Actually, even though they have a good collection of political books and ephemera, some vinyl records, and an abundance of jigsaw puzzles, the store features a selective and eclectic selection of mostly used books.  

As you might surmise, this little store is an anomaly.  But it seems to be eeking out survival during this dark economic time.  The atmosphere of the store is welcoming, and the young couple that owns it are obviously living their dream.  

So I march in with 7 books in a paper grocery bag.  The woman is there; she gets excited about my books and quickly calls her husband.  He instructs her to photograph the books. She does.  After viewing the iPhone pic, he wants them all.  We strike a deal.  

Among the books, I sold was a rare little paperback from 1968.  Called Thoughts of the Young Radicals, it was on the reading list for a political philosophy class I took at UCLA that same year.  And what a year it was.  I've experienced nothing like it since, save 2020.  This little volume contained a series of essays originally published in the New Republic by the young radicals of the time.  Many of those folks, like Tom Hayden, and Stokley Carmichael are no longer alive, much less young. As I glanced through the book one more time before I placed it in the bag, I realized that it could be an invaluable resource for someone doing research on the period.  Included in that group of seven books was a book of letters written by draft resisters (not to be confused with draft dodgers) a book on Buddhism, and ...and...I can't recall the other 5.  That's a good thing because I'm trying hard not to hold onto books for the wrong reasons. 

After I got home, I thought of that class back in 1968.  The professor was interested in a term he coined, "radical liberal." He'd written a book by the same name, also on the reading list, and the discussion centered on how liberals must go one step further if any real change was to occur in American political institutions.  This was the year of two political assassinations, a stormy Democratic convention in Chicago, and the rise of the Black Panther Party.  I recalled how the final for that class was held on the same day as the California primary.  I'd written on the differences between Sen. Gene McCarthy and Sen. Robert Kennedy.  That night I watched in horror as Bobby was cut down shortly after winning the Democratic primary.  What a year.

I've got a feeling that I'll be making more trips to this little bookstore.  Not all my stuff will be sold, some will, no doubt, be donated.  The compensation is really knowing that my prized collection of now rare, aging,  well-traveled books found a good home.

And...Set Yourself Free

Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened

                                                    -Dr. Seuss

 I know I need to let go.  I've been trying for about 5 years now.  But I hold them in my hands, look at the parts, the old notes, the well-preserved folders...and then I just put them back until the urge hits again.  That's usually on a rainy day or a few months down the road.  

My file cabinet has slimmed down considerably, but I just can't seem to throw away everything even though I know that I'll never use these books or curriculum materials again.  I thought that a beginning teacher would want them.  But they don't even have classrooms anymore.  Nobody knows when onsite classes will return or what teaching will look like if and when this pandemic has passed.   So the task remains.  

But I have such good things to share.  On my last day of full-time teaching, I knew I'd be leaving behind all my classroom computer files and sets of books, and file cabinets full of great lessons, student work, and teacher resources.  So, I took two file folders and placed one copy of everything I thought was timeless or necessary not to forgot.  Some of that has helped supervise

beginning teachers.  It was a life preserver for some.  But I no longer do that.  Everything must go.

I'd love to have a ceremony of some sort, but I'm afraid most of these papers will be recycled or find their way to "free libraries" or the ultimate: the inside of a garbage bag.  There just isn't any demand for a teacher's well used and carefully collected materials.  

I suppose I could get aggressive and seek out some new owners.  That might prove, I'm afraid, more work and rather depressing getting hit with all those, "thanks, but..."

So face facts I tell myself, you're just going to have to set yourself free.

I think the deed should be done quickly, lest I become one of these hoarders who must filter everything in the garbage before deciding to let go of nothing.  I am going to do this.  What's the worst that could happen?  All physical objects can be replaced, and if not something new and perhaps better will take its place.  

So what is this really about?  I know.  Losing a chunk of your identity?  Definitely.  But then we are all about loss along the way. Aren't we. I fancy myself at the stage of life where I'd like to emulate Gandhi.  I think he only had three things when he died. His clothing, his glasses, and a little statue of the three monkeys who saw, heard, or spoke no evil.  Now that's a worthwhile goal.  I'll never get there but trying to will definitely help.  I've heard it said that in the end, the only thing we really have is our memories.  Mine are carefully filed away and available on demand.

Firefly

 I'd never seen one before,

     up close, or held one in my hand.

But that summer of loss,

     when I saw you walk away,

on that street 3000 miles to the East,

     I couldn't know that would be the last time

my eyes would see you shine.

But that evening,

distancing myself from all,

I wandered in a deep green backyard and the fireflies emerged.

With the inherited awe of a child, 

I reached out and they came to me,

Fireflies,

When our life together ended,

     I left behind fireflies.

All Systems Go

 When I see some of the highest officials in the US government deny the existence of systemic racism, I know they have no knowledge of American history.  They are ignorant, there is no other way to say it.  Anyone with any accurate knowledge of the history of this country knows about the institutional attempts to exclude various ethnic groups from all the blessings of liberty.  The documentation is there for all to see.  The primary sources are rich in detail.

As a history teacher, I always considered textbooks more as primary sources rather than the secondary sources they are.  That's because textbooks throughout the decades provide a revealing look into both the interpretation and inclusivity of our history.  These days any text worthwhile contains both narrative and primary sources.  In fact, the Advanced Placement history exam usually is based on historical interpretation of various documents.

But for the uneducated, history is a narrative.  It begins, usually with the Founding Fathers, and ends with the latest war.  It's names and dates, battles, and presidents.  How naive.  But the current crop of politicos rarely goes beyond any basic knowledge.  They cling to the George Washington and the cherry tree brand of story-telling.  How else could they make statements, like the current Attorney General has, that systemic racism hasn't existed at all?   

As a young teacher, I collected history texts so that my students could see how history is written.  Occasionally at a flea market or yard sale, I'd come across a real antique, or a narrative so biased that I just couldn't pass it up.  When teaching about racism, it's important to deal with images in the mind.  Occasionally those images held by the dominant culture are so racist, so intolerant, that they are all that is needed to open up a mind.  

I offer these pages from an 1896 US history text in describing the Battle of Little Big Horn:

It's clear that the author has no interest in an unbiased representation of the people and events of this famous event.  That this was from a book bought and distributed by a school system in California shows how an institution is complacent with the prevailing racist views of the day.  Is this important?  Or rather why is this important?  Discuss.

I've Seen Fire and Rain

 How much more dystopic can it get? We were wondering until the nearby forest fires surrounded us with thick smoke that gave us more reasons to stay inside and wear a proper mask if we have to go outside. 

"Greetings from the worst air quality in the world," is the way I started an email to a friend who, bombarded by media images of Portland, was wondering how we are managing in this new reality.  Many of my friends from Florida to the Yukon have checked in lately.  I give them a virtual smile and explain that we are muddling along.

This got me thinking about the extremes in weather and the natural disasters I've been through in the years before the pandemic.  Growing up in Southern California there were always forest fires that blocked the sun and sent light ash tumbling down on cars and backyard swimming pools.  Every few years we were sent home from school or treated to a day off by driving rainstorms that flooded local streets where flood control basins were inadequate.  We never had winter storms or snow days there.

It wasn't until I spent some time in Texas and Louisiana that I experienced the real power of thunderstorms and lightning that rivaled a war zone.  One time in New Orleans I saw a power pole struck by lightning and the spark-filled fireworks show that followed.  On another occasion, while swimming in the Gulf of Mexico I saw the beginning of a hurricane and heard the warnings to shelter on local radio.  

In my time in the Bay Area, thee were a few "Shelter in Place" alerts, but those were from human error with bad air from oil refineries or other industrial pollutants. It wasn't until I moved to the Northwest that some of the Central Oregon thunderstorms rivaled those in the South.  One time driving back to Oregon from Montana, in the state of Washington, we received an emergency warning on the car radio.  Ahead, we saw an enormous dark cloud and realized the next Tri-state Washington town where we were headed was right in the middle of it.  In seconds, the hail pounded and the visibility decreased rapidly so that everyone pulled off to the side of the road.  I recall the two barely visible red taillights of the car in front of me that I followed to safety.  When the sky cleared a bit, we took the first exit to a motel on higher ground as the little town's streets flooded.  When I saw a local sheriff patrolling in a rowboat, I knew we'd better just hunker down until morning when the floodwater abated.

In 2000, going, to a family reunion in Hamilton, Montana, we headed directly into a huge firestorm in the Bitterroot mountains.  All my fishing plans evaporated and the only sport I recall participating in was watching helicopters dip and drop water on burning hills.

All those areas subsequently healed but not before a mountain of lost homes, people, wildlife, and plans and hopes.  So too will our latest disasters pass.  Today, with so many restrictions on movement and options, it's a good day for only one thing.  To remember what we've seen before and to realize that the air will clear eventually and we will begin again.

Things We Keep

We all have some.  Those things we can't seem to throw away.  The things that hang around year after year.  The things we keep.  Most of us that have lived for decades have gone through many downsizes.  As we age, we continue to downsize.  Furniture, books, records and CDs, clothing, photos, recreational gear.  But some things remain.  The things we keep.  The things we can't seem to move along or break free from, or even just toss.
Of course, there are reasons some of these objects can't seem to find their way to a Goodwill, classified ad, or even a trash can.  From those objects, I submit, we can learn a good deal about ourselves and why we keep hanging on to some things.

One reason might be that some personal objects like letters, journals, and photos just can't be thoroughly destroyed.  Unless we have a fireplace, it's often difficult to find a satisfying way to rid ourselves of these burdens.  We have to talk ourselves into believing that no harm can come in liberating ourselves and our survivors from these hard-held possessions if we let the local trash collector take them away in garbage bags.  Do people really traipse through the dump reading journals from 1983?  Do they gather up your old family photos? Is the danger we attribute to just trashing some things real?
A compromise might be to photograph some things and then digitize them by putting them all on a thumb drive.  Think of the space that would save.
Some things I've moved on defy that.  For about 15 years I owned an old jukebox.  A real beaut, it played 78 records and lit up like an Art Deco Christmas tree.  I moved it a few times and then decided, no more.  That 1946 Rockola jukebox went to a good home with a collector but I still can enjoy my memories by listening t a few of the records it often played or looking at a few of the photos that remain.  No so with more personal items.
The items of real concern are usually tied with emotion to specific people or events.  I have a few photos of trips I have taken with people who were close to me at the time.  I even have saved a scarf and various handwritten notes.  A night 45 years ago and the first inklings of budding relationships lie preserved in small boxes.  I want to rid myself of these things, but gently.  A fire would be satisfying and symbolic, but just not possible.  So what could be done? If I do nothing then all will be dismissed with no meaning.  Maybe that's OK, but I'd prefer to have a hand in the great letting go.  For any benefit, I must act.

How Many?

57 years ago today, right about the time this is written, I remember exactly where I was.  On this hot Southern California afternoon, I was not swimming with neighborhood kids.  I was not playing baseball or records, or even getting ready for my Junior year in high school which was just two weeks away.
I was watching television, or rather watching history.  This was the day and time of the March on Washington, D.C. and the list of speakers and entertainers held my attention.  I recall trying to get my sister and a couple of her friends to watch with me but they were only interested in their social scene about to be revived with the approaching new school year.  My mom was in our pantry sitting by an ironing board.  Periodically, I'd run back there and scream, "You gotta see this, it's history in the making."
"You can tell me all about it," was all I got in reply.
So I returned to sit by the old Packard Bell TV with the well-worn dials that adjusted volume or turned the channel.

I knew about Peter, Paul, and Mary, Bob Dylan, and Joan Baez.  Their music was just beginning to make an impact in my world of 16 year-olds.  Of course, it was the oration of Martin Luther King Jr. that made the most impact.  A year earlier I had found a copy of his book Why We Can't-Wait at my local drug store and was all too familiar with King's Letter from the Birmingham Jail.  I marveled at the energy that King created within the crowd.  The call and response of a Black preacher was still new to me, but it was spellbinding.  Earlier, I had seen Black funerals televised as civil rights workers were laid to rest in news coverage.
57 years have passed and there is another March on Washington today.  As police shootings continue and the Black Lives Matter movement continues to move the social justice agenda forward, it sometimes seems as if very little has changed.  This is hardly the case because real change moves much slower than most would like.  But in Dr. King's words, "the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends towards justice."
Let's hope so.
Point of Interest: That year 57 years ago was 1963.  Later that year, for my US History class I did a research paper on voter registration in the South.  From an article in Newsweek magazine, I learned about the history poll taxes, grandfather clauses, and literacy tests for Black people.  I read of a Mississippi literacy test that asked potential voters, How many bubbles are there in a bar of soap?" This was real...documented...systemic racism in the USA.
It's often said that what a person sees at crucial times in his/her life stays with them and impacts their values the most.  For me, that is definitely the case.

Scatterings

I heard recently from a former colleague of mine.  We talk from time to time.  He calls me, truth be told, and seems to have a need to fill me in on life in the Bay Area.  I moved 14 years ago after living there for about 35 years.  I'm fortunate to have his friendship because I do value the newsy updates.
This latest call was consumed by our discussion of life after COVID and the upcoming opening of the school year.  We both are fortunate to be retired and not have to deal with the online challenges currently facing our colleagues still in the classroom.
Always, he fills me in on who died, and who is and is not doing well.  This last call, however, had something with a twist.  We talked about the daughter of a former colleague of ours who died about 6 months ago.  The daughter was charged with scattering her mother's ashes at the mountain camp that they both attended every summer for many years.  The camp is a beautiful, woodsy sight in the mountains where inner-city kids spend a week or two every summer.  My friend and her daughter have worked there every summer and the place came to be a sort of Eden for them.  I can easily see why she like to have her ashes scattered there.
The daughter went to the site a few weeks ago, but for some reason was not able to complete the chore.  She returned recently and could not follow through again.  My phone call friend and I discussed the possibility that it is just too difficult right now to let go of her mother.  This makes sense and says much about their relationship.

I think that someday, maybe next year, the request will be fulfilled.
In the same vein, I recalled a couple of times that I was fly fishing on a couple of Central Oregon's most beautiful rivers.  While following the trails that run parallel to the flowing water, I encountered small groups of two or three people carrying an urn and looking for a good spot to fulfill the request of a loved one.  I recall nodding to the people as recognition that I knew what they were doing and would certainly move out of the way and allow them all the privacy they need.
One of these sites, the Metolius River would definitely be in my top 3 places where I'd like to have my ashes scattered.  It's a place of beauty and mystery.  A place where I could spend endless hours.  I really do mean endless.  I have a couple of other sites in mind, but I do leave open the possibility that the final decision has a way to go before being necessary.

I once thought that having my ashes scattered at the Finish Line at a race track would be great.  Not sure it would be possible, but for me, another place of beauty and mystery.

Rookies Again

Like many retired teachers, I get the pull come late August.  It's always been an exciting time for those who enter the classroom because the teaching profession enjoys the luxury of starting over every year.  That little renewal is often what it takes to keep fresh, keep motivated, keep going.  The job itself is exhausting and predictable is the loss of anticipation and the subtle depression that slides in by late October.
I continue to have school dreams too.  Most educators have them and even after retirement, they continue to surprise.  Last week I had two such dreams, the most significant being one where a class of seniors, feeling done, did not want to stick around so they slowly bit by bit exited the classroom.  I was powerless to do anything short of issuing threats, pleas, warnings, or immediate consequences.  Easy dream to interpret. Powerlessness figures heavily in educating another human being.

My feeling is that this latest cluster of what I call "school dreams" occurred because I've been thinking about and watching and reading news stories about the opening of the new school year.  It would seem that virtual school or distance learning, as the euphemisms go, seems to be the rule this year.  With that in mind, I checked the web sites of my old district and school to see what was happening and what I'd have to do to teach in this new reality.  That was the trigger, no doubt.  What surprised me was that even though the message was clear about when and what the new school year would look like, there was very little else on the web site.  A few links from a few teachers but that was all.  I'm sure it's all a work in progress at this point, and my former colleagues are scrambling as I write.
Former colleagues...there were very few left.  I only recognized the names of four teachers and knew none of the administrators.  That's the key to bringing school dreams to an end.  The school I knew, the people I knew, and of course the world I knew do not exist anymore.
Last week I received a phone call from a friend I made while I was supervising student teachers a few years ago.  After we renewed our friendship and how life during the pandemic, we got to the inevitable topic of the 2020 school year.  My friend is no longer in the classroom.  We hit it off when a student teacher I was working with was placed in his classroom about 10 years ago.  A former Oregon Teacher of the Year, Michael, my friend, works now in the State Dept. of Education.  Shortly before our conversation ended he said, "you know Bruce, all the things we were good at, the skills we developed over so many years, might be obsolete now."  We'd be rookies again!  Michael is a rabid baseball fan so the rookie metaphor was no surprise.  What was, I fear, is the truth of his statement.  I fear...fear... Hmm, more dreams ahead.

Open Up

When all the "what was it like?" questions about the great pandemic of 2020 are asked I wonder how many will answer with only the physical conditions and ramifications.  The mental consequences are beginning to add up now.  People are depressed.  They are beginning to talk about their mental health freely.  Simply put, there is much to be depressed about.  

Unforeseen was the fact that personal freedoms would collide so sharply with the good of the order.  There has emerged a basic misunderstanding about what exactly basic freedoms are, and how they manifest themselves in a democracy.  My first government teacher used to use the old cliche, "your rights end at the tip of your nose."  Simply put, your rights and freedoms are not absolute.  I supposed we could say that those rights end at the tip of your unmasked nose for some.

One of the first things I learned to do when I taught seniors American Government was to draw a continuum with a scale in the middle.  On one end of the continuum was order or authority, the other was labeled freedom or liberty.  A good way to teach the concept of ordered liberty, which is what our rights are all about.  The old standard of "yelling fire in a crowded theater" comes in handy here too.  People generally understand that our freedoms are not absolute and that our social contract involves modifying our behavior for the benefit of all.  

In our current policy of virtual education, this seems a good lesson to begin the school year.

We're almost 6 months into our quarantine.  What's becoming noticeable, as more and more TVs are on longer, is that commercials are adapting like sports, audience participation, panel discussions, and studio audiences disappear.  The use of the soundtrack is enjoying a renaissance.  Even commercials are digging deep to find relevant content.  

An old R&B song from 1958 is enjoying renewed air time.  Open Up That Door, by Nappy Brown is the perfect way to announce that many previously closed businesses are back in action.

So, as people begin to open up, so do the archives.  This is good news for all those who hold on to things because "you never know when you might need it.

Non-Reader Nation

One of the more remarkable adaptations that the COVID pandemic has wrought concerns the media.  The fact that people can be interviewed from their homes via new technology has made many production schedules function as normal.
We see the local news delivered from home by our recognizable home teams.  We see the classic news shows like Face the Nation and Meet the Press go on as usual.  In many instances, we are now familiar with virtual pane discussions.  We do it at home via Zoom, and they do it in the newsroom daily on CNN.
I've been fascinated by the rooms from which people are now broadcasting.  Instead of the old, "thank you for inviting us into your homes," it's a two-way street and we are privy to go into the homes of our favorite news personalities.  One of my local weather guys often has his cat sitting on his desk with him.  Occasionally, social media goes viral with the interruption of a child or a domestic pet.  Most of the time, these make-shift TV studios function smoothly and give us a little insight into the personalities and homes of the owners.
By far, the most frequently seen items are books and bookshelves.  While most of the shelves in the background are filled with books, there are some with only one or two volumes and then a display of ceramics, arts/crafts, houseplants, or personal photographs. Occasionally we can read the book titles.  Usually, we can discern which books have been read and which are for show.

In thinking about this phenomenon, it occurred to me that one might get the impression that the vast majority of Americans are readers.  That's hardly the case.
One of the more shocking statistics I've ever read concerning the American people is that in the last year more than 50% of the population of this country did not read a book.  This information came to me right about the time the father of a former governor of New York, who knew Donald Trump well, uttered, "Donald Trump hasn't read a book in 50 years.  I believe that to be true.  One glance at his comprehension of the breadth and depth of American History or even the Presidency makes that obvious.
In all the fuss about how virtual education can or cannot replace in-person teaching and the experience of attending classes with other people, I sometimes wonder if many classes could simply be replaced with well-conceived reading lists.  Oh I know not every subject would work that way, but many would.  Anything we could do to remedy that 50% figure woud be time well spent in my view.

Alternative Education Anyone?

Most teachers get the pull.  This is the time of year when we begin to think about next year and put a little energy into the upcoming new semester.  Most teachers enjoy this.  It can be as simple as going toma stationery store or office supply and looking at colorful folders or anything that's new.
Not so this year.  This year begins with an IF.  If there will be school as we know it.  Chances are that's a resounding no.
I count myself as one of the fortunate because I'm retired.  Yet, that pull to return never leaves and this year it's tempered with the question of what would I have done?
I admit I've been thinking about how I would approach distance learning.  In my 40 years, I did a bit of it, as we all have.  What stands out for me most is that it depends on what subject is being taught.  For a Language Arts/Social Science teacher, it might not be such a big deal.  Sure, there will be fewer discussions and probably none on the level of those in person.  That's huge.  But if one considers whether or not any quality learning is happening, that's an easy hurdle to overcome.  Students can still exchange ideas online.

After much thought what I've come to believe is that distance learning offers many students, especially the older ones a golden opportunity to take responsibility for their own education.  That's a goal we've been trying to reach for many years.  Whether it be project-based or a version of an I-Search paper, or a group problem-solving activity, it has the potential of being just as worthwhile and successful as something done in any "normal" school year.
One of the most intriguing ideas I've seen recently organizes all this in the form of students writing blogs.  There are various kinds of blogs and whether it be designing and building something, or a critical review of a text, film, object of art or even a meal, all lend themselves to the use and demonstration of multiple skills.  This kind of personal responsibility would easily prepare any high school student for college success.
My vision would have students check in with their teachers daily or at least 3 times a week, document everything they do, and submit completed work in any way the technology allows.
A great experiment it would definitely be.  But one that could be and seems like it might satisfactorily the loose, ill-conceived, non-participatory version that we saw last year.
Of course, teachers would need to log their time too.  Time spent talking to a group of 35 would be replaced by time communicating with a few each hour.
It's not the desired substitute but should be challenging and worth the time and effort.

Post Card From A Pandemic

We've moved into the dog days of summer.  In Portland that means that you can wash your car and have it last for a few weeks.  There is no rain in the immediate future, so we get to enjoy the shine for a bit.
But nothing this year is predictable.  We have very little to look forward to.  Things have disappeared.  They have been canceled.  People are longing for that which they resisted last year.  This how it is.  When those of us who survive tell the younger generation all the "how it was" tales, what will we say?

We will talk about the time we couldn't go to restaurants, but some restaurants came to us by delivery.  The great mask dilemma will no doubt be a big topic.  Even then there will be no adequate response to the reasoning some folks used to resist wearing a mask.
The politicization of almost everything will surely find its way to the discussion.  In that category will come the mother of all denial in describing how some people continued to believe the pandemic was a hoax.   With no evidence and the fear stoked by paranoia bubbling in their brains, they sallied forth giving credence to the ridiculous.  Contraries find a way to move forward despite logic.
I'll tell the story of my long walks.  Couldn't go to the gym, so I walked.  Often I'd pass people with no mask.  I'd smile at kind faces even though they could only see my eyes.  We learned to read eyes.
A few times I rose early and went fishing on my favorite nearby lake.  There, for a few hours, it was possible to forget.  Social distancing is the rule when fly fishing and there was often the profound thought that it was something you could always do.  Keep a mask handy, but slowly traversing a lake, wind blowing, fresh air, slight mist, catching, and releasing rainbow trout can all be done without covering up.  Catch relief was more like it.
We had no baseball.  No live competition.  For the night owls, there was baseball from Korea.  For everyone else, there were series games from the past and all manner of sports contests where you could Google who won if you forgot or simply wanted to turn in before the finish.  Only horse racing remained live.  No crowd in attendance.  Jockeys looked more like banditos on horseback, but the horses ran and the Triple Crown happened albeit out of order.
We avoided the grocery store until necessary.  Masks required, grocery carts sanitized, some commodities in limited supply, RULES.
Birthdays took a hit. Hard to buy presents unless you go online.  No parties.  No groups of over 5 people.  10 is a risk.  Travel is a bigger risk.  No flying, car travel only.  What about trains or hotels? Lots of uncertainty.
I miss my weekly music group and the progress I made at my gym.  Those are on hold until I don't know.
And the constant thought of the burning question: Is this the new normal?

No Text

Even though the President of the United States has declared the BLACK LIVES MATTER movement  "a symbol of hate" and a threat to the country, the nation nevertheless is having a racial reckoning.  Look at the composition of the demonstrations in most American cities and it's apparent that many white folks get it.  They need no explanation.  Yet this begs the question of why so many people in the US don't really know their own history.  I'm of the opinion that the answer is right in front of us.  Just look in our history books.

For years the conventional wisdom held that history was best taught from history books.  Those cumbersome texts we all carried around at some point were really worthless when it comes to accurate history.  I know I'm generalizing, but as one who taught the subject at one time collected and many texts as I could, the real history of this country was seldom found in those volumes.
From the time I first walked into a classroom until I locked my classroom door for the last time, I made my own curriculum and eschewed most textbooks.
So what's wrong with them? For starters, they ignore many of the significant events of America's struggle with race relations. And why?  Because the sad truth is that this had been a country founded on genocide, racism, slave labor, and the suppression of civil rights for all its citizens.  If you have to read this continually, from the age of colonization through the last few "endless wars," you might start to feel differently about all the star-spangled messages we constantly receive about "American Exceptionalism."
Our history lies in primary sources.  What if our students could read and discuss the documents that hold the honest truth.  Then they'd see the 3/5th clause in the Constitution.  They would read a real Green Book or the letters of a young soldier mired in the mud of Vietnam.  You get the picture.
Fortunately, today there are resources like the Zinn Education Project, the Choices Project, and The Jim Crow Museum that make teaching textless not only possible and preferable but much easier than the old days before we had the internet.  I vividly remember putting together handouts I typed while trying to hold open diaries, documents, and letters.  I made slides and tried to get photographs copied for years.  There is something particularly satisfying about letting students form their own opinions from reading and viewing primary sources.  This allows them to do the work of historians.  That, in turn, teaches how complex the work of history can be.
In the last few months, with the increased time spent at home due to the pandemic, I've been culling my collection of primary sources.  I plan on passing along many to other educators who get that the text is merely a point of departure.  A classroom, with ample displays of primary sources, along with student work) can go on teaching without the teacher.  I like that idea.

Distanced

I awake with a simple thought,
     sometimes laughing or silently singing,
an advertising slogan, a punchline, or something said
     decades ago.

This condition has accompanied me through the pandemic,
     there is no reason to smile or giggle so freely,
yet I persist, momentarily unconscious that the universe is out of synch.

There is no baseball,
     there are no restaurants fully functioning,
we wear masks, over the ones that everybody wears,
     the Triple Crown is in semi-reverse order,
the first Saturday in May is now in September,
 
The President is mentally ill,
     his condition has infected thousands that are counted in the millions,
there is no football,
     we can no longer take orders,
we take knees,
     even if too many have heads inside poisonous clouds,
there is no basketball,
     in the grocery store, people slink, hug the walls,
and fear to touch what nourishes,

     In the race for dignity and hope, the social conscience has been

                                Distanced.

Just Correct.

We are in the middle of another awakening on race relations.  There are town halls "on race" and everything from public service announcements to panel discussions.  This happens from time to time.  Yet, this time it feels different.  Maybe it is because those marching in the streets are a more diverse group than ever.  But still, the term race is used freely, with barely a mention that it is, in fact, a bogus concept.  That's right, it is a lie, a human construct, that, in reality, does not exist.
I think it might be useful to but an anthropologist or a geneticist on one of these panels or programs to remind or reveal to those watching and speaking that there is little genetic difference between what most cling to as a race.  It's hard to believe that the archaic notion of different races still persists.  Some of the pseudo-scientists of the past, especially those who wrote books or espoused their own debunked theories are still cited by those who need the concept to have validity.  But the ship has sailed.  We now know that people created the concept of race to further their own racist agendas.  How else could the institution of human slavery exist for centuries?
I retired from full-time teaching about 14 years ago.  Sometime around 2004, a local news station in the Bay Area produced a program called "About Race."  It was one of the first times that the history and use of the term race had been explained so thoroughly by experts.  Among the topics explored and illustrated was how our notion of "race" is a human construct.

The TV station graciously sent me a video copy of the program sans commercials so that I might use it in the classroom.  The reactions were immediately fascinating.  Some of the ways the idea of race was illustrated involved easy activities that could be done in the classroom.
With that in mind, let's fast forward to 2009.  I was supervising student teachers for a new graduate credential program near Portland, Oregon.  One of my students was placed with an outstanding veteran teacher just east of Portland.  The day I was scheduled to observe my student-teacher soon became atypical.  It had snowed the night before and some teachers and students had difficulty getting to school.  Those living west of the school had little difficulty, but because those east of the school lived in higher altitudes, many roads were still closed or dicey at best.  When I arrived at the school, my student teacher and his mentor (cooperating teacher) were present.  The class of about 32 contained only about 12 students.  Most other classes were about the same.  The teacher in charge (mentor) informed the office to send him about 20 students from classes whose teachers were no shows thus far.  So there we were 3 teachers with about 35 students from various classes.  We needed to keep these kids occupied for at least 85 minutes.
We began a general discussion about current events and the topic soon turned to racial attitudes.  What a great time to explore how the concept of race is false.  I raised the notion and veteran teacher with me knew exactly where I was going.  Non-verbally he gave me the go-ahead.  Those activities aforementioned soon followed.
"Who is the tallest person in the room?" I asked the class.  They all pointed to a basketball player who stood about 6' 5".  Who is the shortest? A diminutive girl of about 4"10" raised her hand.  I  had them stand.  We did the same for which student was the lightest in skin tone and who was the darkest.  The contrasts were sharp.  I then explained how genetically there was a greater difference in height than skin tone.  That, in fact, every student in the room had the same 6 genes for skin tone.
After the initial shock from this scientific truth, we then went into a discussion of how the concept of race has historically been constructed.  The terms Negroid, Mongoloid, and Caucasoid were coined to describe what traditionally has been referred to as the three races of human beings.  No mention of culture.  The geological reference of the Caucasus mountains is, of course why whites were referred to as Caucasian.  Mongolia for Asians and Negroid for Blacks.  All contrived.

Fortunately, with the advance of science, we know the truth.  At least many of us do.  Those that deny or reject these truths have their own agendas and find the real truth highly inconvenient.  Any renewed national conversation about race should have everything we know on the agenda.  This is not being politically correct, just correct.

Wildman Fischer

I have a very rare record.  It is a 7 inch 331/3 disc that was recorded in 1968.  This small artifact would have no real value save for a few songs by one of the artists recorded.

Here's the story:  Early in 1968 I took interest in a new literary magazine being planned by some UCLA students.  I think it was an ad in The Daily Bruin newspaper that first sparked my interest.  I was writing a lot of poetry in those days and was looking for outlets to publish.  Since I had succeeded in applying for and then getting accepted to a poetry workshop course, I had the novel thought in my mind that what I was saying might be worthy of a larget audience.
As is often the case, when I met with a small group of the students behind the newspaper ad/call for submissions, I emerged as one of the "poetry editors" of the magazine.  To be sure, this was a fledgling effort, but the people involved had some solid ideas.  I liked them and their vision.
The magazine was to be called Laminas, and it would come in a box.  Aside from short stories, poetry, artwork, and creative non-fiction, there would be a recording.  Like the magazine itself, the recording would be eclectic.
The affiliation with UCLA in the late 60s was not lost on Laminas.  Much of the content reflected the sensibilities and issues of the day.  I recall a well-illustrated piece on Asian stereotypes that would stand the test of time and fit into any publication today.  As an editor, I could not promote my own work but did select some poetry that others submitted.  Another editor selected a couple of haiku poems that I submitted so no conflict of interest surfaced.  Being content to have at least something in the publication, I eagerly awaited its appearance.

I'm not sure if I paid for this substantial literary magazine or if I was given a complimentary copy, but I recall being very satisfied when at last I received it.  It was, in fact, a magazine in a box, complete with a record.
My interest in the record was clearly the fact that it had 2 tunes by Wildman Fischer.  At that time, Larry Fischer was a fixture on the UCLA campus.  He would "sell" tunes to passing students for small change.  His music was avant-garde at best, weird and repetitive at worst.  I'd heard Larry Fischer in the wild many times as I made my daily trek from the student union up to Royce Hall or Haines Hall.  I had two favorites,  Merry-go-round and Linda and Laurie.  Both appeared on the Laminas record.

In the years that followed, the students on campus graduated and went on to begin their lives in the real world.  Wildman Fischer evolved as well.  And then his musical career changed.  Frank Zappa, musical genius with a huge following, took Wildman Fischer under his wing.  He offered Larry a platform to perform and develop a larger following.  I don't know the particulars of their association, but I do know that Wildman Fischer once opened for Zappa in the Rose Bowl.  That venue holds about 3 times the UCLA student population.

My copy of Laminas unraveled over the 50 years that followed.  I used some of the graphics in ethnic studies classes I taught.  I'm not sure what happened to many of the pages in that little box, or the box itself, but I have always stored the record with a small collection of 45s I once used for teaching units that involved popular music of the 50s and 60s.

My recent attempt to find out if there is any interest in this recording tells me that Zappa fans are well aware of Wildman Fischer and many, in fact, have later recordings he made during his association with Zappa.  They do not, however, have his first recordings.   Hence, I have a very rare record.
If any Zappa fans or record collectors are curious, yes, this record is for sale?  It needs a new home.