Life's Outtakes

What To Remember When It Comes Time To Apologize

By

Daris Howard

copyright 2006

 

            Harvest is almost over in our little community.  By all indications it went quite well because most of the husbands and wives are still speaking to each other.  There are a few that are refusing to sit on the same pew at church, but I expect that will smooth over by about December.  The worst I heard of was that one husband chewed out his wife for “inattentive driving” and she left and walked back to the house until he came and profusely apologized.

            This reminds me of an experience I had in the recent past.  I was asked for some help from a neighbor to get his hay crop in.  His bale wagon broke and he needed someone to help work on a truck loading it by hand.  At one point his wife popped the clutch, tumbling hay off the back of the truck.  He came flying down the piler on the side of the truck, his face beat red, and then he remembered I was there.  He took a deep breath and said to his wife, “Drive more carefully!”  He then climbed back on the truck and she turned to me and said, “I’m glad you’re here.”

            His education consists of a barely squeaked out high school diploma.  He is a rough looking character, with a big beard and a rough haircut, looking much like a mountain man,  and many in the community regarded him as a bit of an ornery fellow.  I even do, though he was my friend.  However, as we stepped into his small, rough house for lunch, his small children were hiding and, as he came in the door, they tumbled out of their hiding places attacking him with squeals and giggles.  He rolled around on the floor, playing with them, as his wife set the table.  He complimented his wife on her cooking and her love for him showed through her smile and the sparkle in her eyes.

            In contrast, I went to help another man, well educated and highly respected in the community.  We worked with the few cattle he had on his hobby farm.  He was impatient with his children and short with his wife when she asked him when he would be ready for lunch.  After we finished and we stepped into his large, beautiful house, his children hid from him in their rooms and his wife trembled nervously when he was angry because dinner was not ready immediately.

            My wife gently reminds me that sometimes when I work outside, my demeanor changes and I am impatient and hard to work with.  As I saw the contrast between these two men and thought about my own deficiencies, I remembered a quote from Elbert Hubbard’s Scrapbook, “The place to take the true measure of a man is not in the darkest place or in the amen corner, not the cornfield, but by his own fireside. There he lays aside his mask and you may learn whether he is an imp or an angel, cur or King, hero or humbug. I care not what the world says of him: whether it crowns him boss or pelts him with bad eggs. I care not a copper what his reputation or his religion may be: if his babies dread his homecoming and his better half swallows her heart every time she has to ask for a five dollar bill, he is a fraud of the first water, even though he prays night and morning until he is black in the face...But if his children rush to the front door to meet him and love's sunshine illuminates the face of his wife every time she hears his footfall, you can take it for granted that he is pure, for his home is a heaven...I can forgive much in that fellow mortal who would rather make men swear than women weep; who would rather have the hate of the whole world than the contempt of his wife; who would rather call anger to the eyes of a king than fear to the face of a child.”

              I’m glad My wife still wants to sit on the same pew as me, but if the time comes that she leaves the truck and walks back to the house, I hope I am man enough to go apologize.

Tinkertoys In My Cupboard

Tinkertoys In My Cupboard
By
Daris Howard
copyright 2006
all rights reserved
Any commercial use of this article without written permission is strictly prohibited.

     We have Tinkertoys in our cupboard. I'm not talking about the toy cupboard. I mean that I will sometimes pull out a bowl to put cereal in and, half asleep, pour in cornflakes and milk. I take a bite and receive 2000% of the unrecommended lifetime supply of fiber and plastic polymers. I really hate Tinkertoys in my cupboard.
     "Who put the Tinkertoy in my cereal bowl?!" I holler, as I search for my missing tooth.
     I really didn't need to ask that. I knew who it was. It was a 22-month-old gremlin with blond hair, blue eyes, and piggy tails. She has taken a real liking to Tinkertoys.
     There are Tinkertoys in the bowls, Tinkertoys in my bed, Tinkertoys in my shoes, and Tinkertoys stuffed in the floppy drive of my computer. If I get up in the middle of the night for a drink of water, I am sure to step on a Tinkertoy and roll bruisedy, scrapity, crashity down the stairs. The last time that happened, my hollering could have put any decibel meter off the scale. I woke the whole house and most of the neighbors within a half mile radius. I swore I was going to take every Tinkertoy to the second-hand store.
     But that was then. My little, blond, blue-eyed gremlin has recently been sick. We spent three days in the hospital, with her temperature soaring to 106 degrees. She slept in my arms as I comforted her, keeping her from pulling on the IV that was giving her the life-saving antibiotic. I put cool cloths on her forehead, not daring to sleep for fear she would leave me for good. I stroked her blond hair, wishing I could draw the sickness from her and take it upon myself.
     At times exhaustion overcame me and I started to drift off to sleep, only to wake with a start, panicking at my lapse as I checked on her again. The three days took their toll on me as I sat in the chair, praying, with her in my arms.
     Finally, her fever broke and she was able to come home. Unshaven and unkempt, I carried her from our car and tucked her gently into her bed. She still didn't want to do much and just lay there, quietly holding "bankie" close. I would come home from work each day and open the cupboard, hoping to see a Tinkertoy in my cereal bowl, but it wasn't there - none in my bed, none in my shoes, none in my computer.
     Then, one day, coming in from work tired and hungry, I did pull out a plate and, to my great joy, I found a dirty, chipped, unsanitary Tinkertoy. I turned around and my little blond gremlin poked her head around the corner. Though she was still pale, her eyes had a sparkle I hadn't seen for a long time.
     I held up her Tinkertoy. She came to me and hugged my knees. She then took her Tinkertoy and toddled off, humming.
     You know what? I really do like Tinkertoys in my cupboard.

When Everything Goes Wrong

When Everything Goes Wrong By Daris Howard copyright 2006 all rights reserved Any commercial use of this article is strictly prohibited though sharing on the Internet is encouraged. Trying to be a dutiful son, I help my mother when I can. So, one day, when she suggested, in passing, that she really wanted a tree that was blocking her view removed, I made a mental note to take care of it for her. She talked about how she would like it dug clear out, so she would not have the lawn broken up. I determined I would just go out there someday and do it to surprise her. I have to admit that I was amazed that she wanted it removed, because it did provide nice shade for the family reunions. Yet, I also had to admit that it did block the view from the window. One day, I finally made it out there. I knew it wouldn't take me all that long. Why, it wasn't more than 12 inches in diameter. I didn't even pack a lunch. I chose a day I knew she would be gone visiting her brother and wouldn't be around at all. I started out by cutting the tree down. If a tree is leaning to the north, don't assume that when it's cut down that it will fall to the north. Trees have a tendency to fall in exactly the opposite direction than what you may think. I dropped it right across Mom's new picnic table. What the heck, we needed some kindling for our next cookout and I'm perfectly fine with sitting on the ground to eat. Next, I started digging around the roots. As I found more root, I dug wider and wider. Soon, I had a hole roughly the size of a quarry - a quarry the size of Rhode Island - and I had turned the new lawn Mom had planted into a plowed hill. I dug under and all around the roots of the tree until I thought the tree had to be loose. I found an old rusty chain and chained one end to the bumper of my pickup and one to the tree. I pulled away until the chain was tight, and then hit the gas. The chain broke and flipped forward, smashing out the back window of my pickup. That ticked me off. No tree was going to get the best of me. I found a longer, stronger tow cable and hooked it to the tree and to my pickup. I pulled away, until the tow cable was tight, and then hit the gas; my pickup died. I tried again with the same result. I decided I needed a run at it, so I backed up and took off at high speed. There was a loud tearing of metal. I looked back and, instead of a tree out of a hole, my bumper was lying on the ground. This was war now! I grabbed my chain saw and started to cut through the roots. Suddenly my chainsaw bound up and died. Who would have guessed that the phone cable ran underneath one of the trees roots? I'm sure Mom would enjoy the quiet of not having her phone ring all the time, and the phone cable probably needed replacing anyway. I'm sure the waterline that I cut through did. Why, it barely broke the chain on my chainsaw. I did have to shut off the well pump and bucket out the water. Now that my chainsaw was broken, I found a hand saw and started cutting. Soon I had every root I could find cut, but the stump would barely budge. I dug, I cut, and I dug some more, until the sweat was pouring off of me. I couldn't even take a drink of water; the well was off because the line was broken. Eventually the tree started to move and, with a lot more coaxing and many more blisters, I finally slid it out of the hole. It was just in time, too, because Mom drove into the driveway. She walked over and, just as I expected, she was surprised. My heart swelled with pride as I announced I had removed the tree for her. Finally, her shock subsided so she could speak. "That is the wrong tree!"

Halloween (In)Justice

Halloween (In)Justice
By
Daris Howard
copyright 2006
all rights reserved
Any commercial use of this article without written permission is strictly prohibited.

     As a faculty member at a local university, I sometimes have students ask me where I live. I am leery of this, especially at Halloween time. Years ago, when I was a new faculty member, I had a colleague that enjoyed having students hit his house with toilet paper. He always felt it was a sign of their affection for him. I, personally, could do without cleaning up the mess. Thus it got so that when students asked me where I lived, I would tell them if they wanted an address I would give them one. But the address I would always give them was his. I knew this was misleading, but I didn't directly say it was mine.
     Inevitably, my colleague would come to work the next day and laugh, "Those little devils hit me again!" I would just laugh along with him, especially since I was not the one who had to clean the mess out of my trees. He was surprised at the increase in his popularity in those years, and I was more than happy to let him revel in the joy of his students' love for him.
     However, he grew older and eventually left us. At first I was at a loss as to what to do. But it wasn't long until a new faculty member joined our department. I nonchalantly asked him where he lived and then memorized his address. Soon, his house was getting hit by an exorbitant amount of certain squeezably soft personal paper products.
     But then I made a big mistake. One Halloween, when the students asked me where I lived, I put my colleague's address on the board. I moved on with my class and forgot about it. As my lecture was ending, before I had a chance to erase the board, he walked in to prepare his class. With shock, he asked what his address was doing up there. My students looked at me and grinned, and no matter how I tried to gloss it over, I knew I was in trouble.
     That particular year we owned a beautiful, female Great Pyrenees dog. We had borrowed a male Great Pyrenees to have her bred. He stood almost eye level with many people while he was standing on all fours, and when he put his paws on the fence, he looked down on almost everyone. He was especially intimidating as he protected the female, roaming diligently around our yard that nearly encompassed our house.
     We heard a ruckus in the yard late on Halloween night. The male dog started going crazy. There was a loud commotion, a van door slammed, and then the van zoomed off, leaving us wondering what it was all about.
     The next day my students approached me about turning their assignments in late. They said the server that my colleague was in charge of was not working. I didn't question them further, but told them to get the assignments in as soon as possible.
     Later in the day, one student came in to confess that it wasn't a server problem. He then told me that my colleague had decided to get me back. He had picked up a group of students in his van and driven to the store. He went in and bought a whole bunch of the largest packs of toilet paper they had. They had driven to my house to teach me a lesson, but had been chased off by the dog.
     The student told me that, when my colleague brought them back to town and dropped them off, they took all of his toilet paper with them. Then, in the early hours of the morning, when they were sure he was asleep, they went and hit his house with the toilet paper he had purchased. There was nothing wrong with the server; he knew who had done it and he had locked their accounts.
     And thus was fulfilled the scripture that says, "They shall fall into the pit which they dig for others", although my colleague might question the validity of my interpretation.

Uncle Hickory's DWI

Uncle Hickory's DWI
By
Daris Howard
copyright 2006
all rights reserved
Any commercial use of this article is strictly prohibited.

     My endeavors into family history again brought me to a story of Great Uncle Hickory, the lovable town drunk. Because of his good nature, even when he couldn't remain vertical, everyone liked him. Well, most of the time everyone liked him. Uncle Hickory had one major fault when he was drunk; he liked to sing.
     The quality of his voice left much to be desired and he could never hit his pitches. Heck, he couldn't hit anybody's pitches. In fact, calling the warbling sound that emanated from his throat "singing" might be an injustice to the word and an insult to musical people everywhere. His voice ranged from a low bass to a high, falsetto soprano, often on the same aggravating, sustained syllable. Nonetheless, what Uncle Hickory lacked in quality, he made up for in volume.
     He could sing loud enough to crack windows, make the church bell vibrate, cause dogs to howl, and drop birds out of the sky. But the biggest problem of all was that he liked to "sing" at two in the morning as he drove up and down Main Street in his old truck. This was long before the days of decibel meters and sound ordinances, and the local police were at a loss as to how they could curb his sleep-depriving revelry.
     Drunken driving laws were something just barely being tested in some cities and the desperate people of our small town took the initiative to create one of their own. Thus a remorseful, but unchanged, Uncle Hickory, after one of his late night forays, found himself standing before the judge. The kind judge, who did not live in town and had therefore gotten a good night's sleep, didn't have the heart to lock up lovable Uncle Hickory. He, therefore, impounded Uncle Hickory's truck, thinking that would put an end to the problem of the late night, forte sleep-bandit and, hence, the complaints of the town's residents. Besides, he reasoned, the law was against driving drunk, and, without his old truck, Uncle Hickory couldn't drive.
     However, in the early hours of the following morning, the townsfolk, much to their chagrin, heard the same dreadful braying fill the air. Uncle Hickory was dragging Main on his horse and the horse wasn't the one doing the braying. Not long after the sun peeked over the horizon, Uncle Hickory again stood with his court-appointed lawyer to face charges brought by sleepy, irate police officers.
     The judge was perplexed. The law clearly stated a person could not drive a vehicle in an inebriated state, but what did that entail? The debate raged for a period between Uncle Hickory's attorney and the prosecution as to whether a horse could be considered a vehicle. To impound one's horse was akin to horse thievery and the judge was not about to get near that - not in the West where the memory of horse rustlers ending up on the short end of a shorter rope swinging from a tree was still recent history. With a stroke of genius, Uncle Hickory's attorney pointed out that Uncle Hickory had been too drunk to be driving.
     Thus, Uncle Hickory became one of the first people, and perhaps the only person in history, to have DWI charges dropped on a technicality - having a horse as a designated driver.

Uncle Henry And The Model T

Uncle Hickory and the Model T
By
Daris Howard
copyright 2006
all rights reserved
Any commercial use of this article is strictly prohibited.

     I was recently asked to make a presentation about journal writing at a genealogy conference. This got me thinking about my own genealogy, which reminded me of a saying of a famous politician. He said there was no reason to go to the work of doing your own genealogy. You could just run for political office and then those who were opposed to you would do it for you.
     However I have, at times, found interesting stories in my own ancestral past. I noted one recently about a great uncle and a great aunt. If it hadn't been for the guilt two young men felt for what they knew was an undeserved gift from my great aunt, the story probably would have remained untold.
     For anonymity I will refer to my great aunt and great uncle as Aunt Hazel and Uncle Hickory, because some might say they were nutty. However, Uncle Hickory and Aunt Hazel were good, down-to-earth people that everyone loved. Uncle Hickory did have one well-known bad habit; he drank too much. In fact, he was fondly known as the town drunk. Everyone knew of his habit and, for the most part, tended to overlook it, due to Uncle Hickory's pleasant nature.
     As one story goes, an early snowstorm struck the area the first week of October. (Imagine that here in Idaho!) Anyway, two young men, who had been up country hunting, were fighting their way home through the blizzard, only to find Uncle Hickory lying snookered beside the road. Knowing they couldn't leave him there, they tossed him into the back seat of their Model-T.
     Since those old cars were light, they slid all over the road and eventually landed in a ditch. Although the car was light, it was too heavy for one person to push out while one drove, and Uncle Hickory was too soused to be roused. The young men could get no traction and there was nothing in the great white expanse that could be used to give the tires the grip they needed.
     Finally, thinking they all would die if they didn't do something, they struck on an idea. They pulled Uncle Hickory out of the back seat and stuffed him under the tire. With the extra grab and one pushing and one driving, the car inched its way back up onto the road. Once they were finally into safe territory, and the tire had passed clear over Uncle Hickory, they carefully brushed him off and tossed him back into his seat again. Then they much more carefully headed on their way.
     The young men took Uncle Hickory home and delivered him to Aunt Hazel, who put him to bed. The next day the young men received a wonderful, home-made pie with a note from Aunt Hazel. It said, "Thanks so much for giving my husband a ride home. I'm sure he would have never made it on his own. He was so stiff and sore the next morning that he couldn't even walk."

Efficiency In Learning

Efficiency In Learning
By
Daris Howard
copyright 2006
all rights reserved
Any commercial use of this article is strictly prohibited, but noncommercial sharing on the Internet is allowed.

     Every year I give my new students a lecture about learning. I tell them I will try to give them only the homework necessary for them to understand the concepts, and not so much that it just becomes busy work. That way they can still have some sort of social life. In addition, I share a few ideas that may help them to study. I will therefore address this column to all students and others interested in learning.
     As a student, I paid my own way through college. I always worked one or two part time jobs, and, to save money, I crammed as many as 21 and a half credits into a semester. The half credit was varsity wrestling, which required 4 hours of training per day. A normal load is 12 to 16 credits, therefore, between work and lots of classes, I had to learn to study efficiently.
     Math, the subject I teach, is often many students' nemesis. Students tend to procrastinate taking these courses as long as possible and then tend to put off doing the homework once they are in the class. This results in even more frustration. I tell the students they need to take courses they dislike first and similar ones as close together as possible. This will help them remember what they have already learned. In addition, there are things they can do to better understand the material and complete their homework more efficiently.
     Each of us has probably taken a class where we sit through the lecture and we understand what is being taught. Then time passes and, when we finally sit down to do our homework, we realize that we are clueless about it and can't even figure out our own notes. Some students wonder, at that point, if they ever truly did understand it.
     The problem is not actually one of understanding. We learn from psychology that there are two levels of memory: long term and short term. As a former computer science teacher, I often describe this as R.A.M. and hard drive. When a person first learns something, it is in short-term memory (R.A.M.). A person's short-term memory can only hold a certain amount. This means that, as time goes on, it is replaced by other information and it will be as if they never even attended that class. In order to lock in what they learned into long-term memory (hard drive) a person needs to practice it immediately.
     I suggest to my students that, if they have a class they struggle in, they need to block out an hour immediately after the class to do the homework. This will help them to process the information to their long-term memory while they still understand it. By doing this, they will learn better, deeper, faster, and more efficiently. I have found, in my own studies, that, by following this advice, I could cut my homework time to about a third of what it took before.
     I have now done my part to give you a social life. The rest is up to you. Of course, I realize that no matter what I do, some of you won't have a social life, but you can't say I didn't try.

As Long As I Can Carry My Own Pack

As Long As I Can Carry My Own Pack
By
Daris Howard
copyright 2006
all rights reserved
Any commercial use of this article is strictly prohibited, but noncommercial sharing on the Internet is allowed.

     I came to the realization recently that I am no longer in my prime. The unusual part of this was that it didn't even occur at a class reunion. It happened on Labor Day. That is the day that my children think we should "labor" by hiking up Table Mountain, which overlooks the Tetons. I suggested to them that Labor Day is the day to honor women who have had children, but they didn't buy it.
     This particular day was our final chance of the summer to be one with nature, away from the masses of humanity, just like the other 50,000 people who were there. We started out cheerfully singing, "...odalay, odaloe, with a knapsack on my back". The singing soon gave way to the somewhat more important task of breathing. Within a short time, my brain was asking, "Are we there yet?" and I looked back to see that we had covered almost 100 yards.
     I have long since decided that, if I really want to take a 12-mile hike, I would walk from one end of a Super Wal-Mart to the other. Perhaps the "Super Wal-Mart Hike" could be a scout merit badge. Wal-Marts have drinking fountains, air-conditioning, and level floors. And, even though you have to face irate shoppers, you don't have to face mosquitoes the size of jumbo jets. Besides, I never shop the day after Thanksgiving, so the only irate shoppers I encounter are the ones from whose cart I accidentally take something, thinking it is the clearance basket.
     The fact still remains that it has become an annual family tradition to hike Table Mountain. I have ten children and the youngest is still three. I don't take them until they are twelve, so I still have at least nine years of this insanity to endure. This dawned on me about two miles into the hike, when muscles, long dormant and atrophied, roared out of their slumber, attacking me. I wondered why my wife couldn't have had all ten children at the same time and saved me this grief.
     Finally, reaching the last 100 yards and crawling onto the top, I looked at my feet. My blisters had blisters. In fact, I think the blisters on my feet had a five-generation family reunion.
     After catching our breath, we pulled out loaves of bread and peanut butter. We had forgotten the jam. No one complained. No one cared. We were too tired to care. When we finished, there were still three loaves left. Since I was hauling the lunch, I coerced some college students into taking the leftovers.
     A half hour after we arrived on top, my children were ready to start the trek down. My muscles had gone back to sleep and, as I stood up, they attacked with more venom than before. I looked down from that height, realizing I had no choice this time; turning back was not an option. That was when the over-the-hill moment hit me. My son noticed that I was walking like a duck and offered to carry my pack.
     When they were small, I carried their packs and almost all of the food and water. This year, even though I had to admit I was tired, I did make it down off of the mountain carrying my pack and my pride the whole way.
     Wearily, we crawled into our van, and my children vowed they would never make that trip again. Though that was seemingly good news, my hopes didn't last long. Just like a woman in labor who swears she will never have another baby, the memory of the pain soon passed for my children and they are already planning next year's hike.
     So, if you are up on the mountain on Labor Day, watch for me. I'll be there - at least as long as I can still carry my own pack.

Why I'm A Teacher

Why I Am A Teacher
By
Daris Howard
copyright 2006
all rights reserved
Any commercial use of this article is strictly prohibited.

     It was graduation day at the university where I work, and a beautiful day it was, quite unlike the first graduation I attended as a young professor. I recall that at that one the cold south wind had swirled the snow around us.
     On that day years ago, as we watched the students file past, one of my more seasoned colleagues, who was also my mentor, turned to me and said, "Graduation will be one of the happiest and one of the saddest times of your life."
     When I inquired why it would the one of the saddest, he very somberly answered, "Because some of the students you have gotten to know have to leave."
     When I asked him why it would also be one of the happiest, he grinned. "Because some of the students you have gotten to know have to leave."
     As the procession of students ended, we marched to join them in the auditorium, filling the seats reserved for us. As the commencement droned on, my colleague reached inside the bell sleeves of his graduation robe, pulling out a book of differential equations from one and popcorn from the other. His quiet munching and flipping of pages soon drew my attention away from the redundant words which were meant to inspire.
     But my colleague's words that day are etched deep into my mind. When I come across the infrequent student that is belligerent, almost daring a person to teach him, I have had to rethink why I chose to be a teacher. It obviously isn't the money. This was brought home to me some time ago, when a former computer science student of mine called me, informing me of his job at Nintendo Corporation. His starting wage was higher than my current one, though I have more education than he has and I have worked for more than a decade. He said he knew that with my programming skills, he could get me hired, and then added, "...and the best part is after programming, we get to play the game for six months to test it."
     I thanked him, but declined his kind offer, remembering an event that had happened years earlier in a class I had taken. We were given the assignment of working on our own obituary, not as we were then, but as we hoped our life would play out. That has colored many of the decisions I have made through the years. I couldn't envision the epitaph on my headstone saying, "He loved to play games".
     My mind returned to just a few days before this current graduation. While I was working on final grades, I had found a note a student had slipped in with her homework. She thanked me for being her teacher and said the things she had learned in my class - not about math, but about life - would be things she would remember long after the math skills had faded away. As I finished reading her note, I remembered why I had become a teacher.
     Now, on this sunny graduation day, as I again observed the sea of blue caps and gowns, I did so with renewed dedication and a deeper sense of satisfaction. The next semester will arrive again with its new challenges and with a new batch of eager young students, and I will, as always, be grateful I am a teacher.

A Question Of Success

A Question Of Success
By
Daris Howard
copyright 2006
all rights reserved
Any commercial use of this article is strictly prohibited though noncommercial sharing on the Internet is allowed.

     The fact that I have not necessarily been successful in everything I have done in my life was brought forcefully to my attention at the Junior Miss pageant, in which my daughter was a contestant. For those unfamiliar with Junior Miss, it is a school-sponsored competition, throughout which every father feels his daughter is the obvious winner, while secretly hoping she won't win, thus sparing him the "opportunity" of hauling her all over the country to multiple events.
     I have attended Junior Miss pageants many times and have heard the whispered suggestions that the judges must have been bribed. I've laughed at the suggestion, not truly believing that anyone would bribe a judge to make sure his daughter would lose, but I suppose it could happen. I can remember the desperation mounting in my heart during intermission, as well-meaning people assured me that my daughter was surely going to win. I became increasingly sure that most of them disliked me or they wouldn't have harassed me this way.
     To satisfy the talent portion, my daughter played the harp, performing a beautiful, 87.5 second rendition of Pachebel Canon in D, leaving a whole 2.5 seconds to spare. She finished with a flamboyant pop-song surprise ending, then, instead of gliding off the stage in her flowing evening gown, the one that cost her mother two weeks of sleepless nights, she hiked it up to just below her knees and skipped unconventionally off stage.
     I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking she had lost for sure. To my amazement, the audience cheered and cheered; they loved her all the more. I knew she didn't plan to win. She had said she just wanted to have fun and hopefully win some scholarship money. She didn't have time for any of the other stuff. However, the more she did out of the norm, the more the audience adored her.
     Finally, it came time for the big moment when she went to the microphone to speak her great words of wisdom. The announcer took the question she had drawn and turned to her. "How would you define success?"
     She smiled at him and told how her Sweet Adeline singing group had wanted to attend a competition but had decided not to. I remembered it well. She had talked to me and told me she was afraid they would take last place. I had told her she could do worse than last. She had looked at me in surprise. "How can anyone do worse than last?"
     "They could not even compete," I had answered.
     In the end, they went, they competed, and they ended up near the top. As she finished the story, reciting my words with emphasis, I felt quite proud of myself for my great wisdom and my ability to influence my daughter. She finished with, "... and my Dad should know because he has attempted more things than anybody I know."
     My high school friend, who was seated nearby, slapped me on the back and said, "And he has failed at all of them!" He then roared with laughter. He's that friend in high school that would always say things like he knew how I could lose 20 ugly pounds. When I would ask him how, he would say, "Cut your head off." I think he has considered it his job in life to keep me humble. However, I couldn't help but think that he might be right. My filing cabinet has a drawer full of nothing but rejection letters from publishers and agents; my computer is littered with software I have developed and could not sell, books and stories I have written that I have not been able to get published, and plays that I have written that have not been produced.
     Well, my daughter didn't win anything but a scholarship and the admiration of the audience.
     I took her to her first summer job the other day. It was hard to see her leave home. She has been a lot of fun as a daughter, though we have had our challenges, as in any parent-child relationship. She is employed on a ranch in Jackson, driving a horse team for paying guests. My heart choked in my throat as I drove away, leaving her waving in the doorway. She now writes about the challenges she continues to face, but I'm proud to read that she still holds true to the family values we have taught her. She is growing strong in character and inner strength, just as she has grown in beauty.
     I may have a drawer full of rejections, but each time I read one of her letters I realize that maybe this old dad wasn't such a failure - after all.

A Load Of Bull

A Load Of Bull By Daris Howard copyright 2007 all rights reserved Any commercial use of this article without written permission is strictly prohibited.

     It started out pretty much like any other project. Old John needed to load his bull into the cattle truck. He'd had the bull for a couple of years and the bull's offspring were coming of age, so the bull needed to be replaced in order to put new blood into the herd.
     Old John backed his truck up to the loading chute and prepared everything. He herded the bull into the pen, and everything was going as planned, until the bull caught sight of the ramp into the truck.
     Now, whether that bull had seen too many of his counterparts take a one-way trip in that truck, whether he caught wind of something he didn't like, or whether he had a major aversion to being in a small metal cage on wheels, no one will ever know. But once the bull saw the truck, the whole process ground to a halt.
     Old John tried everything. He put grain in the truck to coax the bull in. He got a whip and tried to convince the bull that the truck was a preferred alternative. He tried everything he could think of, but the bull planted his feet and wouldn't budge.
     By this time, as often happens in our farming community, everyone driving by had to stop and offer some, not always appreciated, advice. Pretty soon a small crowd of farmers had gathered. Old John, a man of few words, never said anything, though everyone else had an opinion on how to get the job done.
     It was suggested that they put a board through both sides of the chute, behind the bull, and then everyone could push. They found the biggest board they could and stuck it behind the bull. Three men got on each side and commenced pushing. But a bull that weighs over a ton can out-push six men who, together, maybe weigh half that.
     "Perhaps," suggested James, who had just moved from a big city and bought a nearby hobby farm, "He is just scared. Maybe, if someone would pet him and calm him down, we could get him in the truck."
     Everyone stared at him like his rivets were coming loose. Rough and Ready Jackson, chewing on a twig of hay, said, "I'll tell you what, James. You go ahead and climb in there and pet him, and the rest of us will go order your coffin."
     Fred pulled up with his sheep dogs. Once he heard the problem he knew just what to do. He ordered his sheep dog, Butch, into the chute to chase that bull into the truck. Butch looked at Fred like he wondered if Fred had all of his spark plugs firing, but finally went in, barking and growling. Butch came out, flying off the hoof of the irate bull, and, when Fred ordered Butch to try again, Butch gave him a sideways look that said, "Why don't you do it yourself, if you think it's so fun."
     That was when Rastus showed up. He was a cattleman, if ever there was one. He wore cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, carried a lasso around in the cab of his truck and a saddle in the back, and his whole demeanor bespoke a man in the know, when it came to cattle. When he found out the problem, he drawled, "Why, shoot! You just ain't givin' that bull enough motivation ‘s all. I'll get my motivator out of my truck."
     He came walking back with a cattle prod, which most of us call a hot shot - basically a cattle taser. We all stepped aside as he gave that bull a few-hundred-volt shot of motivation. The bull let out a beller, but didn't move. A couple more tries without success, and Rastus was beginning to fear he'd lose face, when he hit on an idea. He reached that motivator in and zapped that bull where no male of any species likes to be zapped.
     That bull let out a beller, like a freight train at a busy intersection, and shot forward like a race car coming out of a pit stop, all four hooves squealing in the sand, all horns a-blaring. He pounded up that ramp at a run approaching the speed of sound and continued into the truck without slowing. He hit the truck's front cattle railing, snapping it like a Tinkertoy, and smashed down through the cab of the truck. He came out through the front window, made scrap metal of the hood, and kept going at a dead run through the men and dogs that were scattering for cover. He roared out the yard gate and down the road, heading for the border, bellering and snorting his rage at the injustice he'd received.
     As everyone stood around in shock, Old John finally spoke the first words he'd said all day. He turned to Rastus and shook his head. "I think you pushed him just a little too far!"