Daris Howard - Life's Outtakes - submission October 1, 2012

Life’s Outtakes                 

 

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

If you would like to use any of Daris’s columns, you may do so free for a period of time.  However, please inform him when you do.

 

Word Count 616

 

The Bad Hair Day

By

Daris Howard

 

            My little nine-year-old daughter, Elliana, came down the stairs to where I was making breakfast. “Dad, I need to dress up like in the olden days for school today.”

            “Okay,” I answered. “We have some pioneer costumes in the closet downstairs. You can look through them.”

            “No,” she replied. “Not the pioneer days. The 70's and 80's, when you were younger. What did you wear back then?”

            It took me a minute to recover from hearing the years I went to high school called the olden days. When I finally did, I told her she probably ought to ask her mother for something that girls wore.

            Elliana found her mother, and asked if we had something she could wear for 70's and 80's days at school.

            “The olden days,” I added.

            “But I don’t want to look stupid,” Elli complained.

            “We didn’t look stupid,” I told her.

            One of my older daughters chimed in. “Have you looked at your yearbook lately?”

            “Yes,” I answered, “ and we didn’t look stupid.” I paused for a moment, and then added, “Okay. Maybe bellbottoms were the exception.”

            My wife, Donna, found Elli a dress. It kind of just draped around her. I had forgotten that girls wore those unflattering dresses, but the dress didn’t seem to bother Elli.

            “Elli, you better come upstairs and let me do your hair,” Donna said.

            “How are you going to do it?” I asked. “The Farrah Fawcett feathered look?” That was the one thing I remembered about girls’ hair from that era.

            “What else was there back then?” she replied.

            “I thought that was a pretty nice hairstyle,” I said.

            “That’s because you didn’t have to spend an hour doing it, nor did you have to worry about a high forehead,” Donna answered back.

            The two of them went upstairs, and I finished making breakfast. It took them so long I was sure I would be late getting the kids to school and me to work. When I finally told them they had to hurry, Donna called down that they were almost done.

            She then hurried downstairs to help finish up the morning schedule. Meanwhile, Elli turned around and looked for the first time at herself in the mirror. Suddenly we heard a horrible scream. “Aww! I look horrible!”

            She came down the stairs, her eyes full of tears. “Mom, what did you do to me?”

            “Honey,” her mother answered, “that is the way we always used to do our hair.”

            “But I look so stupid,” she wailed.

            “But that is the way your mother always used to look,” I said.

            Suddenly, everyone turned to look at me, and everything went quiet in the house except for Elli’s sniffling. That was when I realized my choice of words and my timing left a lot to be desired. I decided it might be a good time to retreat out to the van.

            Donna helped Elli brush out a portion of the feathering from her hair, and we finally were on our way. When we pulled in to her school, Elli paused before she got out. She just watched the other kids briefly, then turned back to me. “I don’t feel so bad now. Everyone looks stupid. And the boys look even stupider than the girls.”

            With that, she skipped off to class, feeling better while I felt worse.

            Later that day, when I picked her up, she was wearing her normal clothes that she had stuffed into her pack before school. Her hair was also brushed straight. When I asked her why she had decided to change, she shrugged.

            “I couldn’t stand to look stupid like that one te longer than I had to,” she replied.

 

Article from 5 years back as a second choice.

 

Children and Water Bottles

By

Daris Howard

 

            As we traveled in Peru, I loved watching the children. We stayed in the city of Agua Calientes (which means “Hot Water”) during the two days we toured Machu Picchu (“Old Mountain”). Agua Calientes was built on the Andean hillside, rising steeply from the roaring Urumbamba River up the cone shaped mountain.

            From Aguas Calientes we would catch a small bus up the mountain to the famous ruins of Machu Picchu. Avenida Pachacutec, the street that our hotel was on, was paved with brick and cobblestone and slanted steeply downward for about 20 yards, leveled out for about five yards in front of a shop or hotel doorway, only to slant downward again. The street went this way from far up the mountainside where the hot pools were, all the way down to the Plaza De Armes at the City center.

            When the children got out of school they flew quickly up the street in their little blue uniforms, and without even going home to change, would search out the empty 2 and a half liter water bottles left in the trash by the tourists. They would haul them up to the top of Avenida Pachacutec, sit on them and tuck their feet up tight. Holding on to the neck of the bottle, they would go scooting down the hill. They didn’t need any expensive Game-Boys or X-Boxes to have fun, but did as children have done for centuries, using innovation and the simple things of the environment around them.

            They were very careful to make sure that no one was walking across their path before they started on their descent. Sometimes they would get up enough speed to make it past the level area and down the next incline. But often they would station a child on each of the plateaus to give an extra shove, helping them on their way. This the children did, sharing water bottles and trading positions, so each child had an equal opportunity for adventure. In this way they entertained themselves for hours.

            It looked like so much fun I wanted to give it a try myself, but knew I could never tuck my legs up tight enough to fit on anything smaller than a lazy-boy recliner, so I just watched from a distance. In addition, I was deterred from any such activity when I realized it must be illegal. Every time one of the policemen turned onto the street during their walk about the city, the children would grab their bottles and dart into our hotel to hide. I know the policemen saw them at this activity more than once, because a person can’t stop themselves in mid-slide. But the policemen would just smile as they passed and continue on their way along their designated beats. I’m sure they probably did such things when they were young and might still wish they could give it a try if they could tuck their legs up tight too.

            During the time that we stayed there we did a lot of walking around Machu Picchu. Some of us climbed to the Sun Gate and a very few of us made the trek up Machu Picchu Peak. The sun burned down hot on us, especially in that high altitude, leaving my throat dry and parched. I drank a river of water, and yet it never seemed to be enough.

            And perhaps I am contributing to juvenile delinquency in the world, but as I lifted my pack to my shoulder to head to the train station for our journey to Ollantaytambo, I carefully set my empty 2 and a half liter water bottles by the hotel door - a gift to the children.

                                                                                                                                                         

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

If you ever missed receiving a column and would like it sent, please feel free to contact us.

 

If you no longer want our submissions, please simply reply with the word “unsubscribe” in the subject line.

 

Daris Howard - Life's Outtakes - submission September 17, 2012

Life’s Outtakes                 

 

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

If you would like to use any of Daris’s columns, you may do so free for a period of time.  However, please inform him when you do.

 

Word Count 691

 

Student Communications (#3)

By

Daris Howard

 

            Most of my college students are bright, fun to teach, and work hard. But each semester I get interesting letters, emails, and phone calls from a few students. I save these, and occasionally I compile them into a column. The last couple of years I have shared some of these, and, with school just starting, I thought I’d share a few more. I don’t think any of these comments need any explanation, other than to say that I changed or removed any names for anonymity. Also, I pared down a few of them a bit.

 

            Dear Professor Howard, This is Aaron from your 10:15 class. I guess you know from my grade that I have done worse and worse on each test until I am now failing your class. It just seems that the farther along we go, the more boring your class is, and the harder it is to concentrate. So, I was wondering what time you teach next semester so I can sign up for your class again.

 

            Hello Professor Howard, I was just checking my grade online and it says I have an F. I’m not quite sure why that is. Could it be because I haven’t turned in any of my projects and I bombed the test? Just checking.

 

            Professor Howard, I’m sure you want to know why I am so far behind on my work in your class, so I thought I should tell you. I have been sick, and I can’t do homework because reading your math stuff just makes me sicker.

 

            Dear Professor Howard, I want you to know that I just checked my grades. I found out that I have missed a whole bunch of assignments that I forgot to turn in, and my grade is suffering. I want you to know that I am concerned about this because it doesn’t reflect what I have been doing in the class. I just didn’t realize a person had to turn in stuff to get credit for it.

 

            Professor Howard, I want you to know that I took your multiple choice placement test. I feel like I almost knew every answer but I still got 0 on each of them. Somehow I feel I can do better than that.

 

            Dear Professor Howard, I called and left a message about getting into your class and you never answered back. I was very upset, but then I realized that I never told you who I was or how to get hold of me, and my phone blocks showing its caller id. So I am including my information in this email this time, and hoping there is still room to add.

 

            Dear Professor Howard, I am a student in your class and my name is Danyell. I just thought I should explain about the strange spelling of my name. It is actually pronounced just like Daniel, and, yes, I am a guy not a girl. The reason it is spelled strange is that when I was born, my mother wasn’t feeling too well, so she passed the paperwork to my father to fill out, and he is a terrible speller.

 

            Dear Professor Howard, I just wanted to write a thank you note. I want you to know that I really enjoyed your class this semester and I’m glad I took it. I didn’t plan to because I saw that you are a writer, and I didn’t think someone that is a writer could ever be a very good math teacher.

           

            Professor Howard, I need to apologize. I wrote you an email telling you that I would miss class. I then realized that your class was Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, not Tuesday like I was thinking. So I actually made it to class. I’m sorry about making it to class when I told you I wouldn’t.

           

            Professor Howard, I am sorry I am going to miss class today. I came down with something dreadful and I have already spread it to my roommates and those who live close to me. They already hate me for it, so I thought it would be best to not spread it any further.

 

Article from 5 years back as a second choice.

 

Trains, Schedules, and Luggage

By

Daris Howard

 

            We decided to take our family to Chicago on a train. If you have never experienced the train, I would suggest it; it beats driving and with the price of gas is just as cheap if not cheaper. But there are things you’ll want to be aware of. First, don’t trust the Internet time schedule. We drove to Salt Lake City and my brother checked the schedule and it said the train was running 2 hours and 45 minutes late. Not relishing the thought of trying to keep seven children happy in a train station at 4:00 in the morning, especially when one is four and one is six, we decided to delay our departure.

            When my wife, Donna, suggested that trains can make up time without out notice, we decided to take off. My brother, who was going to take care of the cars for us, decided to call to find out where the train was, and found out it had arrived early, not late, and had been there for a half hour. I asked him to call Donna in the other car and tell her to stick with me. I then sped up to about 85, the normal flow of the slowest traffic in Salt Lake City.

            We skidded into the station and Donna ran for tickets while I, the children, my brother, and patient train employees helped throw our baggage on. We were loaded in a record three to four minutes. Throwing my brother the keys to the cars, we were finally on our way. Some other passengers came by and laughingly said that was the biggest scramble they had ever seen for a train, or anything, for that matter. However, most of the sleepy passengers just rolled over and went back to sleep in their lounge chairs.

            It was a blessing for us that the train had been delayed because of a derailment, and the track that would take us around it had been too busy for the passenger train to move onto. We had arrived an hour late, just as the track was clearing, but the conductor was kind and said, “We’re already late, so what’s a few more minutes?”

            As we started to pull out, we finally could sit back and try to catch our breath. It was then that the man in charge of tickets came by and we couldn’t find ours. As we started a major search, the tired passengers just covered their heads with their pillows. Finally, we found them rolled up in a blanket my wife was carrying. (The tickets, not the passengers.)

            When morning finally started arriving we had many passengers stop by and ask if we were the family that had made the “mad dash for the train” in the early hours of the morning. We sheepishly had to admit that it was us.

            My shirt was stained from dinner the night before and Donna suggested I change it, especially since we were attracting so much attention. I thought that was fine, partially because I was kind of tired of carrying my six-year-old’s Teddy Bear and I thought I would just stuff it into the suitcase.

            I went to where our suitcases were stored. Not wanting to drag ours into the aisle, and unstack everything, I only unzipped it a little. I stuffed the bear in and then proceeded to feel around for a shirt. I got hold of one and pulled it out. I shared the suitcase with Donna and didn’t recognize the shirt as mine or hers - not that that is so unusual. I am not a clothes person and I don’t even recognize a shirt after I have worn it a thousand times. But I was pretty sure it wasn’t mine, so I stuffed it back in, hoping Donna wouldn’t mind it being wrinkled into a ball. I reached in and grabbed another. It, too, was one I didn’t recognize. I went through about a dozen shirts, stuffing each back in, when a thought suddenly crossed my mind.

            I looked up one shelf and, sure enough, there was our suitcase. I put back the last shirt and carefully zipped the zipper when I suddenly remembered, I was short one Teddy Bear. I wondered if, perhaps, if I left it there, it might be pay for the ironing job the suitcase owner was going to have to do.

            And that brings me to the second point. Make sure you remember where you put your suitcase.

                                                                                                                                                         

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

If you ever missed receiving a column and would like it sent, please feel free to contact us.

 

If you no longer want our submissions, please simply reply with the word “unsubscribe” in the subject line.

 

Daris Howard - Life's Outtakes - submission September 10, 2012

Life’s Outtakes                 

 

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

If you would like to use any of Daris’s columns, you may do so free for a period of time.  However, please inform him when you do.

 

Word Count 682

 

A Super Ugly Bike

By

Daris Howard

 

            Since I had had my bike stolen, and didn’t have a lot of money to buy another one, I was reduced to hunting for a used one. People I knew tried to help scare one up, talking to everyone they knew. Finally, one day, a lady called me.

            “I understand you are looking for a cheap bike.” When I told her I was, she continued. “I do believe I have an old one out in my shed. I would give you a really good deal on it.”

            The young man I worked with, Martin, made the nearly two mile trek over to her house with me. When we arrived, the lady led us out to her old shed. We helped her move piles of mostly useless junk that were stacked to the ceiling. We finally found the bike deep in the farthest corner.

            Dragging it out into the light, I was stunned. It was probably the ugliest thing I had ever seen in my life. It was a girl’s three speed, and was a remnant from the 60's. It looked like it had been painted by someone who was high on something. Add to that the grime that embellished it, and it was absolutely ghastly.

            “How much do you want for it?” I asked.

            The lady looked at me, as if sizing up how much of a sucker I was. “Six bucks,” she replied.

            “Let me see how it runs,” I said.

            I turned it over and turned the crank. The wheel started to roll faster and faster. I tried to switch gears, but the cable was stuck, frozen solid with rust. It was locked in third gear, but it worked, and it worked well.

            “I’ll take it,” I said.

            Martin looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I dug into my pocket and pulled out what dollar bills I had, and then I counted change in dimes and quarters until I had enough.

            As we walked away, with me dragging the bike, Martin rolled his eyes. “I have only one request.”

            “What’s that?” I asked.

            “That bike is so ugly I want you to always ride a hundred yards apart from me so no one knows I know you.”

            “It’s not that bad,” I said.

            “It is that bad,” Martin retorted.

            He suggested we stop by the store and get me a bike lock. “A bike lock?” I scoffed. “Are you crazy? A lock costs $10, and the bike only cost $6.”

            “Well, when you get your bike stolen, you can only blame yourself,” he said.

            Once I got my bike home, I took some WD40 and sprayed it on all of the moving parts. I tested the bike and it rolled smoothly, though it was hard to start out in third gear. I took a rag and cleaned off the old dust and grime it had picked up from the shed, and the 60's paint job showed even more.

            “You should have left the grime on it,” Martin commented. “It actually looked better that way.”

            That evening we went to the hospital to visit a friend. I just flopped my bike against the fence, and then I waited for Martin, who spent 15 minutes locking his to a solid post. Martin grinned smugly at me when he finished. “At least one of us will still have a bike when we come out.”

            We went in, had our visit, and when we came out, we had a surprise. Martin’s bike was stripped to the frame. The pedals, the racks, the handle bars, and everything that wasn’t secured by the bike lock was gone.

            Next to Martin’s bike skeleton sat my bike, still against the fence, still where I left it, still totally untouched. Martin stood there in shock.

            “You were right,” I teased. “One bike is still here.”

            Martin nearly choked. “I can’t believe it. I never thought there could be a bike that was so ugly that the thieves wouldn’t even want it, but I guess there finally is.”

            And thus I had solved my bike theft problem.

 

Article from 5 years back as a second choice.

 

The New Football Coach

By

Daris Howard

 

            Our football team was quite subdued that fall, for two of our teammates had drowned the preceding summer. That is why what we did, we did with our hearts, without thought of consequences.

            Lloyd was long past high school age, but he loved football. He had always wanted to play, but he was mentally challenged and only about five feet tall. If he tipped the scale at a hundred pounds it was because someone else stepped on it behind him.

            Lloyd was our greatest fan. He not only came an hour early to every game but he showed up for every practice. Some football players couldn’t even claim that.

            That year, as he hung around the practices, we hit on an idea. With the permission of the coaches, we all pooled our money and ordered Lloyd a football jersey and a silver whistle. I have never seen anyone as happy with some presents.

            But that was where our tale began its strange twist, for unknown to us, our coaches had ulterior motives in allowing us to move ahead with our philanthropic endeavors. No sooner had we pulled the new jersey over Lloyd’s head and hung the whistle around his neck then the head coach stepped forward to address us.

            “Gentlemen,” he said, grinning, “we are placing Lloyd in charge of conditioning.” Then, turning to Lloyd, he continued. “Lloyd, run them through up-downs.”

            I don’t know anyone but a masochist that enjoys conditioning, but up-downs is the worst drill of all. The coach blows two blasts on his whistle and we start running in place. With each subsequent whistle we have to hit the ground with our chest and pop right back up running, continuing on until two quick signals are sounded.

            Running in place was tiring, but hitting the ground and coming back up was absolutely grueling. A dozen times in any session was more than enough, but Lloyd loved his whistle and he especially loved to blow it. He ran us equivalent to the distance from New York to Los Angeles, making us hit the ground at every whistle stop in between. He kept it up until most of the team was imbedded too far into the grass to rise again.

            He enjoyed his position of authority and would yell what he had heard from the coaches. “You bunch of wimps. My grandmother could do better and she’s dead!”

            We didn’t hate Lloyd, for it was impossible not to love his gentle nature, but we began to loathe the whistle. Lenny stated our feelings most succinctly. “If I ever get hold of that whistle, I will squash it like a fly.”

            We laid out plans for the demise of the offending instrument. We couldn’t destroy it; Lloyd loved it too much. We, therefore, bought an identical whistle and demobilized its sound. The next problem was getting Lloyd’s. He probably slept with it. But Lenny, who had spent his early years in a big city of 50,000 or so, had become adept as a pick pocket. While we distracted Lloyd, Lenny slipped the whistle from around Lloyd’s neck. Lenny quickly stuffed it in his pocket and held up the other one. “Lloyd, did you drop this?” Lloyd looked to see his whistle missing and thanked Lenny profusely as he held the replacement whistle lovingly.

            Long before we reached conditioning time, our coaches sensed something was up. But when Lloyd blew hard into the whistle only to emit wonderful silence, the smirking of many on the team told the coaches what we had done. Our head coach handed Lloyd his own whistle and the next day the coaches ceremoniously, with smirks of their own, presented Lloyd with a whole box of whistles “in case he wore out another one”.

            Now, with homecoming approaching, I looked back at my yearbook and saw our football team with state playoff medals hanging around our necks. We went further than any team from our school had in years. I realized a large part was due to the fact that no team could outlast us. I knew much of that was thanks to a little man with a big whistle and a bigger heart.

            Thanks, Lloyd.

                                                                                                                                                         

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

If you ever missed receiving a column and would like it sent, please feel free to contact us.

 

If you no longer want our submissions, please simply reply with the word “unsubscribe” in the subject line.

 

Daris Howard - Life's Outtakes - submission September 3, 2012

Life’s Outtakes                 

 

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

If you would like to use any of Daris’s columns, you may do so free for a period of time.  However, please inform him when you do.

 

Word Count 681

 

How Much Is A Bike Worth

By

Daris Howard

 

            I threw down my wrench in frustration, and went to find a better one. I was living in New York, working with a young man named Martin, and our only means of transportation was bicycles. The problem was that I spent all of my free time fixing mine. I was only gone for about 15 minutes, but when I came back, my bike had been stolen. I couldn’t believe it had disappeared so quickly.

            I filed a police report, and did everything I could, but I knew the chance of recovering my bike was very small. I was disheartened about losing it. The money to buy it had been a gift from my grandfather. He had sent it after I wrecked my previous bike when I crashed through a barbed wire fence.

            This time I had no gift money, and I didn’t want to ask for any. So, while I searched for a cheap, used bike, Martin and I were reduced to walking. One day, while we were out working, we saw a man go by with three bikes. He was riding one, pulling one, and he had another one draped around his shoulders.

            Martin nudged me. “Maybe we ought to follow him and see if he has seen yours.”

            An hour or so later a young boy approached us, glancing nervously around as he spoke.

            “Hey, Mistas. I sees yous twos a walkin’. I’se a thinkin’ dat maybe you could use a baawk. Well, my brudder needs some monay real bad. ‘Ees got a baawk dat is good as new dat he’d sell real cheap. I’se a wonderin’ if you’s mawt be intrested.”

            Martin smiled. “Yeah, we are kind of sick of walking.”

            “What kind of bike is it?” I asked.

            The little boy glanced around more nervously. “What kin’a baawk you want?”

            Martin’s smile turned to a grin. We, of course, knew why those bikes were so cheap. I patted the boy on the head. “I’m afraid we probably wouldn’t be interested.”

            As the boy went away, Martin turned to me. “You know, you should have taken him up on it. Maybe we would have ended up finding your bike.”

            “Or, more likely,” I answered, “I would have end up with somebody else’s stolen bike.”

            A few days later we were visiting with some of the other young men we worked with, and Martin told of our experience.

            “You really should have gone with the boy,” Taylor said.

            “Nah,” I answered. “I’m afraid there’s a chance I could have seen my own bike, and I might have gotten angry. That wouldn’t have been a good situation. It would be better for me to just find another cheap, legitimate bike somewhere.”

            “I had my bike stolen not too long ago, too,” Taylor said, “and I think if you get a chance to buy your own bike back, you should. And you shouldn’t feel bad about paying for it as long as you can dicker them down to a decent price.’

            I was shocked. “Are you kidding? Buy my own bike back? That just senseless.”

            “I had thought so, too,” Taylor replied. “But I originally bought my bike for over $200, and I swear it was always breaking down. I wasted almost all of my free time trying to keep it running, when I would have rather spent that time writing letters home.”

            “What has that got to do with buying it back?” I asked.

            “Well, after it got stolen, I found it at this place that was selling bikes. They had oiled it up, and totally repaired it. I ended up buying it back for only $10, and it has worked great ever since.”

            His grin widened as he continued. “I couldn’t have gotten it fixed that well at a repair shop for ten times that amount. If they were smart they would realized they could make more money as a bike repair shop than they do selling stolen bikes.”

            I smiled at that, and decided that if I ever did find my bike again, I might just pay the repair bill and buy it back.

 

Article from 5 years back as a second choice.

 

Teaching Children How To Work and The Value Of Money

By

Daris Howard

           

            “Dad, I would really like to go on the band trip to the amusement park this year,” my daughter informed me. I looked at our budget and it was squeezed so tight that I didn’t think we could get one more cent out of it. With the number of children we have, myself on a teaching salary, the concept of free education is a misnomer. If my daughter signed up for band it was only free if she didn’t play an instrument or go on any of the band trips. If my son played football it was only free as long as he didn’t need any pads or gear. If my daughter signed up for track it was only free if she wore her own shoes while everyone else wore cleats. And thus the list went on and on.

            Every fall we would start out with hundreds of dollars in fees and expenses for the events my children desired to do. We hated to curtail their enthusiasm, but it seemed like they wanted to do everything that came along. It was then, as more and more of my children were getting into school, that I hit on the perfect plan. I tilled up nearly an acre of our horse pasture and planted raspberries. “What are we planting these sticks for?” my son asked.

            “These sticks,” I replied, “are going to make it so you kids can earn money for the extra things you want in school.”

            My son looked at me dubiously, as though he thought I was quite a few plants short of a full row. I realized it would take at least two years before my investment would start to pay off, and indeed it was hard to weed and take care of them the first two years for very little return. But in the third year the berries came on with great strength. I was out picking berries with my children before 6:00 every morning, picking well into the heat of the day.

            What I picked we canned; what they picked we sold. They got to keep half of the money, the other half going to pay the expenses. They could easily make $8 per hour if they worked hard. My one daughter could make almost double that. From my picking, we canned about 200 quarts of raspberries and finally started selling some of them.

            I love raspberries, especially as jam on hot bread, or just in a bowl with milk and sugar. I would eat enough raspberries while picking that I wouldn’t even want any lunch. As we were getting toward the end of summer the children could hardly wait to go back to school, especially when I reminded them that I had planted nine different varieties to help extend the season well into fall. When school started, I found myself alone, picking berries each evening after work. No matter how I coaxed I couldn’t get any help.

            When it came time for the fees and extras at school that fall, we set up the rules for the use of the money on what we now called the “earn it if you want it” program. If it was required for the class we paid it. If it was extra we paid half and they used their money to pay half.

            It was then that we found even more important aspects of this “earn it” program - our children learned the value of money. When the time for the band trip approached, and my daughter had not yet requested we pay our half, I questioned her about it.

            “I’m not going,” she replied.

            I was shocked. “Why not?”

            “Do you know how many berries I had to pick to earn the money that it would take to pay my half? You’re crazy if you think I’m going to pick that much just to go to an amusement park.”

            And one last benefit occurred that I hadn’t considered. With the family gathered around one night, one son told me he planned to get an advanced degree in college so he could earn lots of money without having to pick berries all of his life. “College is expensive,” I told him, “If I were you I would get busy picking berries to earn the money in case you don’t get a scholarship.”            

It really amazes me how many of my children now get straight A’s in school - working hard for scholarships. I guess I might be picking berries alone pretty soon.

 

                                                                                                                                                         

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

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Daris Howard - Life's Outtakes - submission August 27, 2012

Life’s Outtakes                 

 

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

If you would like to use any of Daris’s columns, you may do so free for a period of time.  However, please inform him when you do.

 

Word Count 690

 

Off Road Bicycling

By

Daris Howard

 

            We brought our bikes to a stop at the top of the steepest hill in Binghamton, New York. I was breathing hard, but, Evans, the young man whom I worked with, was barely panting.

            “You need to get in better shape,” he commented.

            I wanted to remind him of the reason I was more tired than he was. My bike weighed about as much as a small car, while his was light, sleek, and weighed about as much as a postage stamp.

            In addition, I had about 70 pounds of books and other presentation material strapped to mine. Evans, afraid of scratching his new bike, refused to take anything on it besides himself.

            But, before I could remind him how uneven things were, he headed down the hill.

            The road down the hill was about two miles long. At the bottom it made a T. On the right was a huge mall, on the left were houses, and straight ahead was a large open pasture with a barbed wire fence.

            I paused for a few more breaths after Evans left, and then I started on my way, too. He was about a quarter of a mile ahead of me, but with all the added weight on my bike, and the steep downhill slope, my bike quickly picked up speed.

            I knew the speed limit on this road was 45 miles per hour, and as I sped past a car traveling the same direction, I grew concerned. I decided that it was more important for me to slow down than to catch up to Evans.

            I applied the brakes carefully, and a smell of burning rubber filled the air. The steepness of the incline and the extra weight continued to propel me forward with an inertia the brakes couldn’t slow. I applied more and more pressure, but my speed increased even as my bike began to vibrate violently, threatening to throw me into the path of the cars.

            But I had an even bigger problem. I was rapidly approaching the intersection. If the light changed and I slid into oncoming traffic, my chance of survival would be in the single digits. I knew I had to make it through the light.

            Evans, now less than 25 yards ahead of me, entered the intersection just as the light turned yellow. I released my brakes slightly, and I reached the intersection just as the light turned red.

            At the speed I was going I had to lean almost parallel with the pavement as I turned. But the amount of weight on my bike caused both tires to start sliding perpendicular to the direction my bike was aimed. When they hit the gravel on the side of the road, I could no longer hold it. I flipped, slamming into the gravel as my bike tumbled away. It hit the four strands of barb wire, snapping them.

            I, too, tumbled through the new hole in the fence, grateful the bike had split the wires so I wouldn’t be cut to ribbons. I bounced over and over, finally coming to rest in the pasture. People and cows came running from all directions.

            A man knelt by me. “Are you all right?”

            My pants were ripped off nearly to my waist, and patches of skin were torn off of my legs and my arms. The wounds were full of dirt and gravel, stopping the bleeding. I stood and nodded.

            Everyone helped me gather my books and presentation materials. The last man to leave said, “That has got to be the worst bike crash I have ever seen. You shouldn’t carry so much. It’s a miracle you aren’t dead.”

            My tank of a bike survived with only slightly bent tires, and after closing the fence the best I could, I climbed on my bike and wobbled away. I met Evans about a quarter of a mile down the road.

            “Thanks for the help,” I said sarcastically.

            “Hey,” he replied. “I was embarrassed to have anyone know I knew you.”

            Then, after a short pause, he added, “Man, you really need to learn how to ride a bike better.”

 

Article from 5 years back as a second choice.

 

The Ten Speed Bike

By

Daris Howard

 

            I had never seen anything like it. It was shiny, red, and it had ten speeds. I was sure it was the most beautiful bike in the world. I looked at my ugly orange, girl’s, one-speed bike, a hand-me-down from the stone age, and suddenly I felt very envious. It wasn’t that my bike didn’t work well; it did. In fact, it was so sturdy it wouldn’t break down in a head-on collision with a train, because it was built like a Humvee and weighed twice as much. But this new bike was light and fast.

            We boys all gathered around to stare at it. It belonged to our new neighbor, “Rod”, who had just moved into the area. “Wow! That’s a beauty!” Lenny said, running his hand along the sleek steel.

            “Where did you get it?” Butch asked.

            “A K-Mart in Salt Lake City,” Rod answered.

            “What’s a K-Mart?” Buster queried.

            “It’s bigger than any store you have around here,” Rod replied. “In fact you could probably fit ten stores the size of the grocery store inside of it.”

            The grocery store was the biggest store in the area and by the look on some of the other boys’ faces, I could tell they didn’t believe Rod any more than I did. Surely no store could be that big. We hadn’t known Rod long, but we had already become suspicious that he exaggerated, especially when it came to stories about his life in the big city.

            We all wanted to ask the big question, but no one dared. We all wanted to ride it, but we felt lucky just to be able to touch it and get close to it.

            Rod showed us how it changed gears. He even turned it upside down and we watched as the gears slid onto smaller and smaller sprockets and the wheel turned faster and faster. We shook our heads in disbelief. None of us had ever seen a bike with more than one gear. Heck, none of us had ever seen a bike that wasn’t held together with baling twine, wire, and duct tape. This was truly a marvel of engineering.

            Next, Rod had to show us how it worked. He rode it up the road a short distance and then came whizzing by.

            “Wow!” Buster said. “It can really fly.”

            Flying made us consider one other thing. We had developed a dirt ramp in Lenny’s barnyard that we liked to ride our bikes up and jump, coming down hard on the other side, and immediately sliding to a stop a safe distance from the barn. We rode to Lenny’s house and each of us took our bikes and made the jump. We all watched Rod to see what he would do. He rode away about 50 yards, turned, and flew down the road toward us. He sailed off of the jump, air born for much longer than any of us, and then slid to a stop in a shorter distance. We all whistled our admiration.

            The other boys kept nudging me, so finally I asked. “Can I give it a try?”

            Rod was new there and he paused, his reluctance apparent, but he didn’t want to give up the chance to make new friends. He hesitantly handed it over. To the other boys’ cheering I went down the road about a hundred yards, turned, and headed at full speed toward the ramp. I had never felt such speed and power. As I launched into the air, I felt as if I truly was flying, and I sailed farther even then Rod had. When I landed, I started pedaling backward to bring myself to a stop, but nothing happened.

            The barn was approaching fast and fear choked the scream in my throat. I heard Rod yell “Squeeze the handbrake! Squeeze the handbrake!” just seconds before impact.

            Rod came over and grabbed his bike, which was snapped in the middle, and yelled at me. “Haven’t you ever heard of handbrakes before, you Moron! You ruined my bike!”

            I thought, “Who cares about your stupid bike. What about my head?”

            And that’s the story of how Rod ended up with a bike that looked like the bikes the rest of us had - held together with bailing twine, wire, and duct tape.

 

                                                                                                                                                         

 (Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist, playwright, and author, can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com)

 

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