I’m fascinated by a concept called, “the suspension of disbelief.” I don’t claim to be an expert, but here’s how I view it.
The concept applies to novels or films or plays that deal with things that are thought to be impossible. One movie, “Tootsie,” comes to mind as an excellent example.
When we walk into the movie theater (or sit down to watch TV) we expect to find what I’ll call “real life,” or, “pretty much real life,” anyway. UNLESS, of course, we know that we are going to see something else, such as fantasy or cartoon or satire, for instance. Normally, we find it hard to believe that a man can pass for a woman…at least not for very long.
Think about such things as height, bulk, muscle, facial hair and voice. We all, I think, are confident we could tell, eventually, that something “is wrong” with this person …who is just “not right,” somehow.
“Tootsie” is just such a challenge. The role is played by Dustin Hoffman, for one thing. Now, he’s not a bad-looking MAN, but he’s ugly for a woman, to be frank. THE STORY ASKS A LOT if we are to believe that the others in the story could ever be fooled by him! But we must believe it if we are to enjoy the film!
Thus, we must SUSPEND what we normally believe to be true, and “go along” with the other actors and BELIEVE THAT THEY ARE ACTUALLY fooled by him----er, her. It isn’t what we believe about HIM, it’s what we believe about THEM that draws us in. We have to accept that they are “taken in” by someone WE’D NEVER BE FOOLED BY, ORDINARILY.
To put it in other words, we sit down to watch this story, CONFIDENT that we can almost always tell the difference between men and women. But NOW we either must accept this IMPOSTER, or get up and leave. We suspend, or “put on hold,” what we accept 24/7, for two hours in order to be entertained.
I submit that we have become so adept at this suspension, that we can enjoy book after book, film after film, play after play just because we have learned it so well. (And it doesn’t diminish our common sense, either!)
In a recent post, I referred to the film “Groundhog Day.” This is another and an excellent example of the suspension concept. If someone tells us that this is the story of a guy who relives a day over and over again, we’d probably avoid seeing it. “That can’t happen,” we’d say.
The secret lies in the question, “What causes us to want to see the NEXT DAY?” On the surface, the answer is, “To see if that next day EVER COMES!”
Now keep in mind that this isn’t a “perfect” scenario. We could probably take a position that there are some small questions aroused by the plot as it unfolds before us. But in the main (where did that old expression come from?) we are already “hooked,” and must see it through.
I find myself quite impressed by those who can “pull off” films like these. They MUST be written well, acted well, cast well, and photographed well in order to succeed. I’d like to see another Oscar category…best S.O.D. picture, actor, etc. (Suspension of Disbelief.)
If any of you are also film buffs, I’d like to hear from you about this question; in “Places in the Heart,” the final scene has been somewhat of a controversy. In light of my S.O.D. concept, what is your “take” on that matter? The best answer, not necessarily the first, will earn a prize.
Next Thursday, I’ll post my thoughts on it.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thursday is early this year...by GJ
I MUST, after all, take tomorrow off from posting! I sincerely wish everybody a very happy Thanksgiving. I do believe it's my favorite holiday, but that belief is rooted deeply in the past. Too many people who used to make it great are no longer with us. What it means is, that our lives do move ahead by "eras," don't they? That era when we were young, when the young were young and when the young are old. My family has MUCH to be grateful for. We pray that yours does, too. It will be a struggle, but I'll try to make the most of a full tummy, maybe part of a football game, and maybe even a NAP! (I've never met a TV sporting event I couldn't nap through.)
Wanderers, Chapter Two by GJ
The peak of our wandering was probably 1949 (when I entered U of I) to 1961, when we moved to the Chicago suburb of Deerfield. We moved 15 times in those 12 years, or an average of every 9.6 months!
The first of four was from Elgin to Philo, a tiny burg just outside of Urbana, while attending the university. (Three years.) Each was because of a rarity in U. S. housing history. Returning GI’s were buying homes for the first time and builders were jumping on bandwagon. Places were vacant, but rented quickly. Thus, one often had to settle for extremely temporary quarters.
Moving to Champaign-Urbana meant taking something just until regular veteran’s housing opened up. With Jean and nine-month-old Donna, we were eligible for a two-bedroom apartment in an 8-unit “barracks-like” building. (Two-floors, four per floor.) BUT…there were no vacancies before registration, so we had to take a room (with bath and kitchen “privileges”) in Philo. We stayed upstairs in a farmhouse for about one month.
Next, we were notified that there was a vacancy in vet’s housing, so we moved into a very small, one-bedroom prefab unit with a coal stove. We lived there for about four months when a two-bedroom unit opened in the 8-unit building described above. It was now spring, and a lot of veterans had graduated (1950) and Nancy was on the way.
Finally, in 1951 a three-bedroom duplex became vacant, and we couldn’t believe how spacious it seemed. It was located right across the street from Memorial Stadium, the U. of I. football field. The huge grounds encircling the stadium gave us a view of manicured lawn, a wide boulevard, and space all around. We were to enjoy this luxury for almost two years.
We would then move to Clinton and Maroa, Illinois, about 30 miles west of Champaign, where I would enter my first year of teaching. In those next 11 or 12 months, we would move (1) to Clinton, (2) to a house in the country, (3) to a funny little prefab in Maroa, and (4) from there to an apartment in Rock Island, about 125 miles away.
These months were stressful for a number of reasons which I won’t go into. We were “talked into” the first move (from Clinton,) we couldn’t afford the heating bill in the second (because the registers were in the cement floor,) and I resigned from Maroa High School in June. Thus, we had to move north and for our fourth time. Starting from scratch in early 1948, we had now moved eleven times in five years!
Some of these moves were due to the times and beyond our control. Some were due to our limited finances, and some to our naivety. Looking back, we sure learned (1) to pack, (2) to unpack swiftly, (3) to take down and put up curtains, and (4) to store stuff in new, unfamiliar places.
PART II....................
That first move (to Clinton) took us to a large house that was, at one time, a funeral home! We didn’t know this until we had been there a while. Before that, it had been a small mansion! There were huge ceiling-beams in what had been the dining room, there was a study with wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, glass-door bookshelves, and the pantry was big enough for our daughters’ bedroom! (They were only four and two, and all their belongings fit in the built-in drawers, leaving room for one small bed and a crib.)
After three or four months, somebody at church persuaded us to move into their empty farmhouse. We didn’t know how to say no, but the rent was somewhat less. It wasn’t long before we got our first heating bill (electric) and discovered that it was prohibitive! The heating coils were buried in the cement floors and caused almost 24-hour heating to do any good. (We were still chilly!)
We were on month-by-month basis, so we gave notice and moved to a funny, octagonal pre-fab quite near the high school. It was very reasonable, and required no travel to work. By this time, I was also driving a school bus for almost the same salary as teaching!
You would not believe the reason why I resigned that summer, and I may or may not find the right words to explain it. Suffice it to say that I worked briefly as a radio station announcer that summer and got fired! A junior high school principal drove down (about 125 miles) to interview me and gave me a contract on the spot to move up to Moline, Illinois for the up-coming school year. I would be teaching 7th grade creative dramatics (elective) eighth grade public speaking (required) and 9th grade drama (elective.) Plus, I was to direct a play.
The only thing the principal neglected to tell me was the class schedule. I was to teach five classes of 7th that met twice a week, five classes of 8th that met five times a week, and five classes of 9th that met three times a week! Yes, that’s 15 classes of almost 30 per class which means almost 450 different students! I used to have to open my drawer and look at the schedule after every class in order to determine which class came next! The only students I ever got to know were those who rehearsed the play after school!
We started the year in a dingy apartment after a serious search and quickly moved into the upstairs of a private home in Moline. After a year there (and resigning from the junior high school) we moved across the Mississippi to Bettendorf, Iowa where I would teach for three years, 1954 to 1957. We rented a neat little cottage for two years and then bought the house across the street for about $9,000 as I recall.
From the beginning in 1948, it is now summer of 1958 and we have moved
15 times in 10 years. (Statistically, it is getting close to every six months!)
Wanderers, chapter three yet to come.
The first of four was from Elgin to Philo, a tiny burg just outside of Urbana, while attending the university. (Three years.) Each was because of a rarity in U. S. housing history. Returning GI’s were buying homes for the first time and builders were jumping on bandwagon. Places were vacant, but rented quickly. Thus, one often had to settle for extremely temporary quarters.
Moving to Champaign-Urbana meant taking something just until regular veteran’s housing opened up. With Jean and nine-month-old Donna, we were eligible for a two-bedroom apartment in an 8-unit “barracks-like” building. (Two-floors, four per floor.) BUT…there were no vacancies before registration, so we had to take a room (with bath and kitchen “privileges”) in Philo. We stayed upstairs in a farmhouse for about one month.
Next, we were notified that there was a vacancy in vet’s housing, so we moved into a very small, one-bedroom prefab unit with a coal stove. We lived there for about four months when a two-bedroom unit opened in the 8-unit building described above. It was now spring, and a lot of veterans had graduated (1950) and Nancy was on the way.
Finally, in 1951 a three-bedroom duplex became vacant, and we couldn’t believe how spacious it seemed. It was located right across the street from Memorial Stadium, the U. of I. football field. The huge grounds encircling the stadium gave us a view of manicured lawn, a wide boulevard, and space all around. We were to enjoy this luxury for almost two years.
We would then move to Clinton and Maroa, Illinois, about 30 miles west of Champaign, where I would enter my first year of teaching. In those next 11 or 12 months, we would move (1) to Clinton, (2) to a house in the country, (3) to a funny little prefab in Maroa, and (4) from there to an apartment in Rock Island, about 125 miles away.
These months were stressful for a number of reasons which I won’t go into. We were “talked into” the first move (from Clinton,) we couldn’t afford the heating bill in the second (because the registers were in the cement floor,) and I resigned from Maroa High School in June. Thus, we had to move north and for our fourth time. Starting from scratch in early 1948, we had now moved eleven times in five years!
Some of these moves were due to the times and beyond our control. Some were due to our limited finances, and some to our naivety. Looking back, we sure learned (1) to pack, (2) to unpack swiftly, (3) to take down and put up curtains, and (4) to store stuff in new, unfamiliar places.
PART II....................
That first move (to Clinton) took us to a large house that was, at one time, a funeral home! We didn’t know this until we had been there a while. Before that, it had been a small mansion! There were huge ceiling-beams in what had been the dining room, there was a study with wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, glass-door bookshelves, and the pantry was big enough for our daughters’ bedroom! (They were only four and two, and all their belongings fit in the built-in drawers, leaving room for one small bed and a crib.)
After three or four months, somebody at church persuaded us to move into their empty farmhouse. We didn’t know how to say no, but the rent was somewhat less. It wasn’t long before we got our first heating bill (electric) and discovered that it was prohibitive! The heating coils were buried in the cement floors and caused almost 24-hour heating to do any good. (We were still chilly!)
We were on month-by-month basis, so we gave notice and moved to a funny, octagonal pre-fab quite near the high school. It was very reasonable, and required no travel to work. By this time, I was also driving a school bus for almost the same salary as teaching!
You would not believe the reason why I resigned that summer, and I may or may not find the right words to explain it. Suffice it to say that I worked briefly as a radio station announcer that summer and got fired! A junior high school principal drove down (about 125 miles) to interview me and gave me a contract on the spot to move up to Moline, Illinois for the up-coming school year. I would be teaching 7th grade creative dramatics (elective) eighth grade public speaking (required) and 9th grade drama (elective.) Plus, I was to direct a play.
The only thing the principal neglected to tell me was the class schedule. I was to teach five classes of 7th that met twice a week, five classes of 8th that met five times a week, and five classes of 9th that met three times a week! Yes, that’s 15 classes of almost 30 per class which means almost 450 different students! I used to have to open my drawer and look at the schedule after every class in order to determine which class came next! The only students I ever got to know were those who rehearsed the play after school!
We started the year in a dingy apartment after a serious search and quickly moved into the upstairs of a private home in Moline. After a year there (and resigning from the junior high school) we moved across the Mississippi to Bettendorf, Iowa where I would teach for three years, 1954 to 1957. We rented a neat little cottage for two years and then bought the house across the street for about $9,000 as I recall.
From the beginning in 1948, it is now summer of 1958 and we have moved
15 times in 10 years. (Statistically, it is getting close to every six months!)
Wanderers, chapter three yet to come.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Reply to "Mrs."
Yes, it was THE Jimmy Stewart. When I was in high school ('41 to '44) the "big man on campus" was he who could boast at having the latest GM record. (78 RPM...breakable, of course.) It was the peak of the "big band" era, too. When we received word that he was "lost" on a flight to France (from England) to entertain the troops, we were in the Pacific and felt we had lost a member of the family.
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You Never Know by GJ
It was probably 1963, give or take. Student Mike Decker turned in a good essay on his dream to become a railroad (steam) engineer. It was probably his best work up to that time.
It wasn't long before Mike handed in a second paper on the same topic. It was as good or better than the first, and I went out of my way to compliment him. When he submitted a third paper, and graduation was near, I tried to counsel him.
"I sure don't want to discourage you, Mike, " I said, "but could you be in for some disappointment? I mean, do you know how long it takes to work your way up to engineer? You usually start much lower, and have to serve as fireman, first. There was a time when it took twenty years or more."
"Yes, I know," he replied, "but that's my goal."
All I could do was wish him luck in that era of rapid conversion to diesel engines.
About ten years later, I took the family to a place called "Wisconsin Dells," north of Madison. As we strolled around the various amusement offerings, I heard a train whistle and suggested that we look into it as a way to ride around the park. As we approached the miniature engine, who steps out but Mike Decker, complete with engineer's overalls and oil can!
I must admit that the engine was not at all as small as some, and it was putting out steam, all right. It was a genuine steam locomotive! I told him how pleased I was to see that he had "made it." He told me that it was kind of tough at first, because he had a lot to learn, but the worst part was that the train didn't operate in the winter, and winter jobs were hard to find.
However, he told me, he had recently been able to work there in Wisconsin year around because they were getting other engines sent in for repairs and so that part of the business was really picking up. Mike Decker, Niles West High School, thy name is perseverence!
It wasn't long before Mike handed in a second paper on the same topic. It was as good or better than the first, and I went out of my way to compliment him. When he submitted a third paper, and graduation was near, I tried to counsel him.
"I sure don't want to discourage you, Mike, " I said, "but could you be in for some disappointment? I mean, do you know how long it takes to work your way up to engineer? You usually start much lower, and have to serve as fireman, first. There was a time when it took twenty years or more."
"Yes, I know," he replied, "but that's my goal."
All I could do was wish him luck in that era of rapid conversion to diesel engines.
About ten years later, I took the family to a place called "Wisconsin Dells," north of Madison. As we strolled around the various amusement offerings, I heard a train whistle and suggested that we look into it as a way to ride around the park. As we approached the miniature engine, who steps out but Mike Decker, complete with engineer's overalls and oil can!
I must admit that the engine was not at all as small as some, and it was putting out steam, all right. It was a genuine steam locomotive! I told him how pleased I was to see that he had "made it." He told me that it was kind of tough at first, because he had a lot to learn, but the worst part was that the train didn't operate in the winter, and winter jobs were hard to find.
However, he told me, he had recently been able to work there in Wisconsin year around because they were getting other engines sent in for repairs and so that part of the business was really picking up. Mike Decker, Niles West High School, thy name is perseverence!
Movies in View by GJ
Nancy and I drove Jean down to Tampa for a MOPPS convention in the summer of 1993. To pass the time, we went to a museum and then decided to take a chance on a movie, which just happened to start at a convenient time.
The film was “Groundhog Day,” starring Bill Murray. (As it happens, GD is Jean’s birthday, 2/2.)
It wasn’t long before we both began to really enjoy the picture. It seems, in retrospect, that each new morning became funnier and funnier to us. (That is, of course, the film’s goal!) The movie is also an excellent example of “the suspension of disbelief.”
Pretty soon, we found ourselves laughing quite heartily, maybe even to the point of tears. Afterwards, we talked about how we had both been so tickled at this slap-stick, rather ridiculous picture.
And then we realized that the laughter was something we both needed…a catharsis. It was just a few months before that the missionaries were taken, and the pressure had been building in both of us.
***************************************
Movies in General
Is it politically correct for an old man to confess that certain movies have brought tears to his eyes? Well, they do, and I can’t help it.
I don’t want to go back too far or too deep here, but I do want to mention a few examples. “Based on Fact,” or “True Life” stories get to me, most. “Stand and Deliver” is the first that comes to mind. At the very end, just before the “credits,” the ultimate results of future classes scrolls up the screen. They are so spectacularly successful, that I am deeply moved.
Another example is “Places in the Heart,” even though it is strictly fiction. The performances by Sally Field, Ed Harris, Danny Glover, and the children, et al, is so great that I don’t want it to end!
As many times as I have seen it, “The Glenn Miller Story” is still so touching that it almost hurts.
The film was “Groundhog Day,” starring Bill Murray. (As it happens, GD is Jean’s birthday, 2/2.)
It wasn’t long before we both began to really enjoy the picture. It seems, in retrospect, that each new morning became funnier and funnier to us. (That is, of course, the film’s goal!) The movie is also an excellent example of “the suspension of disbelief.”
Pretty soon, we found ourselves laughing quite heartily, maybe even to the point of tears. Afterwards, we talked about how we had both been so tickled at this slap-stick, rather ridiculous picture.
And then we realized that the laughter was something we both needed…a catharsis. It was just a few months before that the missionaries were taken, and the pressure had been building in both of us.
***************************************
Movies in General
Is it politically correct for an old man to confess that certain movies have brought tears to his eyes? Well, they do, and I can’t help it.
I don’t want to go back too far or too deep here, but I do want to mention a few examples. “Based on Fact,” or “True Life” stories get to me, most. “Stand and Deliver” is the first that comes to mind. At the very end, just before the “credits,” the ultimate results of future classes scrolls up the screen. They are so spectacularly successful, that I am deeply moved.
Another example is “Places in the Heart,” even though it is strictly fiction. The performances by Sally Field, Ed Harris, Danny Glover, and the children, et al, is so great that I don’t want it to end!
As many times as I have seen it, “The Glenn Miller Story” is still so touching that it almost hurts.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Comment on "Conflicts" by Charlie Carpenter
When I was a brand new math teacher, September 1965, I was given a grade book, and six classes--two Algebra I, two Geometry, one Algebra II, and one Senior Math at a small downstate Illinois school with about 350 students.
When I was hired in the spring, I was given the job of ordering new text books for my premiere year. I ordered the series from Houghton Mifflin referred to as "the Dolciani Series."The grade book was set up for six-week grading. All of my students passed the first six weeks. At the end of the second six weeks, one of my freshman girls had not met the course objectives--primarily, daily homework and passing the exams. She had earned an "F".
I did not want to give her an "F'. It was a hill that I had never climbed and I was reluctant to do so.The problem was not her intelligence. It was her focus. She was much more interested in upperclass boys than she was in Algebra I. I think she came to school to lollygag around with them at noon hour, also before and after school. She seemed awestruck by them.
When I had computed all my grades, I asked her to see me privately. She came in after school. I told her that she had earned an "F" grade in Algebra I. Before she could say anything, I added: "In my still-young teaching career, yours will be the first "F" I will ever have to give."I wanted so much for her to protest: "Please, Mr. Carpenter, don't give me an 'F'. My folks will kill me. I'll do better next six weeks, you'll see!"
She disappointed me and taught me a great lesson all at the same time with her reply: "It will not be the last." I felt like a big stone had been lifted from my shoulders."Thank you," I said, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. And I never ever had trouble when it came time to give an "F."As I remember, however, she did pass the course.
Back then students in Illinois were only required to take one year of math; I do not remember her being a student of mine the next year. She would have been in my class, since I was the math department of one!
When I was hired in the spring, I was given the job of ordering new text books for my premiere year. I ordered the series from Houghton Mifflin referred to as "the Dolciani Series."The grade book was set up for six-week grading. All of my students passed the first six weeks. At the end of the second six weeks, one of my freshman girls had not met the course objectives--primarily, daily homework and passing the exams. She had earned an "F".
I did not want to give her an "F'. It was a hill that I had never climbed and I was reluctant to do so.The problem was not her intelligence. It was her focus. She was much more interested in upperclass boys than she was in Algebra I. I think she came to school to lollygag around with them at noon hour, also before and after school. She seemed awestruck by them.
When I had computed all my grades, I asked her to see me privately. She came in after school. I told her that she had earned an "F" grade in Algebra I. Before she could say anything, I added: "In my still-young teaching career, yours will be the first "F" I will ever have to give."I wanted so much for her to protest: "Please, Mr. Carpenter, don't give me an 'F'. My folks will kill me. I'll do better next six weeks, you'll see!"
She disappointed me and taught me a great lesson all at the same time with her reply: "It will not be the last." I felt like a big stone had been lifted from my shoulders."Thank you," I said, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. And I never ever had trouble when it came time to give an "F."As I remember, however, she did pass the course.
Back then students in Illinois were only required to take one year of math; I do not remember her being a student of mine the next year. She would have been in my class, since I was the math department of one!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Some Thursday Musings by Grandpa Jim
The following are the latest posts under the "new regime," Thursday contributions. I try to recall topics and enter them into WORD at my leisure. Then, I re-read to see if I want to use them, and finally, I edit and post on Thursday. Saves a lot of Thursday time.
Great Grandfatherhood by GJ
For about ten years, now, I’ve enjoyed being GREAT grandpa Jim.
At first, it was the novelty. I never knew any of my four grandparents, let alone anyone beyond that. (I once SAW my maternal grandpa, but I was quite small and he was on his deathbed. I always carried the memory of his feet sticking out of the covers! Beds were shorter in 1920’s, and he was tall.)
After the novelty lessened (with arrival of second baby) and then all but disappeared when we were blessed by three more through marriage, then two more by adoption) I tried to be more observant.
Only one observation stands out. I don’t think any of the youngsters have any concept of our generation. I’m not sure that any of the parents bother to stress the “great” part of the title, maybe. I don’t recall ever hearing their parents say that we are THEIR grandparents! Nor do I think our children remind their grandchildren that we are their PARENTS.
In order for the children to comprehend, then, each generation almost has to point it out and remind them and motivate them to be curious. Do kids ever ask many questions, these days? About anything? Hmmmm.
Finally, of course, there is the matter of today’s society. I worry that millions of grandparents are destined never to see grandchildren in the process of growing up, and scores of millions will never live to see a GREAT grandchild. In reverse, millions upon millions of people will never know past generations as they ought to be known…lovingly, closely, and familiarly. How else can they truly grasp their heritage?
At first, it was the novelty. I never knew any of my four grandparents, let alone anyone beyond that. (I once SAW my maternal grandpa, but I was quite small and he was on his deathbed. I always carried the memory of his feet sticking out of the covers! Beds were shorter in 1920’s, and he was tall.)
After the novelty lessened (with arrival of second baby) and then all but disappeared when we were blessed by three more through marriage, then two more by adoption) I tried to be more observant.
Only one observation stands out. I don’t think any of the youngsters have any concept of our generation. I’m not sure that any of the parents bother to stress the “great” part of the title, maybe. I don’t recall ever hearing their parents say that we are THEIR grandparents! Nor do I think our children remind their grandchildren that we are their PARENTS.
In order for the children to comprehend, then, each generation almost has to point it out and remind them and motivate them to be curious. Do kids ever ask many questions, these days? About anything? Hmmmm.
Finally, of course, there is the matter of today’s society. I worry that millions of grandparents are destined never to see grandchildren in the process of growing up, and scores of millions will never live to see a GREAT grandchild. In reverse, millions upon millions of people will never know past generations as they ought to be known…lovingly, closely, and familiarly. How else can they truly grasp their heritage?
Two conflicts: worlds apart by GJ
The scene was 1975 or so, in our large (2500) suburban Chicago high school. At the end of first semester (January) I had to assign an F to a term paper in composition. The rules at that time required a pass (D) on that paper in order to get credit for the semester. The student, a girl, came to me to protest the F. Expecting just such a response, I tried to be as tactful as I could, but she pushed me into telling her that I knew it was not her work.
I told her that she had a second chance available. She could have six weeks in which she could start over and write a new paper. The most important part of the opportunity was to follow instructions. My instructions, the same as the original ones, were to make an appointment to show me each step of her work, normally weekly steps. (She had been lax about this.)
Unfortunately, the girl remained defiant, insisting it was her own, original work. (Note: when a teacher has had a chance to see a sufficient amount of a student’s work, he/she soon learns that student’s strengths and weaknesses. An example would be the student who consistently uses very short sentences. This can mean that they are struggling with the concepts of co-ordinate and/or sub-ordinate clauses.)
This girl’s paper (using the above example) suddenly revealed longer, more fully-developed sentences, utilizing a stronger understanding of supporting clauses. Out of nowhere, the writer “saw the light,” and that’s good. It wasn’t, however, the light, but the extent of the light that raised a red flag. Miraculously, there was hardly a too-short sentence to be found.
A short time later, my department chairman told me that the girl and her father were coming in for a three-way conference. We met. It was only a few minutes into the meeting when papa offended the administrator, and they began to “go at it.” (I was amused and let them do so.)
My chairman finally told papa that he and the girl should, instead of complaining, be thankful that I had offered her a second chance. (He added that he probably wouldn’t have been that generous!) On his way out of the office, papa declared that they would let the F stand, that she had been accepted to her choice of college anyway, and that, for our information, her boy-friend, a college student, had written the paper.
I told her that she had a second chance available. She could have six weeks in which she could start over and write a new paper. The most important part of the opportunity was to follow instructions. My instructions, the same as the original ones, were to make an appointment to show me each step of her work, normally weekly steps. (She had been lax about this.)
Unfortunately, the girl remained defiant, insisting it was her own, original work. (Note: when a teacher has had a chance to see a sufficient amount of a student’s work, he/she soon learns that student’s strengths and weaknesses. An example would be the student who consistently uses very short sentences. This can mean that they are struggling with the concepts of co-ordinate and/or sub-ordinate clauses.)
This girl’s paper (using the above example) suddenly revealed longer, more fully-developed sentences, utilizing a stronger understanding of supporting clauses. Out of nowhere, the writer “saw the light,” and that’s good. It wasn’t, however, the light, but the extent of the light that raised a red flag. Miraculously, there was hardly a too-short sentence to be found.
A short time later, my department chairman told me that the girl and her father were coming in for a three-way conference. We met. It was only a few minutes into the meeting when papa offended the administrator, and they began to “go at it.” (I was amused and let them do so.)
My chairman finally told papa that he and the girl should, instead of complaining, be thankful that I had offered her a second chance. (He added that he probably wouldn’t have been that generous!) On his way out of the office, papa declared that they would let the F stand, that she had been accepted to her choice of college anyway, and that, for our information, her boy-friend, a college student, had written the paper.
Conflict two: deja vu by GJ
The scene was Jacksonville (FL) University in 1992, about 17 years later. The class was Rhetoric 101, a composition class for freshmen.
To my surprise, one term paper for the course really deserved an F. I tried to re-evaluate, wondering if I could have made a mistake. I put the paper aside for a day or two and read it again. No, there was no mistake. It just “didn’t cut it.” I asked the student to see me during office hours.
The student was a young man, perhaps a couple of years older than most, and who was a citizen of a foreign country. His grasp of English was adequate, but some finer points were a struggle for him. He had not come in for extra help as much as I had hoped…and had suggested.
When the student did come in for the appointment, I handed him his paper and told him I was sorry, but it missed the mark by quite a bit. He acted shocked. Like the high school girl in my last post, he wanted to argue the paper’s merits. I finally had to show him that parts of the paper were not his work, and that the main problem was that he had failed to put quotation marks around those parts that weren’t his own words.
The boy protested more. I assured him that I was familiar enough with his work to tell which was his and which wasn’t. He began to plead, then, that to fail the course (passing the term paper was a requirement for credit) would be to jeopardize his scholarship.
I offered, again, to give him an “incomplete” and six weeks to submit a new paper. He left my office angrily but discreetly. Later, I was asked by the dean of the department to drop in. I did so. The woman confided in me that the boy had been in to appeal my decision, but that she gave him very little hope. Knowing why she had summoned me, I took along the boy’s file complete with some marked passages to show her my rationale. She declined to look at it, saying that she didn’t question my judgment for a minute. She then informed me that the boy had withdrawn from the university, because his grades overall were inadequate to support his grant.
Two very similar experiences; years and miles and schools apart.
To my surprise, one term paper for the course really deserved an F. I tried to re-evaluate, wondering if I could have made a mistake. I put the paper aside for a day or two and read it again. No, there was no mistake. It just “didn’t cut it.” I asked the student to see me during office hours.
The student was a young man, perhaps a couple of years older than most, and who was a citizen of a foreign country. His grasp of English was adequate, but some finer points were a struggle for him. He had not come in for extra help as much as I had hoped…and had suggested.
When the student did come in for the appointment, I handed him his paper and told him I was sorry, but it missed the mark by quite a bit. He acted shocked. Like the high school girl in my last post, he wanted to argue the paper’s merits. I finally had to show him that parts of the paper were not his work, and that the main problem was that he had failed to put quotation marks around those parts that weren’t his own words.
The boy protested more. I assured him that I was familiar enough with his work to tell which was his and which wasn’t. He began to plead, then, that to fail the course (passing the term paper was a requirement for credit) would be to jeopardize his scholarship.
I offered, again, to give him an “incomplete” and six weeks to submit a new paper. He left my office angrily but discreetly. Later, I was asked by the dean of the department to drop in. I did so. The woman confided in me that the boy had been in to appeal my decision, but that she gave him very little hope. Knowing why she had summoned me, I took along the boy’s file complete with some marked passages to show her my rationale. She declined to look at it, saying that she didn’t question my judgment for a minute. She then informed me that the boy had withdrawn from the university, because his grades overall were inadequate to support his grant.
Two very similar experiences; years and miles and schools apart.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Can't Quit, Cold Turkey...by Grandpa Jim
We have a great grandson who was three when he and his folks came to stay with us for several months. Because we share our house with our youngest daughter and her husband, it means that little Elijah found himself with two parents, two grandparents, and two great grandparents all in the same house with him and his younger brother.
I think it was the abundance of adults in his life that caused him to be a little slow at bonding with Jean and me. He was getting a lot of attention from grandma and grandpa, and we tend to stay in our quarters a lot, so where was the need?
The only regular contact we had was at breakfast. It was our custom to ask, “How are you this morning, Elijah?” For a long time, he found it hard to respond, because we just weren’t that familiar to him. Finally, there came a morning when the boy’s dad (our grandson) told the boy that it was polite to answer when asked a question.
For a while, then, he’d say “fine” or something like it.
Then, one fine morning, he looked at me, rather curiously, and asked, “How are you, Grandpa Jim?” He caught me unaware, so I thought I’d “play along” a little, and said, “MmmmmmmmmAR-velous.” He laughed. After that, he couldn’t wait to ask, so that I’d repeat my long, overly dramatic answer, and he’d laugh heartily at such a predictable response.
Soon, of course, when I asked HIM how he was, he’d mimic me and say “marvelous” in the same way, and we’d both laugh. Months later, after the family had gone home to New Guinea, Elijah, now four, was given the phone to speak to us. I asked him how he was, and he quickly answered in the same old, exaggerated fashion.
His mother reports that she took Elijah to the market one day, and a stranger (woman) asked Elijah how he was, and he gave her the old MmmmmmmmmmAR-velous routine. She told his mom that she sure wished her boy had that kind of enthusiasm! Is he now a “marked man?”
I think it was the abundance of adults in his life that caused him to be a little slow at bonding with Jean and me. He was getting a lot of attention from grandma and grandpa, and we tend to stay in our quarters a lot, so where was the need?
The only regular contact we had was at breakfast. It was our custom to ask, “How are you this morning, Elijah?” For a long time, he found it hard to respond, because we just weren’t that familiar to him. Finally, there came a morning when the boy’s dad (our grandson) told the boy that it was polite to answer when asked a question.
For a while, then, he’d say “fine” or something like it.
Then, one fine morning, he looked at me, rather curiously, and asked, “How are you, Grandpa Jim?” He caught me unaware, so I thought I’d “play along” a little, and said, “MmmmmmmmmAR-velous.” He laughed. After that, he couldn’t wait to ask, so that I’d repeat my long, overly dramatic answer, and he’d laugh heartily at such a predictable response.
Soon, of course, when I asked HIM how he was, he’d mimic me and say “marvelous” in the same way, and we’d both laugh. Months later, after the family had gone home to New Guinea, Elijah, now four, was given the phone to speak to us. I asked him how he was, and he quickly answered in the same old, exaggerated fashion.
His mother reports that she took Elijah to the market one day, and a stranger (woman) asked Elijah how he was, and he gave her the old MmmmmmmmmmAR-velous routine. She told his mom that she sure wished her boy had that kind of enthusiasm! Is he now a “marked man?”
Saturday, November 8, 2008
A Compromise by GJ
Son Charlie suggests that I cut back to posting once a week. What a great idea! I think I can handle that. Allows me to do a little reading, and tending to Jean, and posting! Wow! There's something in me that got caught up in the blogging, and caused me to think it was more of a journal, I guess. Now, which day shall I devote to it? I think I'll "coast" for a few days and see if anything comes to me. And, as a bonus, I can now reach out and correspond with some people I've been neglecting! The best of all four worlds. Wow!
Coffee, Tea, or Flee? by Grandpa Jim
A White Knuckle Paper
Those who know me well often chide me about my aversion to airplane travel. They think, I guess, that I have a phobia about flying. But that is not altogether true, for if I had such a phobia, I couldn’t fly. On the contrary, I have flown. Some may think that I am afraid to fly, but they are not aware that I have flown ten or so times and that averages out to once every eight point one years! So I’ve decided to describe for them (and you) a clearer understanding of my “aversion.”
Let’s start with the departure. I think it would help me a lot if I could, miraculously, just walk up to the gate, into the plane, and take my seat without any delay. This way, I could prevent that stage of anxiety brought on by (A) waiting, and (B) the IMAGINING that is so alarming. You must understand that time is definitely against any chance I might have of feeling comfortable.
Then, there’s the take-off. To me, that bumpy, loud, long, suspenseful surge down the runway is not at all pleasant or comforting. I don’t know why they can’t smooth out the concrete, muffle the engine, and just CATAPULT all 200 of us into the sky.
Once into the air, the climb to 35,000 or more feet seems to take forever. If I had the nerve to look out of the window (I tend to stay as far away as possible) I just know I would be nervous about our angle of ascent. Even the engine sounds as if it were struggling.
Arriving at our proper altitude is a mixed blessing. On one hand, there is relief. On the other hand, there is the knowledge that we are seven to ten MILES above that terribly hard earth.
Now that we are cruising along at a smoother, but faster rate, I can concentrate on the sound of the engines. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I COMMUNE with jet engines! I think, sometimes, that I may have extra-sensory awareness of every one of the trillions of strokes, or revolutions, or whatever goes on in those monsters. I just know that I’m going to hear a missed stroke, and that that will mean we are in trouble. It is the waiting and almost expecting it that is so troubling.
I can read a book, eat something, try to nap, or listen to music, but always I am keenly alert to the rhythm of those whirring blades.
One of the real comforts of a flight is to see the seat-belt sign go on and hear the announcement that we are beginning our descent. Well, maybe not a COMFORT, I guess. It does mean that I can relax my sensitivity to engine sound and now all I have to think about is the landing that will take forever, no doubt. To me, the landing is the worst part. Will a tire blow out? What does a plane do if that happens? Tires seem so fragile as we drop millions of tons of plane and people and cargo onto a tiny, concrete slab. I don’t think airplane tires are anywhere near big enough to support us.
Then comes the touch-down, always somewhat of a jolt and a bang that I can’t identify, a deafening roar as the engines are thrust into reverse, and my heart as it is also thrust against my ribs when the brakes are stomped on, and then my final concern; is the runway LONG ENOUGH? “Thank you, Captain…fine flight.”
Those who know me well often chide me about my aversion to airplane travel. They think, I guess, that I have a phobia about flying. But that is not altogether true, for if I had such a phobia, I couldn’t fly. On the contrary, I have flown. Some may think that I am afraid to fly, but they are not aware that I have flown ten or so times and that averages out to once every eight point one years! So I’ve decided to describe for them (and you) a clearer understanding of my “aversion.”
Let’s start with the departure. I think it would help me a lot if I could, miraculously, just walk up to the gate, into the plane, and take my seat without any delay. This way, I could prevent that stage of anxiety brought on by (A) waiting, and (B) the IMAGINING that is so alarming. You must understand that time is definitely against any chance I might have of feeling comfortable.
Then, there’s the take-off. To me, that bumpy, loud, long, suspenseful surge down the runway is not at all pleasant or comforting. I don’t know why they can’t smooth out the concrete, muffle the engine, and just CATAPULT all 200 of us into the sky.
Once into the air, the climb to 35,000 or more feet seems to take forever. If I had the nerve to look out of the window (I tend to stay as far away as possible) I just know I would be nervous about our angle of ascent. Even the engine sounds as if it were struggling.
Arriving at our proper altitude is a mixed blessing. On one hand, there is relief. On the other hand, there is the knowledge that we are seven to ten MILES above that terribly hard earth.
Now that we are cruising along at a smoother, but faster rate, I can concentrate on the sound of the engines. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I COMMUNE with jet engines! I think, sometimes, that I may have extra-sensory awareness of every one of the trillions of strokes, or revolutions, or whatever goes on in those monsters. I just know that I’m going to hear a missed stroke, and that that will mean we are in trouble. It is the waiting and almost expecting it that is so troubling.
I can read a book, eat something, try to nap, or listen to music, but always I am keenly alert to the rhythm of those whirring blades.
One of the real comforts of a flight is to see the seat-belt sign go on and hear the announcement that we are beginning our descent. Well, maybe not a COMFORT, I guess. It does mean that I can relax my sensitivity to engine sound and now all I have to think about is the landing that will take forever, no doubt. To me, the landing is the worst part. Will a tire blow out? What does a plane do if that happens? Tires seem so fragile as we drop millions of tons of plane and people and cargo onto a tiny, concrete slab. I don’t think airplane tires are anywhere near big enough to support us.
Then comes the touch-down, always somewhat of a jolt and a bang that I can’t identify, a deafening roar as the engines are thrust into reverse, and my heart as it is also thrust against my ribs when the brakes are stomped on, and then my final concern; is the runway LONG ENOUGH? “Thank you, Captain…fine flight.”
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Another Road by Grandpa Jim
Looks like it's time to take another road, maybe. For one thing, I need to pay more attention to Jean. The hours I spend on blogging are pretty much the same hours she might profit most from my attention. Those hours, later in the day, when she is better occupied, are hours that I have trouble concentrating on my purpose...sharing memories.
I believe I'll quit the blog in a few days and go back to reading more. (I've neglected that for almost six months!) For now, I'm thinking of this coming Saturday as my last post. (Maybe I am influenced by all these claims of "change?" ) Until Saturday, Love, Jim.
I believe I'll quit the blog in a few days and go back to reading more. (I've neglected that for almost six months!) For now, I'm thinking of this coming Saturday as my last post. (Maybe I am influenced by all these claims of "change?" ) Until Saturday, Love, Jim.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Election Day, 2008 by GJ
There have been 14 different Presidents since I was born. I was too young to vote for the first three, so this will be my 12th chance. (Not counting re-elections, etc.) I won't go into all that is different, today, as the media has covered that quite thoroughly.
In the early days, we stayed up quite late for results (on the radio) and often went to bed without knowing much. One of the biggest shocks came in 1948 when (1) the Chicago Tribune's headline said "Dewey Wins," (2) and it turned out that there was a slight error, as somebody named Truman had won the most votes. (Joke.) He had been president for three years, having taken over for FDR when he died in office and HST was VP.
There were times during the 60 years I've been voting that I wondered if we should all consider moving to Nicaragua or the Antarctic. It wasn't long, however, before I realized that there are so many "checks and balances" in place, that our country always manages to survive. Could the losers have done better, on occasion? Probably. Have we always made the most intelliegnt choices? Probably not. Have we always voted for the right reasons? Definitely not.
What I now look forward to is the choices our next President makes in the people who help him lead us. (Carter is known for poor choosing as was Nixon.) Quiz: which cabinet member is famous for not knowing who would be next in line when one President was shot? (Hint...but not killed.) (Prize for first correct e-mail response.) Tomorrow will be quite interesting...maybe even tonight?
In the early days, we stayed up quite late for results (on the radio) and often went to bed without knowing much. One of the biggest shocks came in 1948 when (1) the Chicago Tribune's headline said "Dewey Wins," (2) and it turned out that there was a slight error, as somebody named Truman had won the most votes. (Joke.) He had been president for three years, having taken over for FDR when he died in office and HST was VP.
There were times during the 60 years I've been voting that I wondered if we should all consider moving to Nicaragua or the Antarctic. It wasn't long, however, before I realized that there are so many "checks and balances" in place, that our country always manages to survive. Could the losers have done better, on occasion? Probably. Have we always made the most intelliegnt choices? Probably not. Have we always voted for the right reasons? Definitely not.
What I now look forward to is the choices our next President makes in the people who help him lead us. (Carter is known for poor choosing as was Nixon.) Quiz: which cabinet member is famous for not knowing who would be next in line when one President was shot? (Hint...but not killed.) (Prize for first correct e-mail response.) Tomorrow will be quite interesting...maybe even tonight?
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