I don't like unions. I believe, like many institutions, they have served a necessary purpose, but they have outlived their necessity. I believe that unions are divisive, by nature, and have made the designation "Made in the USA" a joke, if not extremely rare. But my dislike, distrust, and distain for unions comes from a more personal standpoint. To understand, you need to have the whole story...
In the summer of 1999, I was working as a mechanic in a bowling center. I had completed my BA in English, and had spent much of the previous year substitute teaching, during the day, and being a mechanic at night. As a "sub," I made $90 for five classes. At the bowl, I was earning $7.50 an hour. I wanted to teach, but lacked the "fifth-year studies" required to become a credentialed teacher, so I subbed. I was moving into a new home, and a friend, who happened to be the Summer School Principal for that year, asked me if I would consider teaching a couple of 9th grade English classes over the summer. It meant a lot, as I was able to procure an "emergency" credential, which meant I was legal for a year. I made about $4,000 for the summer, plus my bowling alley job.
I was in the Personnel Office, one afternoon, visiting with a friend, who said I should talk to a guy at Vacaville High (my alma mater), about a 60% teaching position for the fall. Emergency credential in-hand, I talked to the guy, and got the job. Face it, even 3/5 of a teacher's salary was better than being a grease-monkey, and I gave my notice to the bowling alley.
It was a strange year, but a good year. I started with three 9th grade classes, but ended up with two 11th grade, and one 9th. I was back at my old school as a teacher, with a novel approach to "Back-to-School Night." Most other teachers would have only a handful of parents stop by for their 10 minute "Meet the Teacher" sessions; my room was packed every period. My colleagues all wanted to know how I managed it, it was simple. Being back in Vacaville, there were many last names the same as some of my former schoolmates. In fact, more often than not, they were children of my former schoolmates. I told my classes to tell their parents that their English teacher said that if they went to Vaca High between 1965 and 1972, and claimed to have never been in trouble, they were liars, and I had the pictures to prove it. Presto! One great parent event.
I coached both boy's and girl's golf the following year, in addition to teaching two 10th and three 11th grade classes. Heaven? Hell yes!! It's what I had always wanted to do, teach English and coach golf. The year after that, 2002 - 2003, I should have known things weren't going to last. I had been named Head Coach for the girl's golf team, and had a stroke 10 days before our first practice.
The girl's were great, plain and simply great. Some visited me in the hospital, but all of them helped me work through my physical problems, from the first practice to the last. We didn't do well, but everyone learned something, and had a great time playing golf along the way.
The Head Coach position opened-up that year for the boy's team, and I had been an Assistant for two years, the girl's Head Coach, and the recommendation of the previous Head Coach. I knew the drill, knew the boys, and knew all of the other teams. I didn't get the job. I won't get into the details, suffice to say that the Number 1 guy said, "He f-ed things up." I was too busy with other issues to sympathize.
The School District announced in March 2003, that they would be laying off teachers at the end of the year. The union demanded that a full accounting of seniority be made, and the District stripped me of my tenure (after 2000 - 2001), three years of seniority, and handed me a pink slip. I was furious, but sure the union would do something to help. Yeah, those three years were on an emergency credential, but I met all requirements necessary to renew it twice. Yeah, it probably isn't right to grant tenure to someone without a Preliminary, or Permanent credential, but I never asked for it, applied for it, or even thought of it. I was the most surprised person of all, opening that letter in my box. But I did it all. No matter what was asked of me. My class sizes always exceeded the norm, others would have 30, I'd have 38. I even performed the twice-yearly slave labor ("supervising" two events per year on my time) without a great deal of complaining. I did it for my school, and my students. Now I was being screwed.
The union didn't want to talk to me, and a lawyer frankly told me that.
I don't like unions.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Computer Nostalgia
I was just thinking about computers. We're having a few problems with our desktop, and have ordered another, which will arrive soon. It's been pretty frustrating, "blue screens" all the time, and we've taken off as much of our personal stuff as would fit on 12 GB flash drives, but it's made me think of how far computers have come in my lifetime.
Thirty years ago, I was working at one of the largest computer facilities owned by the Navy. We had an IBM Systems 360, and it filled a large room, and took five people to operate. We were tied, by dedicated land-line, to the IBM 370 at NAVPERS. I was about to transfer to a submarine tender, and work with a system designated as the AN/UYK-5, and the actual computer was a water-cooled, 3 x 3 x 6 foot box that had a memory capacity of 16,000 bits (not bytes). Three years later, I was transfered to Monterey, CA, and worked on a computer system that filled a building. It was actually about six different systems, each feeding a "super" computer, which could handle the massive amounts of data, and process 700,000 instructions per second.
We used to store data on "punch cards," and magnetic tape. Then came the invention of a disk. The first I saw was eight "platters" (disks in a stack), that measured about 24" across, and about a foot high. Disks could be removed using a cover, which aided in unscrewing the platters, which could then be lifted out of the drive (a "drawer," actually, one of four in a 6 x 6 x 3 foot cabinet), and placed on a plastic bottom. Each disk-pack weighed about eight pounds, and could store over 300,000 bits (again, not bytes) of information.
Updating information was a tedious process, that took hours to accomplish, and the only output, other than tapes, cards, or disk files, were listings, usually multi-part, that took a full box of 8.5 x 14 inch paper to make.
I remember when the first "home" computers hit the scene. The first I ever saw was a Radio Shack TRS-80 ("Trash" 80). The guy who owned it, was the first "computer geek" I ever met, Joe Wolf. He wanted to get a look at the source code for the Supply System, because he could do it better and faster on his "micro" computer. I laughed, then, but he probably owns part of Microsoft, or something, now, so who was naieve?
I write this bit of nostalgia, because I have just ordered a home computer that has 4 gigabytes of memory, and 1 terabyte of storage. Back then, we got the information we needed, but it was a series of processes, consuming great quantities of time. Now, as fast as you can push a button, you get whatever you want. Unless your computer screws up. Then, you can simply buy another. Who'd of thunk that?
Thirty years ago, I was working at one of the largest computer facilities owned by the Navy. We had an IBM Systems 360, and it filled a large room, and took five people to operate. We were tied, by dedicated land-line, to the IBM 370 at NAVPERS. I was about to transfer to a submarine tender, and work with a system designated as the AN/UYK-5, and the actual computer was a water-cooled, 3 x 3 x 6 foot box that had a memory capacity of 16,000 bits (not bytes). Three years later, I was transfered to Monterey, CA, and worked on a computer system that filled a building. It was actually about six different systems, each feeding a "super" computer, which could handle the massive amounts of data, and process 700,000 instructions per second.
We used to store data on "punch cards," and magnetic tape. Then came the invention of a disk. The first I saw was eight "platters" (disks in a stack), that measured about 24" across, and about a foot high. Disks could be removed using a cover, which aided in unscrewing the platters, which could then be lifted out of the drive (a "drawer," actually, one of four in a 6 x 6 x 3 foot cabinet), and placed on a plastic bottom. Each disk-pack weighed about eight pounds, and could store over 300,000 bits (again, not bytes) of information.
Updating information was a tedious process, that took hours to accomplish, and the only output, other than tapes, cards, or disk files, were listings, usually multi-part, that took a full box of 8.5 x 14 inch paper to make.
I remember when the first "home" computers hit the scene. The first I ever saw was a Radio Shack TRS-80 ("Trash" 80). The guy who owned it, was the first "computer geek" I ever met, Joe Wolf. He wanted to get a look at the source code for the Supply System, because he could do it better and faster on his "micro" computer. I laughed, then, but he probably owns part of Microsoft, or something, now, so who was naieve?
I write this bit of nostalgia, because I have just ordered a home computer that has 4 gigabytes of memory, and 1 terabyte of storage. Back then, we got the information we needed, but it was a series of processes, consuming great quantities of time. Now, as fast as you can push a button, you get whatever you want. Unless your computer screws up. Then, you can simply buy another. Who'd of thunk that?
Monday, October 4, 2010
Home Port
That was my dad's idea, a very old Navy tradition where fleets are berthed. That's your "Home Port". All most all sailors enjoy an extended stay in the ship's homeport. Yes, there are two spellings, there's a difference. "Home Port" emphasizes the "Home". Again, my dad's idea, but I understand it totally, which scares me some... Am I really that much like my dad? But it's cool; I get it.
Non-military families have "home towns". For a military family, home town is a difficult concept to grasp. One tends to get a little jaded by the constant moving. I used to get a little anxious when people spoke of home towns; I never really had one. "Where ya from?" "Uh, how much time you got?"
The worst of it was early in life. By the time I entered Hunter's Point Elementary for Kindergarten, I had moved from my birthplace, been in Stubenville, Ohio; with three trips to San Diego, two to Pearl Harbor, and one to San Francisco. Kind of a whirlwind tour, huh? Well, it didn't quite stop there, as I was in three separate Kindergartens, and two first grade classes. It slowed down a lot after that. I was at Pennycook, in Vallejo, from grades 1 - 6, and Springstown Junior High for 7 and 8. My sister attended Hogan High from 7 - 12, as it became a Senior High School at the beginning of her sophomore year. We used to joke about her taking six years to graduate from Hogan.
Then one evening, my parents informed us we would be moving in July (1965), once again. We were moving from East Vallejo, to an apartment in Vacaville, until construction of a new home was completed in February 1966. At the time, Vallejo had a population of 65,000; Vacaville, 16,500. Well, actually 16,504, as of July 1065. Vallejoans thought of Vacaville as "the sticks". I was all against it, but really had no choice. Besides, while all my friends would be "Nineth Graders" at a "junior" high, I would be a "freshman," at Vaca High. Vallejo would just be another homeport.
As a small, rural town, with generational roots, Vacaville turned out to be a little suspicious of newcomers, and as a "new kid," didn't fit in with the Native Vacavillian very well. We were, pretty much, lumped into one of three categories: Military, Inmate Family, or Transient. We were largely ignored by the "lifers," as some referred to the Natives. We were the old, proverbial "out-crowd". Being forced to seek out non-lifer friendships, we became a sub-culture around Vaca High, we became "Hippie-esque," and tried our best to follow the examples being set in San Francisco. We dressed Hippie, let our hair grow some, and knew about sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, long before it became popular.
It wasn't a "revolution," or rejection of anything, it was mostly survival. We lost some, along the way, people whose entire history is just a name carved in a stone, as far as our lifer-classmates knew, or cared. The friendships forged during those times have long outlived any lingering effects of being ignored by half of your high school. Even the teachers wanted to know what brought us to Vacaville, and we were treated differently because we lacked a Vacaville pedigree. It was a shame, but it was true, with few exceptions.
Tom Zunino noticed that I had a talent for "shoe wrestling", and notified Larry Nelson, who came down, on his prep-period, to watch me go up against a guy, literally, twice my size. My strength was quickness, and a bullied-kids adept knowlege of escape. When my "match" was over (I had the shoe), Tom and Larry conferred for a minute, and Z tells me I'm going out for Wrestling. It was the best thing I had ever done (to that point). I was pretty good, and "lettered" as a sophomore. I was fortunate, because of Wrestling, I was able to break through the social barrier, and I started to think of Vacaville as my home town.
Throughout my Navy career, I called Vacaville my home town. I came back often, whenever I could get the time off. I've watched it grow into a City of 100,000. albeit at a distance. My last assignment was to a squadron at Moffett Field. We checked for rentals around the base, and could only afford a studio, which would not do for the five of us. My loving wife, whom I met at Vaca High, asked where we could live. "Vacaville" came out so quickly, both of us jerked. We knew it was home, a place where we both had some roots.
Moved a couple more times, over the years, but we keep coming back. It's home.
Non-military families have "home towns". For a military family, home town is a difficult concept to grasp. One tends to get a little jaded by the constant moving. I used to get a little anxious when people spoke of home towns; I never really had one. "Where ya from?" "Uh, how much time you got?"
The worst of it was early in life. By the time I entered Hunter's Point Elementary for Kindergarten, I had moved from my birthplace, been in Stubenville, Ohio; with three trips to San Diego, two to Pearl Harbor, and one to San Francisco. Kind of a whirlwind tour, huh? Well, it didn't quite stop there, as I was in three separate Kindergartens, and two first grade classes. It slowed down a lot after that. I was at Pennycook, in Vallejo, from grades 1 - 6, and Springstown Junior High for 7 and 8. My sister attended Hogan High from 7 - 12, as it became a Senior High School at the beginning of her sophomore year. We used to joke about her taking six years to graduate from Hogan.
Then one evening, my parents informed us we would be moving in July (1965), once again. We were moving from East Vallejo, to an apartment in Vacaville, until construction of a new home was completed in February 1966. At the time, Vallejo had a population of 65,000; Vacaville, 16,500. Well, actually 16,504, as of July 1065. Vallejoans thought of Vacaville as "the sticks". I was all against it, but really had no choice. Besides, while all my friends would be "Nineth Graders" at a "junior" high, I would be a "freshman," at Vaca High. Vallejo would just be another homeport.
As a small, rural town, with generational roots, Vacaville turned out to be a little suspicious of newcomers, and as a "new kid," didn't fit in with the Native Vacavillian very well. We were, pretty much, lumped into one of three categories: Military, Inmate Family, or Transient. We were largely ignored by the "lifers," as some referred to the Natives. We were the old, proverbial "out-crowd". Being forced to seek out non-lifer friendships, we became a sub-culture around Vaca High, we became "Hippie-esque," and tried our best to follow the examples being set in San Francisco. We dressed Hippie, let our hair grow some, and knew about sex, drugs, and rock 'n roll, long before it became popular.
It wasn't a "revolution," or rejection of anything, it was mostly survival. We lost some, along the way, people whose entire history is just a name carved in a stone, as far as our lifer-classmates knew, or cared. The friendships forged during those times have long outlived any lingering effects of being ignored by half of your high school. Even the teachers wanted to know what brought us to Vacaville, and we were treated differently because we lacked a Vacaville pedigree. It was a shame, but it was true, with few exceptions.
Tom Zunino noticed that I had a talent for "shoe wrestling", and notified Larry Nelson, who came down, on his prep-period, to watch me go up against a guy, literally, twice my size. My strength was quickness, and a bullied-kids adept knowlege of escape. When my "match" was over (I had the shoe), Tom and Larry conferred for a minute, and Z tells me I'm going out for Wrestling. It was the best thing I had ever done (to that point). I was pretty good, and "lettered" as a sophomore. I was fortunate, because of Wrestling, I was able to break through the social barrier, and I started to think of Vacaville as my home town.
Throughout my Navy career, I called Vacaville my home town. I came back often, whenever I could get the time off. I've watched it grow into a City of 100,000. albeit at a distance. My last assignment was to a squadron at Moffett Field. We checked for rentals around the base, and could only afford a studio, which would not do for the five of us. My loving wife, whom I met at Vaca High, asked where we could live. "Vacaville" came out so quickly, both of us jerked. We knew it was home, a place where we both had some roots.
Moved a couple more times, over the years, but we keep coming back. It's home.
Friday, September 17, 2010
What's Next for Me?
I've been asking that question quite often. It turns out that the Voc-Rehab is connected to the GI Bill, and I would only have a year, at best, of any educational assistance, so the MA is out, as would be any training to do any drug/alcohol counselling (another idea). So, the question remains, "What's next for me?"
It was odd, in a way, in which an idea, one I'd long considered, got brought to the forefront. I was in an orientation for Voc-Rehab, and the guy next to me asked what I used to teach. I told him, and he asked, "Ever consider 'freelance writing'?" Ding!
I enjoy writing, and do it fairly well, why not? I have some personal writing, a series of vignettes, and stuff on the blog, so I have writing samples available, but what to write about? Sports? Hmmm, how would that go? "The Oakland Raiders continued in their 'Commitment to Obsurity' in a 77-3 pasting by the Institute for the Blind..." Nah, too honest.
Maybe politics... "The Attorney General refused to answer questions about his failure to defend the voters of the State, and how that would effect his 'Voter-Approved Tax Hikes'..." Hmm, maybe a little blunt, but it's a good question.
Society? Yeah, right.
Well, knowing me, I'll think of something, or not.
It was odd, in a way, in which an idea, one I'd long considered, got brought to the forefront. I was in an orientation for Voc-Rehab, and the guy next to me asked what I used to teach. I told him, and he asked, "Ever consider 'freelance writing'?" Ding!
I enjoy writing, and do it fairly well, why not? I have some personal writing, a series of vignettes, and stuff on the blog, so I have writing samples available, but what to write about? Sports? Hmmm, how would that go? "The Oakland Raiders continued in their 'Commitment to Obsurity' in a 77-3 pasting by the Institute for the Blind..." Nah, too honest.
Maybe politics... "The Attorney General refused to answer questions about his failure to defend the voters of the State, and how that would effect his 'Voter-Approved Tax Hikes'..." Hmm, maybe a little blunt, but it's a good question.
Society? Yeah, right.
Well, knowing me, I'll think of something, or not.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Life Without Alcohol
I'm an alcoholic. On my own, I would probably go back to hiding in an alcohol-fueled fog. It's a lot easier that way; I could continue my slow suicide, and no one would care. Fortunately, I'm not on my own, and there are quite a few people who care. I have been living sober for a long time, going back to the 20th Century (sounds kind of impressive, huh?), but it all comes down to choosing not to drink on a daily basis. Not that it's much of a choice anymore, but that isn't my doing, to be honest.
I am a fortunate man. I have a family that was willing to forgive the times I lied, missed games, or missed a performance, due to my addiction. I have gone to each of them, acknowledged my wrongdoings, and have received their love and appreciation in return. Materialistically, our needs are met, and we live fairly comfortably, but I am not a materialistically-wealthy man by any means. In other ways, emotionally, physically, spiritually, I am a very rich man. I would not exchange my riches for any material wealth.
Anymore, my thoughts rarely wander into a bar, but I get the occassional "Wouldn't an ice-cold beer be great right now?" I usually just laugh it off, because it happens at odd times. I've even had someone ask me that, on a hot Northern California afternoon. "Yeah, it would." I answered, acknowledging that it would, but knowing it wasn't going to happen.
It's not a choice, so much, anymore. If you could see, through my eyes, all that has changed since I became sober, the choice has become automatic. It's like the old joke about playing a Country song backwards, I got my wife back, my kids back, my life back, and much, much more.
When I went, kicking and screaming, to the Navy Alcohol Rehab Center, I couldn't imagine a life without drinking. When I left, I had a plan, but life overcame, and I began to drink again. Few, in real life, ever realize that moment of absolute clarity, and come to know that their lives have been in the Hands of God, and that there is something I need to accomplish in this life. I have, and have told the story before.
After that experience, I attended my obligatory AA meetings, and had a spiritual parting of the ways. AA is focused on "higher power," my higher power is the One God, and His Son, Jesus Christ. AA doesn't want to "go there," and I felt my spiritual progress was being hampered by an inability to get beyond the philosophical differences. Make no mistake, AA helped me a lot, but only to awaken my spiritual-self. The quest to build a personal relationship with my Heavenly Father was taken alone.
Once again, I began to think of life in real terms, not as opportunities to drink. I had a minor "slip" in January of '99, and decided to quit once and for all. Six months into my new sobriety, I bought a house, and was having friends help us move our stuff about a half mile. One friend happened to be the Principal for Summer School, and needed someone to teach either eighth- or ninth-grade English, for a stipend of $4,000. I took the ninth-grade class. We had about six weeks, two hours per-day, each, Monday through Friday. Somehow it satisfied some requirement, and students were credited with 90 hours of learning in 60 hours. If you think that doesn't make sense, try making lesson plans.
At the end of Summer School, I went back on the Sub List, and refused a job offered less than a week after my six week learning experience. I wasn't ready, at least, not then. As was my habit, the day after I refuse a job, I'd go in and talk to Mary, then Robin, who used to make the calls personally. Mary asked me if my degree was in English; I told her "Yes." She says, "Go to Vaca High, see Bob Johnson, they have a 60% position that needs to be filled." I went, Bob wasn't there. I ended up getting the job, and taught at my old high school for four years, total. I taught most of a calendar year, and taught Summer School 2000. I did it all sober. Lord knows I wanted a drink from time to time, but I didn't. That long school year may have been one of the factors in my stroke in 2001, it was 24 straight months, in a high stress job. Sober.
I survived a stroke, sober. I survived a whole lot of other things, too, sober. Some major life-changing decisions, all made sober. Perhaps the best decision, in terms of my spiritual well-being, was to move to Spokane, Wa.
I believe the decision to move to Spokane was part of a personal revelation; made possible by a few years of sobriety, and an desire to become active in my Mormon faith. I believe this because of the people I was to meet, and the opportunity to live in a community with a large Latter-day Saint population. Spokane, you see, is roughly a geographic, and population equal to the communities of Dixon, Vacaville, and Fairfield, Ca combined. There are Stakes in Vacaville, and Fairfield, as well as a Ward in Dixon. In Spokane, there are five Stakes, and a Temple. It's not like both of my neighbors were LDS, or anything, but members of Evergreen Ward were very close-by.
One of the most amazing things I learned in Spokane was that the LDS Church was developing an Addiction Recovery Program, using AA's Twelve Steps as a basis. It had been a "pilot program" in Vacaville, Mary was the Group Facilitator for a while, but it had, apparently, been picked-up Church-wide. I attended a few meetings in Spokane, but my "change of heart" came as a result of meeting a guy, the High Priest Group Leader in my Ward.
To say that Bob and I lived parallel lives would be most appropriate. Bob, however, had long ago accounted for his transgressions, and taught me a lot about repentance, and about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Living among the members of Evergreen Ward, I learned about Service, both as a recipient of, and as a provider of. I had a number of talks with Bob, and with our Bishop, and realized that the only thing standing in the way was me. After that, my "conversion" to my religion, after 35 years of being a member, happened pretty quickly.
Life is good, now. All of that baggage that I've lugged is gone. I am finally free to live in Today, only looking at Yesterday as a "benchmark" (as in, "Am I better Today than Yesterday?"), and preparing for Tomorrow (whatever that brings...). I am following another personal revelation, to take care of my family, first, and then my Priesthood responsibilities. I was promised that if I focused on those two things, "everything will work-out fine". Guess what?
Everything is just fine.
I am a fortunate man. I have a family that was willing to forgive the times I lied, missed games, or missed a performance, due to my addiction. I have gone to each of them, acknowledged my wrongdoings, and have received their love and appreciation in return. Materialistically, our needs are met, and we live fairly comfortably, but I am not a materialistically-wealthy man by any means. In other ways, emotionally, physically, spiritually, I am a very rich man. I would not exchange my riches for any material wealth.
Anymore, my thoughts rarely wander into a bar, but I get the occassional "Wouldn't an ice-cold beer be great right now?" I usually just laugh it off, because it happens at odd times. I've even had someone ask me that, on a hot Northern California afternoon. "Yeah, it would." I answered, acknowledging that it would, but knowing it wasn't going to happen.
It's not a choice, so much, anymore. If you could see, through my eyes, all that has changed since I became sober, the choice has become automatic. It's like the old joke about playing a Country song backwards, I got my wife back, my kids back, my life back, and much, much more.
When I went, kicking and screaming, to the Navy Alcohol Rehab Center, I couldn't imagine a life without drinking. When I left, I had a plan, but life overcame, and I began to drink again. Few, in real life, ever realize that moment of absolute clarity, and come to know that their lives have been in the Hands of God, and that there is something I need to accomplish in this life. I have, and have told the story before.
After that experience, I attended my obligatory AA meetings, and had a spiritual parting of the ways. AA is focused on "higher power," my higher power is the One God, and His Son, Jesus Christ. AA doesn't want to "go there," and I felt my spiritual progress was being hampered by an inability to get beyond the philosophical differences. Make no mistake, AA helped me a lot, but only to awaken my spiritual-self. The quest to build a personal relationship with my Heavenly Father was taken alone.
Once again, I began to think of life in real terms, not as opportunities to drink. I had a minor "slip" in January of '99, and decided to quit once and for all. Six months into my new sobriety, I bought a house, and was having friends help us move our stuff about a half mile. One friend happened to be the Principal for Summer School, and needed someone to teach either eighth- or ninth-grade English, for a stipend of $4,000. I took the ninth-grade class. We had about six weeks, two hours per-day, each, Monday through Friday. Somehow it satisfied some requirement, and students were credited with 90 hours of learning in 60 hours. If you think that doesn't make sense, try making lesson plans.
At the end of Summer School, I went back on the Sub List, and refused a job offered less than a week after my six week learning experience. I wasn't ready, at least, not then. As was my habit, the day after I refuse a job, I'd go in and talk to Mary, then Robin, who used to make the calls personally. Mary asked me if my degree was in English; I told her "Yes." She says, "Go to Vaca High, see Bob Johnson, they have a 60% position that needs to be filled." I went, Bob wasn't there. I ended up getting the job, and taught at my old high school for four years, total. I taught most of a calendar year, and taught Summer School 2000. I did it all sober. Lord knows I wanted a drink from time to time, but I didn't. That long school year may have been one of the factors in my stroke in 2001, it was 24 straight months, in a high stress job. Sober.
I survived a stroke, sober. I survived a whole lot of other things, too, sober. Some major life-changing decisions, all made sober. Perhaps the best decision, in terms of my spiritual well-being, was to move to Spokane, Wa.
I believe the decision to move to Spokane was part of a personal revelation; made possible by a few years of sobriety, and an desire to become active in my Mormon faith. I believe this because of the people I was to meet, and the opportunity to live in a community with a large Latter-day Saint population. Spokane, you see, is roughly a geographic, and population equal to the communities of Dixon, Vacaville, and Fairfield, Ca combined. There are Stakes in Vacaville, and Fairfield, as well as a Ward in Dixon. In Spokane, there are five Stakes, and a Temple. It's not like both of my neighbors were LDS, or anything, but members of Evergreen Ward were very close-by.
One of the most amazing things I learned in Spokane was that the LDS Church was developing an Addiction Recovery Program, using AA's Twelve Steps as a basis. It had been a "pilot program" in Vacaville, Mary was the Group Facilitator for a while, but it had, apparently, been picked-up Church-wide. I attended a few meetings in Spokane, but my "change of heart" came as a result of meeting a guy, the High Priest Group Leader in my Ward.
To say that Bob and I lived parallel lives would be most appropriate. Bob, however, had long ago accounted for his transgressions, and taught me a lot about repentance, and about the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Living among the members of Evergreen Ward, I learned about Service, both as a recipient of, and as a provider of. I had a number of talks with Bob, and with our Bishop, and realized that the only thing standing in the way was me. After that, my "conversion" to my religion, after 35 years of being a member, happened pretty quickly.
Life is good, now. All of that baggage that I've lugged is gone. I am finally free to live in Today, only looking at Yesterday as a "benchmark" (as in, "Am I better Today than Yesterday?"), and preparing for Tomorrow (whatever that brings...). I am following another personal revelation, to take care of my family, first, and then my Priesthood responsibilities. I was promised that if I focused on those two things, "everything will work-out fine". Guess what?
Everything is just fine.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A Ramble
Lots of things going on in the world. Not much of it good, either. In my position, as a partially-disabled, unemployed American, I have lots of time on my hands, my mind begins to wander about, among the junk that lies in there, picks out a topic, and I spend some time thinking about it. Lately, it seems, I keep finding 2012.
Yeah, I know, end of the Mayan Calandar, yada, yada, yada. I'm not going to don my sandwich board, claiming the end is near, but it makes me wonder. There is conflict in the Middle East, and if Iran goes nuke, we're definitely looking at a major disaster brewing. 2012? Weird, huh?
I think the thing that scares me the most is that, left unchecked, the current administration and its progressive followers are bent on destroying the Constitution. With tentacles invading the banking, auto, and health-care industries, we are losing our rights to competition. Soon, if they keep having their way, we are looking at a nationalized system like Venezuela's. Hugo Chavez is almost idolized by Obama, where the hell are we going?
I've been watching the Tea Party Movement, and it seems to be growing. I have to admit, their basic ideal: "Taxed Enough Already," has my approval. The thought of "redistribution of wealth" through controlling the industries that provide the greatest portion is scary, scary, scary. Even the idea that Government knows what is best for me smacks of Orwell's Big Brother. Are we headed in that direction?
To say that I love my country is a great underestimation. I spent my youth in the Nation's service, and regret nothing. It's the time that I spent outside of the U.S. that has given me a chance to appreciate our Constitution, and the protections it provides. Many's the time I've stood at attention, while on deployments, and wiped tears from my eyes at the raising of our flag, and the playing of our National Anthem. Despite my training and education, I lack the ability to describe what it feels like, just knowing that Home is there.
Our nation, even after 234 years, has yet to find it's full potential, although we lead the world in innovation. Trust me, I've met many, many people across the world who would love to be here in the USA. I've also met those with the attitude of "American, phoey!" Most of them would love to live here, but would never admit it. I've never had problems communicating with any citizen of my host country. English is a required language, world-wide, and is taught to students at an early age. Even the ones who protest to not speaking English show a great deal of linguistic fluidity if approached appropriately.
I learned, phonetically, to be able to regurgitate phrases in Greek, Italian, French, Spanish, and Japanese. Stuff like "I do not speak [language]. Do you know someone who speaks English?" The results were amazing, well, at least to me... Suddenly, I was treated like someone who had taken the time to have good manners. Communication became easy. I was even able to make friends with a group of Russian sailors, one of whom spoke English fairly well. How much of that was vodka, I couldn't tell you...
I never understood why English was so important abroad, until I took a "History of the English Language" course at Chico State. Our Professor, Dr. Harriett Spiegel, PhD, asked if anyone knew what the most commonly spoken language was. Guesses were made, Spanish, English, Mandarin Chinese, and Dr. Spiegel wrote them down, in that order. Then she told us that we had three of the top five, and reordered them Mandarin, English, Spanish. English was the second-most common, behind the 6 billion Chinese speakers. She asked if we knew why this might be, and laid out the many things done in English, like air travel and technology. The list was long, and I realized why it was so easy to find English speaking people while abroad. It's also one of many reasons why people dislike us. I get it; got it a long time ago.
I admit to being somewhat of a chameleon, I seem to be able to blend in at just about any occassion, and with any group. I've been in, what at first may seem, awkward situations, getting aquainted with various groups of people, but find myself being accepted wherever I go.
Yeah, I know, end of the Mayan Calandar, yada, yada, yada. I'm not going to don my sandwich board, claiming the end is near, but it makes me wonder. There is conflict in the Middle East, and if Iran goes nuke, we're definitely looking at a major disaster brewing. 2012? Weird, huh?
I think the thing that scares me the most is that, left unchecked, the current administration and its progressive followers are bent on destroying the Constitution. With tentacles invading the banking, auto, and health-care industries, we are losing our rights to competition. Soon, if they keep having their way, we are looking at a nationalized system like Venezuela's. Hugo Chavez is almost idolized by Obama, where the hell are we going?
I've been watching the Tea Party Movement, and it seems to be growing. I have to admit, their basic ideal: "Taxed Enough Already," has my approval. The thought of "redistribution of wealth" through controlling the industries that provide the greatest portion is scary, scary, scary. Even the idea that Government knows what is best for me smacks of Orwell's Big Brother. Are we headed in that direction?
To say that I love my country is a great underestimation. I spent my youth in the Nation's service, and regret nothing. It's the time that I spent outside of the U.S. that has given me a chance to appreciate our Constitution, and the protections it provides. Many's the time I've stood at attention, while on deployments, and wiped tears from my eyes at the raising of our flag, and the playing of our National Anthem. Despite my training and education, I lack the ability to describe what it feels like, just knowing that Home is there.
Our nation, even after 234 years, has yet to find it's full potential, although we lead the world in innovation. Trust me, I've met many, many people across the world who would love to be here in the USA. I've also met those with the attitude of "American, phoey!" Most of them would love to live here, but would never admit it. I've never had problems communicating with any citizen of my host country. English is a required language, world-wide, and is taught to students at an early age. Even the ones who protest to not speaking English show a great deal of linguistic fluidity if approached appropriately.
I learned, phonetically, to be able to regurgitate phrases in Greek, Italian, French, Spanish, and Japanese. Stuff like "I do not speak [language]. Do you know someone who speaks English?" The results were amazing, well, at least to me... Suddenly, I was treated like someone who had taken the time to have good manners. Communication became easy. I was even able to make friends with a group of Russian sailors, one of whom spoke English fairly well. How much of that was vodka, I couldn't tell you...
I never understood why English was so important abroad, until I took a "History of the English Language" course at Chico State. Our Professor, Dr. Harriett Spiegel, PhD, asked if anyone knew what the most commonly spoken language was. Guesses were made, Spanish, English, Mandarin Chinese, and Dr. Spiegel wrote them down, in that order. Then she told us that we had three of the top five, and reordered them Mandarin, English, Spanish. English was the second-most common, behind the 6 billion Chinese speakers. She asked if we knew why this might be, and laid out the many things done in English, like air travel and technology. The list was long, and I realized why it was so easy to find English speaking people while abroad. It's also one of many reasons why people dislike us. I get it; got it a long time ago.
I admit to being somewhat of a chameleon, I seem to be able to blend in at just about any occassion, and with any group. I've been in, what at first may seem, awkward situations, getting aquainted with various groups of people, but find myself being accepted wherever I go.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Vocational Rehab for a PhD?
I have the form, typed the cover letter, and will shortly mail my request for Vocational Rehabilitation, now that I've been rated at 30%. If you've read any of my crap, you know I have a thing about being a teacher. You also know I have a bad back, and that picking up for public school kids was killing me. Some of my former coleagues tell me it's only getting worse.
And I thought, about two years ago, about getting my MA, or PhD, and teaching at community college. Two years ago, I wasn't in a position to do the studies, a PhD is not cheap, no matter where you go, or what you have for help. Now that I've broken the 20% level, and I have a new award letter, the question is: Will the VA pay for my PhD? At age 60?
Okay, okay... I'm not taking drugs, haven't drank in years, but if I can no longer manage the custodial chores of a public school classroom, doesn't the VA help me to get into a position to where I can still do the job I love doing?
Sorry, I know this is pretty self-serving, but I haven't worked in three years. I'd like to do it again, before I'm no longer able. I'd make a good college professor for a JC. I could work a couple of classes, two or three times a week. Not a whole lot of stress. Sounds to me like Heaven.
Doctor Martin... has a nice sound. Kinda flows off the tongue nicely. Yeah, I know it isn't like that, but when you can put PhD after your name, people tend to pay a little more attention.
Right now, it's a fantasy; tomorrow, who knows? I've heard of Voc Rehab doing other things, why not finance my graduate program? I mean, c'mon, give a brother a break, eh?
Oh well, guess we'll see...
Back on Planet Earth, had my back "shot" back in June. Usual response, but feeling a twinge at under 30 days. EZ told me, from Day 1, that the effects would not last forever, and sooner-or-later not work at all. aheu9pyqef8v Pardon, just got a chill thinking about that.
Ah, well, screw it! No one ever told me that aging was "fun," although the conveniently neglegted to mention that it began to hurt.
And I thought, about two years ago, about getting my MA, or PhD, and teaching at community college. Two years ago, I wasn't in a position to do the studies, a PhD is not cheap, no matter where you go, or what you have for help. Now that I've broken the 20% level, and I have a new award letter, the question is: Will the VA pay for my PhD? At age 60?
Okay, okay... I'm not taking drugs, haven't drank in years, but if I can no longer manage the custodial chores of a public school classroom, doesn't the VA help me to get into a position to where I can still do the job I love doing?
Sorry, I know this is pretty self-serving, but I haven't worked in three years. I'd like to do it again, before I'm no longer able. I'd make a good college professor for a JC. I could work a couple of classes, two or three times a week. Not a whole lot of stress. Sounds to me like Heaven.
Doctor Martin... has a nice sound. Kinda flows off the tongue nicely. Yeah, I know it isn't like that, but when you can put PhD after your name, people tend to pay a little more attention.
Right now, it's a fantasy; tomorrow, who knows? I've heard of Voc Rehab doing other things, why not finance my graduate program? I mean, c'mon, give a brother a break, eh?
Oh well, guess we'll see...
Back on Planet Earth, had my back "shot" back in June. Usual response, but feeling a twinge at under 30 days. EZ told me, from Day 1, that the effects would not last forever, and sooner-or-later not work at all. aheu9pyqef8v Pardon, just got a chill thinking about that.
Ah, well, screw it! No one ever told me that aging was "fun," although the conveniently neglegted to mention that it began to hurt.
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