Tag: memories

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The 257

cover-bowlingWhen I was a teenager I was more known for being my sister’s brother than for anything else, and I didn’t do much to dissuade people from the assumption that I wasn’t much more than that. Call it lack of self-esteem, or maybe it was that I played way too often to expectations. In school I would get teachers the year after my sister did, and they would always tell me they expected great things, so I gave them great things. Of course my efforts were never applauded because they were expected. It was only when I did something unexpected that I got noticed, which always seemed ironic to me.

So, by junior year I had done a grand total of one thing others hadn’t expected, which was shaving my head on the coldest day of the year. But that convinced me maybe I was on to something. If I wanted to stop being known as merely “Joy’s brother what’s-his-name?” I had to do the unexpected. So I did. I joined the bowling team.

Now, when I saw the signups on the bulletin board outside the office I was intrigued. I had never voluntarily tried out for a school sport. Sure, freshman year I had signed up for an intramural volleyball tournament with two other guys who never bothered showing up for the actual games. And I had played well during recess class when we did badminton and table tennis, but that was about my entire experience with sports to that point. So signing up for the bowling team tryouts was a big step, and I did all I could to get ready for it. For a solid two weeks before tryouts I went to our local bowling alley after school and bowled until my arm was sore. I tried every technique there was (and believe me, I did, because I read all the books in the school library and the public library on bowling techniques), and when I stepped into that bowling alley for tryouts I thought I was ready.

I was wrong.

-4977343e216bb47cEvery boy in there to try out for the team had been on the team the previous year except me and this one scrawny kid who seemed like a nice puff of air would blow him over. Every boy who was trying out had a big weight advantage over me, too, and supposedly the power to go with it. Picture me back then, a tall, lanky kid with a box haircut, wearing corduroy pants and an over-sized sweatshirt. I almost walked back out of the door, but the coach noticed me and made me sit down there with the other guys who obviously knew each other. There was one boy there, Stanley, who I had classes with, and that’s the only thing that made the wait somewhat bearable. We talked about class, and how we were the smartest two in our math class, which took up some of the time. But by then our names were being called one by one and the butterflies began again. Continue reading “The 257”

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You Call This a Shower?: Part 13

The view from London Bridge.

So, I finally gave up on finding a memory card for my camera by the time we got to London. The first chance I got I went to a little convenience store and bought two disposable cameras because that was about all I felt I could spend of the euros I had left. By that time in the trip we had two days left and I figured I would just take as many pictures as the cameras would afford me and hope they came out alright. It’s funny to think back on it now, but those photos I took were probably the most authentic of the whole trip, which in some small way makes London the most authentic place we traveled to and through. Perhaps it was because I couldn’t see and analyze them, deleting the ones I didn’t like. Once I took them they were there to stay, for better or for worse, and I never saw them until I got back to the States and had them developed. It turned out to be a good choice.

Loved this statue.

We went on a bus tour of the city early that next morning and I took pictures through the bus windows, photos of Big Ben and the Tower Bridge. In fact, I recall us driving over London Bridge, and I was thinking, “This is London Bridge?” The bridge itself was pretty ordinary, and it made me question why anyone would write a children’s song about it. Then our tour guide explained to us why London Bridge was so ordinary, how it was a far iteration from the original bridge that was as wide as a city street, the one that did indeed burn down a long, long time ago. He told us that the bridge that’s there now is just functional because it costs too much to keep replacing the bridge, and the latest one was shipped to a town in Iowa, or some other midwestern place (I wasn’t really listening, so fascinated was I by Tower Bridge, that I could see on the left as we drove across).

Then we were dropped off the bus outside of Buckingham Palace right around the time for the changing of the guard, which is one of those things you can’t really describe unless you see it. Continue reading “You Call This a Shower?: Part 13”

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You Call This a Shower?: Part 1

On the road in Ireland, 2008.

I must have been crazy.

At least that’s what everyone told me when they found out I wanted to lead a group of students on an educational tour of England, Ireland, and Wales. But I never felt that way until we actually got there, and I realized the awesome responsibility that had been handed to me by virtue of my decision. I mean, I knew it was a huge deal, and I had to do so much preparation it was ridiculous, but being singularly responsible for the well-being of 12 teenagers a world away from their parents, yes, an awesome responsibility. And it was some of the most fun I’ve had in my entire life. It all started with an English teacher’s conference, if you can believe it.

For the first time since I became a high school English teacher I decided I wanted to go to the national conference. It helped that in 2005 it was in Pittsburgh, which wasn’t so far a cry from upstate New York where I lived and taught, so I petitioned my school and they said it would be worthwhile, paying for my travel, my expenses, and the conference itself. Of course it was all under the condition that I give an in-session presentation for other teachers when I returned. Woo hoo! Vacation! And I really mean that because I love love love conferences, getting to meet so many different people and participate in discussions, watch lectures, and just get my “nerd on.”

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Free books!

But there was one thing I hadn’t anticipated, it being my first English teacher’s national conference, something I learned the very first day from some other new teacher friends of mine: THE BOOTHS. Wow, I had absolutely no clue that there were going to be booths where book companies, other educational companies, vendors, and salesfolk gathered and they herded us teachers through like cattle. Every single one of the companies were hawking their wares like used car salesmen, and it was a whirlwind of sights and sounds. Oh, and free books. I picked up a huge bag from one of the major book companies, and all I had to do for it was listen to a spiel and promise I would let my school know the good deal they could get if they went with that company. Then I filled up my huge bag with tons of free books that vendors were just giving out.

Um, but I’m getting off topic. The national conference was fun, and I went to two others after it, but that’s not my story right now (don’t worry, I’ll fill you in with another blog post on the subject). Really, the relevant part of the conference story was the travel booth, a place that intrigued me when I first passed by on my way to the Nicholas Sparks book signing (yes, yes, Nicholas Sparks was there). There were two young ladies there who seemed more laid back than other books, then I saw why. They had a sign-up sheet where if you just put down your information you could win a trip for two to many exotic places. Of course the sign-up sheet was a mailing list that meant they could bother you anytime about leading a tour for them. I felt it was a good trade-off so I signed up, but that was the trick. They were talking to me the whole time and had pretty much sold me on the idea of leading an educational tour by the time I was done signing their sheet. Man, they were good with the ol’ bait and switch! Continue reading “You Call This a Shower?: Part 1”

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Tracing Scars

It is late evening and we sit together on the couch — she fresh from the bath and in her footie pajamas, me in my voluminous robe. She climbs into my lap and I notice the heavy lids that presage a sleep so deep no one will be able to awaken her for hours, but … Continue reading Tracing Scars