One Tough Turkey
If I’ve learned anything in this life of mine, it is that holidays are made happy and joyous because of family, not golden brown turkeys or a carload of presents. To be honest, I can’t remember the meals or the gifts, but I have a vivid recollection of the family gathered round, sitting on every available chair, armrest, stool, all balancing plates of fired chicken on their laps with glasses of tea or buttermilk sitting on the floor beside them while they laughed and joked about old memories.
When I was a kid. We never had turkey. Once, though, we had rooster out at my grandparents’ farm. Yep, that’s right, a big old white leghorn rooster that was meaner than sin.
Descended from hardy pioneers, Mama Holley never discarded anything. She always found a use for it, and that’s where the rooster came in.
The year after the war, we arrived at Mama and Papa’s a couple days early. My cousin Ed and his folks lived on the farm. Ed could do everything about the farm better than me, milk cows, gather eggs, feed stock. But the one skill of his I most envied was his deadly accuracy with the slingshot, you know, that Y shaped weapon that has gotten more than one mischievous boy in a heap of trouble.
Ed could knock birds out of a tree. I usually missed the tree. He could pop a cotton ball from the branch. I couldn’t hit the cotton field itself.
The only time I hit something was when I was aiming at something else.
One holiday we went hunting with our slingshots. To my chagrin, Ed got a barn pigeon. I missed the barn—from inside. Now they had an old rooster that was cock-eyed, but he was Papa’s prize rooster. Several times, the rooster charged us, but Ed always stopped him with a rock at the rooster’s feet.
Next morning, after Ed left for the last day of school before Thanksgiving, I set out to sharpen my slingshot skills.
By now, the whole clan had gathered from five hundred miles around, around thirty or so. I had some other cousins there, but they were several years older, so I was all by myself. But that was okay. I had some practicing to get in.
Keeping my eyes peeled for the old cock-eyed rooster, I spent the morning stalking pigeons and sparrows. Once, I sent some tail feathers flying, but that was it. I did send a few cows and hogs scrambling, and soon I was able to hit a tin can two or three out of ten shots. Never saw the rooster.
Then, on the way to the house for dinner, that sucker jumped me, flailing his wings and flashing those spurs of his. I whipped off a shot at his feet, and hit that cockeyed bird in the head.
He did half-a-dozen somersaults, staggered around like some of my uncles after too much celebrating, bounced off the ground more times than I could count and finally flopped down into a ditch by the end of a culvert.
I looked around in horror. No one had seen me. My heart pounding, I jammed a couple tumbleweeds over the still twitching rooster, then hightailed it back to the barn where I remained the rest of the day, waiting for my reckoning. Just about the time I began to relax, Mama Holley suddenly appeared in the barn door, the rooster in her hand.
Grabbing me my the ear, she led me into the house where, with the admonition that was my meal the next day, she ducked the rooster in scalding water, then into the sink and put me to plucking.
The whole family teased me, warning me about how tough that old rooster would be after Mama baked it.
Well, our family was so large, we ate buffet style. You can imagine my surprise when next day, instead of the baked rooster, Mama set a large bowl next to the platter of fried chicken. In the bowl reposed the old rooster, cut up and stewed until the meat fell off the bones.
Heaped over a bed of mashed potatoes, that was one tasty rooster, as roosters go. In fact, the stew disappeared faster than the chicken.
After dinner, Papa took me aside and told me I had to buy him another rooster. Since I had no money, we struck a bargain. I could clean out the stalls in the barn.
I wanted to argue, but one look at my Dad, and I agreed.
That was sixty-three years ago. I can still smell those stalls as if it were yesterday.
rconwell@gt.rr.comwww.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
writing conference
Welcome Back, GTWG Conference
Isn’t it a good feeling when something you’ve being looking forward to turns out just about like you had hoped?
'That happened to me a couple weekends back when the Golden Triangle Writers Guild held its first writer’s conference in five years. Rita blew away the last one, and since then, it’s been a struggle for the folks at GTWG to put things back together.
But, they finally they got all the pieces together, and from October 22 through October 24, wanabe writers as well as experienced writers enjoyed two solid days of nothing but writing and all the collateral aspects of the craft.
It was held at the Elegante on I-10.
There were breakout sessions for poetry, screenwriting, fiction, and nonfiction.
Those who presented the programs were editors, agents, publishers, and writers.
Folks attend these conferences for many reasons; some to learn the nuts and bolts of the craft; others for contacts to further their own careers; others who desire to further hone their skills; and still others just because they enjoy the camaraderie of fellow writers.
Just as the opening weekend of hunting season is treasured by the hunter, this conference weekend was the perfect one for a writer.
Casey Kelly, as always, sorted though all the mysteries of screenwriting for the attendees. A longtime WGA screenwriter with two aired NBC movies of the week and other scripts written for CBS, Disney, Columbia, Paramount and Warner, she has two features currently in pre-production.
From romance to paranormal, there is no genre of writing the Pat LoBruto has not made is own either as an editor, writer, or anthologist. After thirty years, he became an Editorial Consultant and Master Class Instructor for authors, and acquiring editor for Tor/Forge and Quill Driver Book/Word Dancer Press.
With Pat, aspiring writers could ask questions to their heart’s content.
There were many there like Pat-- Jerry Grossman, Greg Tobin, Phil Martin of Creekhollow Books. And many more presenters to aid the unpublished as well as the published writers.
Catherine Sellers, one of the guild founders, helped the newcomer’s with the basics; Rebecca Hardin and Casey Kelly pointed how to new writers just how goal-setting would enhance their careers. New and old writers were shown how to develop book projects, write romance, and of course there were sessions on building stories, strong writing, novel secrets, believable characters, and selling the books.
And no GTWG conference would be complete without Robert Vaughn, both presenter and speaker at our luncheon. Dick is unique among those gracious enough to put on the conference. My first experience hearing Dick Vaughn was at the same hotel twenty-five years ago. From that one day session, I wrote my first romance novel, which I regret to say has never sold.
And none of this would have been available for the Golden Triangle had it not been for the writers’ guild and those who fought to bring it back from Hurricane Rita and nurtured it over the last few years.
D.J. Resnick, one of the founders of the guild back in the early eighties, was the primary force behind the rebirth of the conference. D.J. lives this side of Woodville, but teaches continuing writing courses at Lamar each semester.
After Rita blew the conference apart, the consensus was that the guild was dead. Twenty-five years is a long time for a social organization of such limited interest to survive, especially when the initial members begin moving away.
No question in my mind now, there will be another conference next year. You can count on it. Mark your calendar. Around the third weekend in October. Sharpen your pencil and pull out your pad. It’ll be a weekend you won’t forget.
And you can thank D.J.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Isn’t it a good feeling when something you’ve being looking forward to turns out just about like you had hoped?
'That happened to me a couple weekends back when the Golden Triangle Writers Guild held its first writer’s conference in five years. Rita blew away the last one, and since then, it’s been a struggle for the folks at GTWG to put things back together.
But, they finally they got all the pieces together, and from October 22 through October 24, wanabe writers as well as experienced writers enjoyed two solid days of nothing but writing and all the collateral aspects of the craft.
It was held at the Elegante on I-10.
There were breakout sessions for poetry, screenwriting, fiction, and nonfiction.
Those who presented the programs were editors, agents, publishers, and writers.
Folks attend these conferences for many reasons; some to learn the nuts and bolts of the craft; others for contacts to further their own careers; others who desire to further hone their skills; and still others just because they enjoy the camaraderie of fellow writers.
Just as the opening weekend of hunting season is treasured by the hunter, this conference weekend was the perfect one for a writer.
Casey Kelly, as always, sorted though all the mysteries of screenwriting for the attendees. A longtime WGA screenwriter with two aired NBC movies of the week and other scripts written for CBS, Disney, Columbia, Paramount and Warner, she has two features currently in pre-production.
From romance to paranormal, there is no genre of writing the Pat LoBruto has not made is own either as an editor, writer, or anthologist. After thirty years, he became an Editorial Consultant and Master Class Instructor for authors, and acquiring editor for Tor/Forge and Quill Driver Book/Word Dancer Press.
With Pat, aspiring writers could ask questions to their heart’s content.
There were many there like Pat-- Jerry Grossman, Greg Tobin, Phil Martin of Creekhollow Books. And many more presenters to aid the unpublished as well as the published writers.
Catherine Sellers, one of the guild founders, helped the newcomer’s with the basics; Rebecca Hardin and Casey Kelly pointed how to new writers just how goal-setting would enhance their careers. New and old writers were shown how to develop book projects, write romance, and of course there were sessions on building stories, strong writing, novel secrets, believable characters, and selling the books.
And no GTWG conference would be complete without Robert Vaughn, both presenter and speaker at our luncheon. Dick is unique among those gracious enough to put on the conference. My first experience hearing Dick Vaughn was at the same hotel twenty-five years ago. From that one day session, I wrote my first romance novel, which I regret to say has never sold.
And none of this would have been available for the Golden Triangle had it not been for the writers’ guild and those who fought to bring it back from Hurricane Rita and nurtured it over the last few years.
D.J. Resnick, one of the founders of the guild back in the early eighties, was the primary force behind the rebirth of the conference. D.J. lives this side of Woodville, but teaches continuing writing courses at Lamar each semester.
After Rita blew the conference apart, the consensus was that the guild was dead. Twenty-five years is a long time for a social organization of such limited interest to survive, especially when the initial members begin moving away.
No question in my mind now, there will be another conference next year. You can count on it. Mark your calendar. Around the third weekend in October. Sharpen your pencil and pull out your pad. It’ll be a weekend you won’t forget.
And you can thank D.J.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
fun halloween
A Halloween to Remember
I’ve been lucky over the years for I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
But it just wasn’t kids who were out. Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, I spent Halloween on my grandmother’s farm. With only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards three times around the old hanging tree by the cow tank. According to my uncles, if we did that, the rustler who had been hanged would reappear that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost. They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty scary shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put your clothes on backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Never did find who cut him down and chopped him up.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
I’ve been lucky over the years for I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
But it just wasn’t kids who were out. Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, I spent Halloween on my grandmother’s farm. With only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards three times around the old hanging tree by the cow tank. According to my uncles, if we did that, the rustler who had been hanged would reappear that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost. They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty scary shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put your clothes on backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Never did find who cut him down and chopped him up.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
halloween tales
A Halloween to Remember
I’ve been lucky over the years for I suppose I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
Our little town was small enough that within two hours, a youngster could cover all the streets and stagger home with a load of treats.
And it just wasn’t kids who were out.
Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, to my dismay, I had to spend Halloween on my grandmother’s farm out around Lubbock. There was only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards around the old hanging tree three times. Now, the hanging tree was an ancient cottonwood by the cow tank that according to my uncles had once had a rustler strung from it. According to my uncle, the dead man would reappear sometime that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost.
They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty grotesque shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put on your clothes backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Just about. Never did find who did it.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
I’ve been lucky over the years for I suppose I’ve had some of the most frightening and exciting Halloweens ever.
In our little town in the Texas Panhandle, Halloween saw all the dusty streets filled with little ghosts and goblins. Not too many back then had costumes. If you were one of the lucky ones, you probably had a black mask like the Lone Ranger. Some of girls even had masks of pink or red.
One of the most common tricks back then was soaping windows. It was amazing how much writing you could get from a bar of Ivory soap. Some of the more daring boys toppled outhouses, what few there were; some went as far as putting cows on the schoolhouse roof or in the principal’s office.
Our little town was small enough that within two hours, a youngster could cover all the streets and stagger home with a load of treats.
And it just wasn’t kids who were out.
Oh, no, there were always a few adults who planned on putting extra fright in some of the trick or treaters—all in fun.
I had a couple of those experiences
Once, to my dismay, I had to spend Halloween on my grandmother’s farm out around Lubbock. There was only one neighbor, so I figured Halloween was shot.
Then one of my uncles told my cousin, Ed, and me that if we really wanted to see a scary ghost that night, all we had to do was put our clothes on backwards and then walk backwards around the old hanging tree three times. Now, the hanging tree was an ancient cottonwood by the cow tank that according to my uncles had once had a rustler strung from it. According to my uncle, the dead man would reappear sometime that night.
Well, we didn’t really believe his trick to conjure up a ghost, but that afternoon, when no one was looking, Ed and I put our clothes on backward and walked backward around the hanging tree three times.
That night, Ed and I trudged down the lane with handkerchiefs over our faces like bank robbers in the Saturday picture shows, and trick or treated the neighbors. Of course, they let on like they didn’t know who we were and pretended they were frightened.
Then their two boys accompanied us back to my grandparents so we could trick or treat them. Before we left, we told our friends about conjuring up the ghost.
They snickered at us.
Now, you’ve got to get the picture here. The full moon was straight overhead. On either side of the lane were pastures dotted with mesquite, and I promise you, in the dark, the twisted mesquite limbs took on mighty grotesque shapes in the eyes of spooky ten and eleven year old boys.
And the fact we were talking about ghosts and werewolves and such didn’t help. Our frightened eyes made every shadow into Dracula or the Frankenstein monster.
And then we saw it. Far to the north in the pasture, a floating white object. The wind seemed to be carrying it toward us, and then a mournful, whining moan came through the mesquite.
I remember leaning forward and squinting at the apparition, and when I looked around, I was all alone. My cousin and his pals were a hundred yards down the lane. Well, you can believe me when I can tell you, I did my best to catch up with them.
The apparition grew closer, and I ran harder. I caught them as they reached the house, and we burst inside, four breathless, frightened boys.
It must have taken us ten minutes to stammer out what happened. The grownups shook their head, and one uncle growled at us. “Did you boys put on your clothes backward?”
Reluctantly, we nodded.
He groaned. “That did it. That brought back old Burl.”
Another one nodded. “How long’s it been now, fifty years since he got cut all to pieces. He’s still looking for his missing hand.”
“Just about. Never did find who did it.”
Well, you can imagine when we heard that, our eyes bugged out like a stepped-on toad frogs.
And I don’t have to tell you how big they got when my grandfather said, “Well, Kent, it’s getting late. You and Ed walk your young friends back home, and then hurry back.”
Wild horses couldn’t have pulled us from that house.
One of my uncles had to take our friends back home.
And they couldn’t get us outside the next day.
Years later, we learned the whole family had played a big joke on Ed and me. It was my Uncle Bud, Ed’s daddy, who played Burl in a sheet.As I stare into the flames in our fireplace now, I tell you this, folks, those are memories I’ll never forget.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Grab a big bat
rconwell@gt.rr.com
Carry a Big Bat
As a kid, I was skinny and short, a physique that was less than intimidating in the country school I attended in the forties.
Even back then, there were discriminating groups, the country kids and the town kids. I was considered a town kid even through we lived a mile from town on five acres with some stock and few crops, most for personal use.
Like most youngsters, I didn’t like to fight although such Donnybrooks were the most popular events during recess. I can’t count the number of times the combatants would sneak to the rear of the building and proceed to whale the daylights out of each other.
Oh, we always kept lookouts at the corner, but more than once as a lookout, I spotted teachers looking our direction, then turning away.
I finally figured out they knew what was going on, and since boys were boys, the youthful pugilists would rid their bodies of all those raging hormones and return to class docile as kittens.
More than once, I a proponent in the battle, and more than once, I ended up with a bloody nose or a scraped chin or a black eye.
When the battle was over and the dust had settled, we shook hands and then arms draped over each other’s shoulder, strolled back to class.
But, like every class in every school, we had our bullies. Take my word, some of those farm boys were big, especially those who had repeated the fourth grade three times.
That was way back in the days when schools insisted kids learn or fail. There was no kissy-kissy, bleeding hearts worrying about the kid’s self-esteem. If he failed, his father applied the self-esteem with a boot to the miscreant’s posterior.
A horrible act today. If the father weren’t tasered, stomped on, or run over, he would be convicted of child abuse, sexual deviancy, and if nothing else, driving without a license.
Our bully was named Doyle. Even today, every time I meet someone named Doyle, I think of our Doyle. Three years in the fourth grade, two heads taller than us, twice as wide, three times as strong, and mean as the dickens.
I wasn’t the only one he picked on. He selected a new victim daily so his old classmates who were now in the seventh grade would still consider him one of them. We couldn’t whip him. He was too big. All we could do was try to talk him out of whipping up on us too much.
I learned quickly not to go home crying when I got beat up. Dad didn’t care for whiners. One day when I was pretty much torn asunder by Doyle, Dad told me to pick up a club. That’s all bullies understand, a club.
A club? I would never have thought of that. Gene Autry never used a club! He always whipped the bad guys with his fists in a fair fight at the Saturday afternoon picture show.
At recess sometime later, Doyle started pushing me around, laughing and waving to his seventh grade friends. We were playing softball, and a ball bat lay nearby. I told him to stop, but he pushed me down.
I cracked two of his ribs with that ball bat, and fat Doyle never bothered me again. You know, Doyle wasn't so mean after all.
Think about it. America has a bunch of ball bats lying around. What we need now is someone with the guts to swing those bats, because right now there are half-a-dozen Doyles coming out of the woodwork, their mouths watering at what appears to be the old timey 98-pound weakling named America.
The national columnist, Cal Thomas is right. Bullies, like Doyle, fear one thing, and one thing only, strength, and the knowledge it will be used against them.
Like him or not, Bush used strength. Now, after a few months of our present administration, terrorist cells are beginning to grow once again. Is it because those Doyles don’t believe we’ll do anything about it? The answer is obvious.
I don’t know what will happen. All I know is that kissy-kissy never won the bully over. Never! But, now, on the other hand, you take a big bat---
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Carry a Big Bat
As a kid, I was skinny and short, a physique that was less than intimidating in the country school I attended in the forties.
Even back then, there were discriminating groups, the country kids and the town kids. I was considered a town kid even through we lived a mile from town on five acres with some stock and few crops, most for personal use.
Like most youngsters, I didn’t like to fight although such Donnybrooks were the most popular events during recess. I can’t count the number of times the combatants would sneak to the rear of the building and proceed to whale the daylights out of each other.
Oh, we always kept lookouts at the corner, but more than once as a lookout, I spotted teachers looking our direction, then turning away.
I finally figured out they knew what was going on, and since boys were boys, the youthful pugilists would rid their bodies of all those raging hormones and return to class docile as kittens.
More than once, I a proponent in the battle, and more than once, I ended up with a bloody nose or a scraped chin or a black eye.
When the battle was over and the dust had settled, we shook hands and then arms draped over each other’s shoulder, strolled back to class.
But, like every class in every school, we had our bullies. Take my word, some of those farm boys were big, especially those who had repeated the fourth grade three times.
That was way back in the days when schools insisted kids learn or fail. There was no kissy-kissy, bleeding hearts worrying about the kid’s self-esteem. If he failed, his father applied the self-esteem with a boot to the miscreant’s posterior.
A horrible act today. If the father weren’t tasered, stomped on, or run over, he would be convicted of child abuse, sexual deviancy, and if nothing else, driving without a license.
Our bully was named Doyle. Even today, every time I meet someone named Doyle, I think of our Doyle. Three years in the fourth grade, two heads taller than us, twice as wide, three times as strong, and mean as the dickens.
I wasn’t the only one he picked on. He selected a new victim daily so his old classmates who were now in the seventh grade would still consider him one of them. We couldn’t whip him. He was too big. All we could do was try to talk him out of whipping up on us too much.
I learned quickly not to go home crying when I got beat up. Dad didn’t care for whiners. One day when I was pretty much torn asunder by Doyle, Dad told me to pick up a club. That’s all bullies understand, a club.
A club? I would never have thought of that. Gene Autry never used a club! He always whipped the bad guys with his fists in a fair fight at the Saturday afternoon picture show.
At recess sometime later, Doyle started pushing me around, laughing and waving to his seventh grade friends. We were playing softball, and a ball bat lay nearby. I told him to stop, but he pushed me down.
I cracked two of his ribs with that ball bat, and fat Doyle never bothered me again. You know, Doyle wasn't so mean after all.
Think about it. America has a bunch of ball bats lying around. What we need now is someone with the guts to swing those bats, because right now there are half-a-dozen Doyles coming out of the woodwork, their mouths watering at what appears to be the old timey 98-pound weakling named America.
The national columnist, Cal Thomas is right. Bullies, like Doyle, fear one thing, and one thing only, strength, and the knowledge it will be used against them.
Like him or not, Bush used strength. Now, after a few months of our present administration, terrorist cells are beginning to grow once again. Is it because those Doyles don’t believe we’ll do anything about it? The answer is obvious.
I don’t know what will happen. All I know is that kissy-kissy never won the bully over. Never! But, now, on the other hand, you take a big bat---
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Sunday, October 4, 2009
another so called change
Another So-Called Change
Excuse me for saying it, Mr. President, but you’re beginning to remind me of the ubiquitous soccer mom, her day filled with frenetic activity from before dawn until after sunset.
She runs the kids to school, after school activities; she shops; cleans; attends PTA; volunteers, all while packing in a dozen other obligations. All these responsibilities stretch her thinner than a politicians’ promise.
And whether she likes it or not, she is well aware than many of her obligations suffer from lack of attention.
You’re doing the same.
By taking on too much, cap and trade, stimulus, health, immigration, Olympics, and education, there is no way you can devote the requisite energy and attention to them all.
Sure, you were voted in because many wanted change. In their eagerness to make their lives better, they grasped at straws, and you were the straw they grabbed. So desperate, they never thought to ask what kind of change you had in mind.
Mr. President, you are attempting to change too much, too fast. What do you think all the fuss is about? And no, it isn’t because we’re a mob, savages, Nazis, un-American, non-Democrats, or uncooperative. Just because we disagree doesn’t mean we uncooperative. It simply means eighty percent of us want to be heard and not have our opinions simply dismissed as you so curtly did with that steely-eyed remark in August, "I want them to get out of the way so we can clean up the mess. I don’t mind cleaning up after them, but don’t do a lot of talking.”
And now you plan on drastically changing education in America. As in all your various agendas, your team resorts to half-truths and outright fabrications to support your premises.
Since you’re from Chicago, it is no surprise you select people you know from that area to fill positions. That’s the way the political game is played. We all know that. Still, your choice of Arne Duncan as Secretary of Education is puzzling. Either it was simply a political payback or a coin toss. It couldn’t have been his accomplishments as CEO of Chicago Schools
Greatschools, a nation wide non-profit organization that provides K-12 information about all private, public, and charter schools, ranked Chicago schools as a 4 out of 10 while rating Nederland and Port Neches as sevens and eights. A sobering comparison, huh?
After eight years as CEO, Duncan couldn’t even get the district to a passing score, and yet you’re listening to him about how to better American education?
Get real, Mr. President.
According to the Associated Press, Duncan explained his rationale for wanting longer school days by saying ‘Young people in other countries are going to school twenty-five, thirty percent longer than our students here.” He added to the AP. “I want to just level the playing field.”
Sounds noble, you think?
Mr. President, that’s just another of the many fabrications to make your position look good.
In fact, according to the AP, U.S. kids spend more hours in school (1,146 instructional hours yearly) than kids in Asian schools that outscore us in math and science.
True, Japan and Hong Kong, said the AP, have longer school years by up to twenty days, but only spend 1,005-1,013 instructional hours yearly.
Don’t misunderstand. More time would help, but let’s be realistic about what is done and how it is achieved.
I can’t believe you’re taking the word of a man who couldn’t get his own district above a forty percent ranking. No, it had to be a political payoff.
And for Pete’s sake, either tell your people to stop making up data or be perceptive enough to figure out when they’re blowing smoke rings.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Excuse me for saying it, Mr. President, but you’re beginning to remind me of the ubiquitous soccer mom, her day filled with frenetic activity from before dawn until after sunset.
She runs the kids to school, after school activities; she shops; cleans; attends PTA; volunteers, all while packing in a dozen other obligations. All these responsibilities stretch her thinner than a politicians’ promise.
And whether she likes it or not, she is well aware than many of her obligations suffer from lack of attention.
You’re doing the same.
By taking on too much, cap and trade, stimulus, health, immigration, Olympics, and education, there is no way you can devote the requisite energy and attention to them all.
Sure, you were voted in because many wanted change. In their eagerness to make their lives better, they grasped at straws, and you were the straw they grabbed. So desperate, they never thought to ask what kind of change you had in mind.
Mr. President, you are attempting to change too much, too fast. What do you think all the fuss is about? And no, it isn’t because we’re a mob, savages, Nazis, un-American, non-Democrats, or uncooperative. Just because we disagree doesn’t mean we uncooperative. It simply means eighty percent of us want to be heard and not have our opinions simply dismissed as you so curtly did with that steely-eyed remark in August, "I want them to get out of the way so we can clean up the mess. I don’t mind cleaning up after them, but don’t do a lot of talking.”
And now you plan on drastically changing education in America. As in all your various agendas, your team resorts to half-truths and outright fabrications to support your premises.
Since you’re from Chicago, it is no surprise you select people you know from that area to fill positions. That’s the way the political game is played. We all know that. Still, your choice of Arne Duncan as Secretary of Education is puzzling. Either it was simply a political payback or a coin toss. It couldn’t have been his accomplishments as CEO of Chicago Schools
Greatschools, a nation wide non-profit organization that provides K-12 information about all private, public, and charter schools, ranked Chicago schools as a 4 out of 10 while rating Nederland and Port Neches as sevens and eights. A sobering comparison, huh?
After eight years as CEO, Duncan couldn’t even get the district to a passing score, and yet you’re listening to him about how to better American education?
Get real, Mr. President.
According to the Associated Press, Duncan explained his rationale for wanting longer school days by saying ‘Young people in other countries are going to school twenty-five, thirty percent longer than our students here.” He added to the AP. “I want to just level the playing field.”
Sounds noble, you think?
Mr. President, that’s just another of the many fabrications to make your position look good.
In fact, according to the AP, U.S. kids spend more hours in school (1,146 instructional hours yearly) than kids in Asian schools that outscore us in math and science.
True, Japan and Hong Kong, said the AP, have longer school years by up to twenty days, but only spend 1,005-1,013 instructional hours yearly.
Don’t misunderstand. More time would help, but let’s be realistic about what is done and how it is achieved.
I can’t believe you’re taking the word of a man who couldn’t get his own district above a forty percent ranking. No, it had to be a political payoff.
And for Pete’s sake, either tell your people to stop making up data or be perceptive enough to figure out when they’re blowing smoke rings.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Bias in Reporting
Honest Writing, not Biased
I’m constantly amazed at how columnists of different cultures can get away with accusing those who disagree with them of bias, a reprehensible behavior many of them are pulling off with every word they write.
I don’t know if they perceive their slant, their view, to be biased or not. To
compound the problem, many of them do not understand some of the subjects of which they write.
One, a national columnist who is Hispanic, took on President Obama’s speech to school kids, but in doing so, he revealed his own lack of expertise in the realm of education, a lack of expertise shared not only many columnists, but most legislators.
As in many of his columns, he displayed Hispanic bias. Now, you can call it ‘cultural pride’, ‘Latino experience’ or ‘Hispanic histronics’, or whatever, but bias is bias is bias.
I read the speech. While I disagree with much of the president’s agenda, I saw nothing wrong with his speech.
I did agree with the columnist when he suggested throwing money at education did not automatically improve it. He continued by remarking that some of the highest funded schools in the country are the worst while some charter schools are accomplishing much more with less funding. Why? Greater autonomy and flexibility.
He’s right. Throwing money at education doesn’t make kids smarter.
I could only shake my head when the writer put the blame for black student failure on teachers by claiming that many teachers have a lot of trouble imagining black American students as being high achievers. I don’t know what he meant by ‘many’. I do know of all the hundreds of teachers with whom I taught over a lifetime, I could count on one hand the type of whom he spoke. But, however you cut the deck, so few could not have created the dreadful problems so many black communities today face as he stated.
The suggestion is made that parents ask the schools why their low-achieving kids (of all races) are being short-changed. I think that’s a great idea, although not in the way he intended. I like it because in order to ask the question, those parents will have to get off their lazy tails and up to school. (fat chance)
Perhaps if the columnist had more experience in pedagogy, he would not have permitted the current federal administration to lead him by the nose when it suggested education reform by ‘charter schools, merit pay, greater accountability, etc.’
First time I heard that nonsense was in the days of Mark White—Jeez, how long ago was that, a century?
To begin, merit pay is simply a shaggy dog story!
What unbiased instrument will be used to determine which schools or teachers receive extra pay? Who will evaluate? A robot?
Years back, Texas tried such a plan. Many of us remember it as a joke, a senseless effort by state legislators to justify teacher raises.
The plan had supervisors evaluating teachers under them, teachers with whom they had worked for years. So, take a wild guess at the results.
There is no fair and impartial means to determine merit pay just as there is no way to establish fair and impartial guidelines for accountability. Testing can’t measure school quality. All it simply measures is which districts spent more time teaching the test.
Perhaps the closest thing to it is coaching. Win or die. And that’s pretty harsh, gambling a career on sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds.
How would you pull off that little miracle in an English classroom? When the columnist, or President Obama, or Education Secretary Arne Duncan find out, I wish they’d let me know.
I’ve seen thousands of kids go through school, and ninety-nine percent of them who do well have support at home. And yes, many of the homes were one-parent, but that one parent supported, disciplined, and loved the kid.
I have no idea how to solve so many of the problems that plague youngsters in deteriorating communities, but whatever the answers might be, parental love, discipline, and involvement has to be at the very top.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
I’m constantly amazed at how columnists of different cultures can get away with accusing those who disagree with them of bias, a reprehensible behavior many of them are pulling off with every word they write.
I don’t know if they perceive their slant, their view, to be biased or not. To
compound the problem, many of them do not understand some of the subjects of which they write.
One, a national columnist who is Hispanic, took on President Obama’s speech to school kids, but in doing so, he revealed his own lack of expertise in the realm of education, a lack of expertise shared not only many columnists, but most legislators.
As in many of his columns, he displayed Hispanic bias. Now, you can call it ‘cultural pride’, ‘Latino experience’ or ‘Hispanic histronics’, or whatever, but bias is bias is bias.
I read the speech. While I disagree with much of the president’s agenda, I saw nothing wrong with his speech.
I did agree with the columnist when he suggested throwing money at education did not automatically improve it. He continued by remarking that some of the highest funded schools in the country are the worst while some charter schools are accomplishing much more with less funding. Why? Greater autonomy and flexibility.
He’s right. Throwing money at education doesn’t make kids smarter.
I could only shake my head when the writer put the blame for black student failure on teachers by claiming that many teachers have a lot of trouble imagining black American students as being high achievers. I don’t know what he meant by ‘many’. I do know of all the hundreds of teachers with whom I taught over a lifetime, I could count on one hand the type of whom he spoke. But, however you cut the deck, so few could not have created the dreadful problems so many black communities today face as he stated.
The suggestion is made that parents ask the schools why their low-achieving kids (of all races) are being short-changed. I think that’s a great idea, although not in the way he intended. I like it because in order to ask the question, those parents will have to get off their lazy tails and up to school. (fat chance)
Perhaps if the columnist had more experience in pedagogy, he would not have permitted the current federal administration to lead him by the nose when it suggested education reform by ‘charter schools, merit pay, greater accountability, etc.’
First time I heard that nonsense was in the days of Mark White—Jeez, how long ago was that, a century?
To begin, merit pay is simply a shaggy dog story!
What unbiased instrument will be used to determine which schools or teachers receive extra pay? Who will evaluate? A robot?
Years back, Texas tried such a plan. Many of us remember it as a joke, a senseless effort by state legislators to justify teacher raises.
The plan had supervisors evaluating teachers under them, teachers with whom they had worked for years. So, take a wild guess at the results.
There is no fair and impartial means to determine merit pay just as there is no way to establish fair and impartial guidelines for accountability. Testing can’t measure school quality. All it simply measures is which districts spent more time teaching the test.
Perhaps the closest thing to it is coaching. Win or die. And that’s pretty harsh, gambling a career on sixteen- to eighteen-year-olds.
How would you pull off that little miracle in an English classroom? When the columnist, or President Obama, or Education Secretary Arne Duncan find out, I wish they’d let me know.
I’ve seen thousands of kids go through school, and ninety-nine percent of them who do well have support at home. And yes, many of the homes were one-parent, but that one parent supported, disciplined, and loved the kid.
I have no idea how to solve so many of the problems that plague youngsters in deteriorating communities, but whatever the answers might be, parental love, discipline, and involvement has to be at the very top.
rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)