Thanksgiving

Every other month, I do the mini message at my church, or as my brother refers to it as "my show." If it truly was my show, I'd have fireworks, and a steel drum band playing as I walked in. I'm assuming that the church budget doesn't have any extra money for fireworks and a steel drum band, so it's left up to me, to use my best "Johnny Olsen" voice and tell everyone to "Come on down! You are NOT the next contestant on the Price is Right! It's just time for the mini message!"

We had our Thanksgiving Service yesterday, and I complied a list of the the little things that sometimes I think we forget to be thankful about. I spelled out "Thankful" and had each kid stand up at the front of the church holding a letter.  It also helped that I talked to a woman this past week who is 91 years old, and she was thankful for plumbing and proceded to tell me when she was a young mom, she had to lug water from the barn each and every day, because they didn't have plumbing in their house. She was also thankful for modern appliances,  because she hated washing dishes, and scrubbing clothes on a washboard. She's a fascinating walking talking history book!

T...is for tractors, trucks, technology and the such,
T...is also for Thanksgiving, just one of the holidays were we eat too much.

H...is for hockey, Canada's sport that's fun to play,
H...is also for helmets, a safety item to keep your concussions at bay.

A...is for...well it's apples. We put them in pies, sauces, and tarts.
A...is also for kitchen appliances which come in handy to cook and store all those apple parts.

N...is for nails! Fingernails for that pesky mosquito bite itch.
N...is for needle, with thread, for that neckwarmer that needs a stich.

K...is for Koffee...if we spell it in Dutch,
K...is also for ketchup, we use it on much!

F...is for furry friends, family, and French Fries,
F...is also for feeling fabulous when Friday finally arrives!

U...is very useful for spelling words like umpire, uniform and umbrella too!
But I'm thankful for the U so I can spell "unique" which describes each one of you!

L...is for loving, living and laughing out loud
L...is for being God's little lights, shining like beacons in a crowd.

Happy Thanksgiving!

From the 4th line,
Arlene

Writing prompt: What I remember about my algerbra teacher

Write down everything I hate about math.

Ooops! My mistake! I read the writing prompt wrong and it automatcially makes me think about how much I hate math. The real writing prompt is: Write down everything I remember about my algerbra teacher.

Easy...nothing. Probably because I wasn't in class because I had written a note and forged my parents' signature on it to get of that disgusting class of numbers and equations.

I love this writing prompt because I could end it right here, walk away and go fold some laundry that doesn't require me to figure that "x = MCsquared or to the power of 2 or 312.5"  or something to that affect. Or is it "effect"for you grammar people.

As much as I hate math, I can do math. I can add, subtract, multiply, divide and a few easy fractions if need be, such as in baking. When my 1 cup measure is dirty, I know I can use two 1/2 cups to make 1 cup. When I start dealing with 2/3's and 3/4's it's time to wash some measuring cups.

I've had a few math teachers in my time and I can remember each and every one of them. Some better than others.

I remember the teacher that taught me long division in Grade 5. She pulled me out of recess to go over the many steps it took to figure out the quotient and the reminder. While my friends were outside playing baseball, or hanging off the monkey bars, I was inside, trying to figure out how many times 7 went into 994. I'm sure she had the best intentions, but she kept bringing up how she was missing her recess too. For which, I instantly felt bad about because I just wasn't catching on to this whole long division as fast as what everyone else was. I did remind her that it was her idea to stay in for recess and not mine, she sighed and we continued on with long division. To her credit, I get it! The answer is 142!

I'm going to skip over to Grade 7. That's when math began to get really difficult for me. So difficult, I didn't listen at all. My head is a very busy place. I have lots going on in there. I'm great at daydreaming, I'm excellent at holding conversations with people inside my head. All the while maintaining a listening look. You may think I'm listening to you, but if you are boring me, I'm not listening. I'm probably focusing on something on your face, like a stray eyelash, or sands of sleep still stuck in the corner of your eyes. I'm probably thinking, while you are talking, "Do I tell this person that they have an eyelash on their cheek? Did they know they walked out of their house with a very visible foundation line on their face? Hmmm. Do I tell this person or pretend I didn't see it?"
That's what happened to me when math got hard. I left. Not physically, but mentally. I left the room.

It's very hard to come back into that room of math when you have been gone for so long. I found out that I missed large pieces of the math puzzle and that put me very far behind. I would have to stay in from a lot recesses to make up for my mind absence, but that didn't happened at all. My math teacher at that time was also the principal of the rinky dinky little school I attended. He wasn't about to miss his recess. He had cigarettes to smoke, phone calls to make, and children to frighten. He didn't put the "pal" in principal at all. I think he tried to be funny, but his big bushy eyebrows and large teeth just made him look like a clown that forgot to put his make up on. Or maybe us students were wishing he would wear clown make up to hide his face.

By the time Grade 7 was coming to a close and summer holidays were just on the horizon. I was failing math miserably but somehow I passed on into Grade 8. (My dad would say at this point, "By the skin of your teeth!")  The principal who didn't put the pal into play, dangled in front of me, a summer math work book and a threat. If I didn't complete the summer math work book, chances are I wouldn't graduate Grade 8 with my friends.

I had good intentions of working on that math work book and good intentions of having it completed by the end of July. That's all I had... was good intentions and tons of summer fun! Very quickly the end of summer was approaching and school was gearing up to start and I probably  had only done 10 pages of that work book. To my surprise and absolute delight, there were answers in the back of the book, so you could check your work. I spent the rest of my last week of summer at home filling in the questions using the answers.

I said before, I have a busy head. While I was very busy filling in the questions with the answers I found in the back of the book, I was also being very busy in trying to tape songs off the radio at the same time. Thus, I got sloppy in my work book. My answers for the questions didn't match the page number or even the question number. I didn't care, the book was complete, and I finally managed to record "Every Breath You Take" by the Police without the DJ talking over the beginning of the song. That was success in my books!

I was hoping that my teacher/principal would have forgotten about the work book. He hadn't. I wished that I had been more creative and lost that work book in a hay baling accident or had a cow eat it page by page. But I hadn't. I did hand it in and I thought I had pulled the wool over his bushy eyebrows. But I hadn't.

Then one day, my parents were at school, and it wasn't to "pick me up early out of the goodness of their hearts and save me from this wretched hell hole" visit.
 It was a "we talked to your teacher/principal who doesn't put the "pal" in principal and he says you are borderline retarded" visit to school. Which floored me and upset me. All the mentally challenged people I knew lived in a group home and we would go and sing to them at Christmas time. Was I destined for a life in a group home?  You'll be pleased to know that I didn't go to a group home. I got to live at home with my family. I received a long winded lecture, that I remember not listening to. I do remember being told to pull up my boot straps and try harder. I do remember telling people that I don't get math. I do remember being so mad at my teacher/principal that I wished him dead. If his comment was to encourage me to do better, to rise to the occasion, it did the opposite. I quit math.

Some how, I passed Grade 8. I got to graduate with my friends even though I cheated my way through that work book. I like to think that my teacher/principal  moved me along, to get me out of his bushy eyebrowed sight. We both hated each other, for different reasons. I hated him to the core of my being. He brought out the worst in me. He made me hate school and learning. He did teach me about snappy come backs. He would say to me, "You need to know math if you are ever going to wall paper a room." And I would reply back, "I'll paint my walls! And if I run out of paint because I didn't do the math, I'll go to the store to buy more!"  He probably hated me because he thought I was unteachable, when in fact he only knew one way to teach and I  learned that when I moved on to highschool.

Grade 9 was a new game. New school, new town, new people. I liked my math teacher in Grade 9 and it wasn't his fault that I only just barely passed his class. It also wasn't his fault that I harboured a lot of resentment towards math and teachers. I had left Grade 8 and entered Grade 9 already behind the eighth ball, because of me mentally checking out of the room when it came to math. Plus, I didn't understand that my math teacher genuinely wanted me to succeed in math, that was confusing. A high school teacher that cared? I was told by the rinky dinky school principal  that once I entered high school none of the teachers would care about their students. That principal was wrong. I passed math because my Grade 9 math teacher did care about his students.

There's so much I could say about Grade 10 math, but I'm not. Long story short, I failed Grade 10 math and was expected to spend 2 weeks of my summer vacation at summer school. Which I didn't do. First of all, who wants to spend any time at summer school learning math. I sure some people do, but not me. Second of all, summer school was being held in Fergus, a long way away from my home, at least 40 minutes by car, or two hours by horse and buggy. Thirdly, the bus wasn't going to pick me up at my house, I was going to have to bike 5kms away from my house, leave my bike in a ditch at the side of road and pray no one stole it, to catch the bus that would drive me to math hell. No thank you!

When the new school year started I was in Grade 11 but having to redo my Grade 10 math. Was I determined to study hard and conquor this subject? Nope. I just wanted to get by. There was one problem, I had a very funny friend in my math class, that sat beside me. My friend didn't get math either, and we both spent our time laughing, cracking jokes and ducking pieces of chalk that were being thrown at us by the teacher. Yes, we were a disturbance, but a very funny distrubance indeed.

I know you can hardly stand the suspense. Did I finally pass Grade 10 math when I was in Grade 11 and get the credit I needed to graduate? Yes....but barely. I owe it all to my fine persuasion talking skills and a very nice vice principal who did put the pal in principal. Him and I had a chat, post final math exam time. I'm pretty sure I didn't do well on that final math exam, and I explained to my vice principal that I was going to avoid all careers that required me to do math.  Rodeo clown was high on my list of career choices after florist and clergy. He agreed that I should avoid math at all cost, and assured me that I would never have to enter a math class again, unless it was something I really wanted to pursue.

I passed with a 51%.

Life is better with calculator.

I didn't become a rodeo clown.

I still hate math.

From the 4th line,
Arlene

Your Face Is Going to Freeze Like That.

They other day I sounded like my mother. My boys were acting up and I said what my mother had said to me when I was kid standing in the Peoples store in Listowel.

"Act your age, not your shoe size."

I remember thinking this is an odd thing to say and then I remembered thinking I don't get it. I got it about twenty years later. (I'm slow to catch on, I pretend to "get" a lot of things only to "get it" months later) I was eight years old and my shoes size was a three. So...according to my mom, I was acting like a three year old at the Peoples store. I was probably belly aching for gum and my mom just wanted to shop in peace and quiet. I get it now.  I too, want to shop in peace and quiet, and I refuse to take my boys to any store because I know the belly aching is going to start up about who's going to push the cart. Then I'm going to spend the rest of my time walking and whincing everytime one of them rams the cart into the back of my legs. "Pay attention! Watch where you are going! You know, when we get home, you are going to have to bandage my bloodied legs!"

So, the other day, the guys were acting like knuckle heads and I was wishing that I could just crack their skulls together and they would wizen up. But I didn't. I just said, "Hey you two. Act your age, not your shoe size."

I'm not sure what I was expecting, maybe I was expecting both of them to have an Oprah "Ah ha!" moment and they would stop their nonsense and both quit what they were doing, which was pushing each other over while they pulled their winter gear on. Maybe I was hoping they would stop, look at each other and the older one would say to the younger one, "Mom's right, we should act our age and not our shoe size."

I didn't get that response at all. What I got was a lot of confusion and questions.

"What?"

I said, "Act your age, not your shoe size!!!"

"I think my shoe size is a three, but my winter boots are a four. You said shoe, right? Like my basketball shoes or my tennis shoes? I have indoor shoes at school...I think those are a three? I don't know what my baseball shoes are. Remember when we bought my new hockey skates? Those are a four!"

And because I didn't want my children to go through life wondering what this phrase meant... like I did, I explained it to them.

"It means that you are seven years old acting like your three years old, or four years old, depending by what foot wear we are going by. I say your acting more like your winter boots...four."

That's when Dean had his Oprah moment.

"Hey Marty. What size are your running shoes?"

"I don't know. Ask mom."

"Marty's shoes are a size 13."

"Woah! Marty you're acting like you're thirteen years old!! You're acting like a teenager! Ha Ha!"

"Wait a minute! Marty's winter boots are a size one, I thought we were going by winter boots size! He's 5 years old acting like a year old!"

"Ha, Ha! Marty's one year old! Marty's one year old! I'm four years old!"

"Now your acting like a mean seven year old!

"Mom!!! Dean's says I'm one year old. I'm not! I'm five!"

At this point I was wishing I had never said anything. I didn't know this short one liner was going to be up for such debate. Knocking their skulls together would have been faster and the point would have been made.  Like I said before,  I didn't do that.  I thought it and that's the difference.

By this time, their winter gear was on, and they were out the door grabbing their sleds and heading toward the snow hill. Shoe and winter boot sizes all forgotten and who's acting like what age.

"You made your bed, now lie in it." It took me years to get this one too. That's a story for another day. Curiousity kills the cat.

From the 4th line,
Arlene