This is also from Ike.
It is one of several segments I wrote for our production, IKE, the *not so* Great Storm of 2008. In the production several monologues, duets, comedy skits, songs, dances, a few poems and special effects are woven together to make up an evening's entertainment about our hurricane experiences fall of '08.
The idea of building a beach house that would crash during the sound-and-lighting-effects-created hurricane was one of the first images that led us to create the production. In part, it was the before and after pictures of houses on the Bolivar peninsula that led me to make the crash the climax of the show. I also wanted to personalize the "big disaster" of the storm for my students.
My intent was for the beach house to loom in the background through the first act, for it to crash during the storm, and for the debris to be background to the second act.
The storm itself, at first, was going to be represented with sound efects and lighting, but as we developed the scenes, one of the students composed a solo piano piece that we showcased through the storm.
Crashing the house in a way that could be re-set and re-crashed on subsequent nights was a technical challenge, but the students were determined to make it work.
The story of these two scenes was designed to help create another throughline, part of a spine for the play. While not quite whole cloth, the story of the brother and sister in these scenes did not come from any student stories.
"The Beach House, Before the Crash”
(It’s dark with a dim light under the beach house, moonlight cutting through scattered clouds; we hear moderate waves rolling in. A teenage boy is sitting on the sand on the Gulf side of the beach house looking out toward the Gulf. He may not be seen at first. A car is heard from the other side of the house, we see the headlights pull up, stop, and turn off as the engine stops. A car door opens and closes, a girl in her late twenties comes from under the beach house looking around. She sees the boy.)
SIS: Hey (using the word as a greeting) . . . Sorry if I scared . . .
BRO: I heard you pull up.
SIS: (a pause, she looks out into the Gulf) ...'s a storm out there.
BRO: (gentle sarcasm) Ya think? I came to see and hear real surf. It’s about the only time, when there’s a storm.
SIS: I figured. Papa was worried.
BRO: He said?
SIS: No, but he called.
BRO: Oh, (He checks his phone, slumps his shoulders, sighs) I didn't charge it.
SIS: We figured. I told him you were probably here.
BRO: Don't come here as often as before . . . we don't. He tried to keep doing everything just the same, for a while . . . we were out here the whole first summer.
SIS: Not the same?
BRO: In town, he seemed sad. Out here, it was different--good different--but he kept . . .
SIS: . . . remembering?
BRO: No, . . . not forgetting.
SIS: It seemed okay when we came down that first Christmas
BRO: That was good, better even. You and Mike, driftwood Yule Log. (He laughs)
SIS: (She smiles) Christmas with my guys.
BRO: A real "traditional" Christmas Eve, playing Nuclear Risk 'till 6:00 a.m. (Both laugh)
SIS: Mike still talks about Papa's final sweep out of Russia with his ...what? Cossacks?
BRO: No, (imitating a dramatic voice) “Mongol hoard riding across the Steppes."
SIS: Yeah, Mike analyses that game like it was a chess match. He checked out library books on strategy, planning a re-match . . . sooo intense.
BRO: And Papa just plays around, all random, no plan. (Another imitation) "I am a leaf on the wind. Watch how I soar."
SIS: And he always wins.
BRO: (a little too abrupt) I've won. I can beat him. (He slumps and stares toward the Gulf)
SIS: (she looks at him and smiles) You can . . . you do. (Pause) You remembering . . . or not forgetting?
BRO: Figuring. That Christmas Eve was unscheduled.
SIS: What’d you mean? We did stuff. Tamales, chips, guacamole, black-eyed pea salsa. Our stockings.
BRO: Traditions are not a schedule. It was way different before. She’d plan the whole evening, hour by hour. Instead, you were rummaging around, looking in the top cabinet for a bowl and said, "Hey, here's Risk." And we play for eight hours.
SIS: You miss schedules?
BRO: (too casual, too nonchalant) No
SIS: (pause, a shrug) She doesn't like board games.
BRO: (a low key rant) She doesn't like a lot of things: doesn’t like random, doesn’t like relaxed, you don’t have to vacation with her . . .
SIS: Papa didn't raise us to dislike our mother.
BRO: I don’t . . . I’m just figuring things out . . .
SIS: (over his unbroken line) Anyway, that storm was building for longer than we knew.
BRO: . . . she doesn't like sand, the beach house, Papa . . . Huh? Yeah it's building, Cat four coming off Cuba—what? (realizing she’s not talking about Ike) Oh, uh, yeah. I don’t think she even knew. If it was a storm, we’d ‘a noticed, maybe done something.
SIS: We couldn’t have fixed it. Wasn’t ours to fix.
BRO: (pause) Do you ever feel she doesn't like us either. . .
SIS: (pause, heavy sigh) Yes . . . but I know better.
BRO: I mean us, who we are not what she can make us. She wants’ you to be her. She wants’ me to be . . . I don't know . . . something, something I’m not.
SIS: She loves us, maybe even Papa. She just, I don't know, lost her nerve. She needs to have a plan. It’s the way she’s wired. She doesn't like needing it, but she does. I asked her once, before everything crashed, about how they met. She said Papa was fun in college because she never knew what was going to happen next, (He reacts with surprise) that they always laughed a lot. She wanted that, wanted to be that way herself.
BRO: (incredulous) That's the same reason she told him she was leaving him. I heard her say it, (in a flat, unemotional, voice) --, “I never know what you’re going to say or do next.” —they thought I was asleep. What a wreck!
SIS: (She hugs him) Sorry I wasn’t here when you had to go through all that. (He shrugs) I think she left because she was afraid. Not knowing wasn’t fun any more.
BRO: She tell you that?
SIS: . . . just figured it out.
BRO: She didn't talk with me either.
SIS: She’s afraid for us now, ‘cause we’re also like her--you more than me--She wants to know we’ll be okay, that we won’t wake up someday and be afraid of our lives.
BRO: What's there to be afraid of?
SIS: She doesn’t know . . .
BRO: . . . and not knowing scares her?
SIS: Yeah.
BRO: That’s whack. I’d go nuts if everything were all mapped out. Some stuff, yeah sure, but not everything.
SIS: (she looks at him and smiles) Yeah, sure.
BRO: You flying back tomorrow?
SIS: Haven’t decided, maybe after the storm comes in.
BRO: Staying to take care of us?
SIS: You are my guys.
BRO: Two of ‘em anyway. We’ll be okay. Ike comes ashore here; we’ll drive north until we find someplace fun to stay.
SIS: I’ll call Mike when we get back to the house and see if he can stand to be without me a few more days. If he’s cranking out pages, I sometimes distract more than I help. Let’s go so Papa will stop worrying. (They begin to make their way through the pylons under the beach house)
BRO: Besides, Ike’s not coming here.
SIS: Hope not. I’d like this to stay the same.
BRO: We’re good. Storms never make landfall where the first prediction sets the bull’s eye...
(We hear car doors opening and closing, engines starting, see headlights come on and turn away, as we hear cars pulling away. Finally, it’s dark again, moonlight cutting through scattered clouds, and we hear the waves rolling in.)
"After the Crash"
(Dark again, no moonlight, sound of waves, no lights at all on the collapsed beach house. It has been forced off two of its' pylons and lays amid a rubble of boards and trash. A bouncing flashlight beam, then a second approaches from the street side, upstage of the house.)
SIS: If Papa knew we came out here, he’d die.
BRO: Don’t tell him.
SIS: Not ever! He’d stroke out. He hates snakes.
BRO: I’m not even sure that was a snake. We’re safe now.
SIS: Safe is sitting at the Sonic like you let Papa think we were gonna be, not walking with flashlights in snake land. I wish we could’ve gotten closer in the car.
BRO: Oh wow, it’s totally crashed.
SIS: (Carrying flashlight, coming to Gulf side) Okay, we’ve seen it. It’s a wreck, just like on the website. Let’s go.
BRO: We only saw the street side on the website.
SIS: Well, Gulf side is a wreck also.
BRO: (He comes out) Yeah, it is. But all the pieces are here, mostly.
SIS: And extras pieces from I don’t know where.
BRO: Can we fix it?
SIS: Not enough to fix. Maybe rebuild it. (Gauging the distance from the house to the new shoreline) It’s closer to the Gulf, but we still got land, it’s not into the open beach. (He goes back under, we hear banging) What are you doing! That’s not safe. (Muffled voice) Get outta there.
BRO: (he emerges carrying something) Inside is wrecked too, but look. (Holds Risk box) It was still in the top cabinet, not even damp. Bowls were broken though. (They turn and look at the house for a while, then turn and look at the Gulf. We hear waves)
SIS: (Turning back to the wrecked house) I’m glad we came to see it, but I’m sad. (Pause)
BRO: (Looking at her) You remembering . . . or not forgetting?
SIS: I don’t know, maybe both. Maybe both are okay if you got a reason.
BRO: We got a reason. . . . I’m sad, too. (Trying to be hopeful) So, it can’t be fixed?
SIS: A bunch of this isn’t even ours to fix. We can re-build what’s ours. It’ll be different, but good different, at least until the next storm. (Pause, she looks at him) ‘k? (Verbal shorthand for okay?)
BRO: ‘k. But there won’t be another storm.
SIS: (again, gentle sarcasm) Ya think?
BRO: Not rolling through here. Storms never make landfall in the same place more than once in a generation. (She smiles)
(They turn and stand looking at the house, then briefly glance back out to the Gulf, and begin to pick their way back through the rubble)
SIS: Let’s cruise through Sonic on the way home and get Papa a cherry Dr. Pepper so he won’t think to ask us what took us so long.
(He laughs, they laugh. The sound of their steps fade until they become retreating flashlight beams and we are left hearing the waves on the beach.)
Monday, December 29, 2008
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Our Dad is Nuts
Also from IKE. Pretty much whole cloth. We never named these children.
He: I think my father . . .
She: Our Daddy
He: . . . is not like other fathers.
She: He’s nuts!
He: When I arrived home from school today . . .
She: Everyone else’s parents are rushing around, getting ready for the hurricane . . .
He: He was sitting at his computer looking at numbers, as usual.
She: Our whole house could blow down and he wouldn’t notice unless the internet went down.
He: It wouldn’t do that.
She: The house won’t blow down?
He: No, our connection won’t go down. It’s broadband wireless.
She: Great! He’ll be sitting in the wrecked house staring at the computer. We’re not ready! We’ve got to get ready!
He: I think you’re nuts. When has he ever been not ready for anything. . . . So I go to the study . . .
She: Me too, I go too.
He: I knock, wait a minute and he says come in. He looks up like nothing is happening, so I say there’s a storm headed our way. He looks back at his computer and says “There is storm coming, but I think we’re almost ready for it.” He punches a few keys and the numbers on the screen change.
She: And I can’t stand it, so I tell him that everyone is boarding up their houses, stocking up on food and water, and that even that lazy Mary Grace Crussell next door is hauling their patio furniture into her garage, and that we’re all going to be refugees and that I don’t want to be a refugee.
He: He looks at us a minute like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and says “Oh, yes, the hurricane. We’ll be evacuees, not refugees. It’s much better. We’ll go to your Uncle John’s.” I keep standing there looking at him and finally he says, “Well let’s get out the boards.” He’s got these boards he keeps in a rack in the garage, all cut, painted, and numbered. They fit over every window and door in the house. We pull them out and slip them over our windows with these little clips he has for them.
She: I decide to save the patio furniture and go outside but most of it is built-in as part of the patio. I put the chairs in their little house, went to check on Mom, she’s packing a picnic and asking me what book we would like her to read to us in the car, like it was vacation or something.
He: When we finish putting the boards up Dad tells me to get my laptop and a few days clothes packed up and goes back to his computer. He gets out his PDA and seems to be syncing it up with the computer and some new gadget he’s got. Then he goes back to the screens of numbers he’s always checking. I can hear our neighbors cutting boards and hammering them over their windows.
She: I tell mom there’s a storm coming our way, she says she knows and tells me to get the bag she packed for me from my room. I ask her if we have all the food and water we need for after the storm, and she shows me a cabinet I didn’t know we had high in the garage filled with water and canned food.
He: While I’m putting the bags and picnic hamper in the car, Father stops in the doorway of the house, punches a couple of buttons on his PDA and suddenly I hear that monster generator he has in the back yard—it’s in its own little louver-sided house that every one thinks is a pool house—anyway it started up. He says, “Oops, gave it the wrong command.” He hits a few more buttons and it shuts down. I thought he was a little nuts when he towed that thing home from an equipment auction once, but maybe we’ll get some use out of it now.
She: Driving out of town, I ask mom if our house will be there when we get back. She says, “Yes, I hope so” and dad says “if it’s not we could probably turn a tidy profit selling the lot as a scrape-off.” Mom says, “Now Justin (she always calls him by his first name when she’s scolding him), that’s our home, not some commodity you flip for cash.”
He: And he said, “You are right dear.” Which is what he always says when she calls him, “Justin.” Except this time, he also said, “confusing homes with commodities is what brought on this storm . . . that and greed.”
She: I didn’t understand, but mom started reading Eragon, and I didn’t want to interrupt.
He: We drive to Father’s brother, our Uncle John, in Austin and just wait for everything to blow over. Both of them work at home, investments, and so they both spent the whole time on John’s computers, screens of numbers, just like Father’s.
She: When I asked them what they were doing, John said they were, “buying and selling,” Dad added, "mostly selling." Then they laughed that funny way they do . . .
He: . . . they chuckle . . .
She: Anyway, it’s irritating. It’s like they’ve guessed a big secret that no one else has a clue about.
He: We sat at Uncle John’s and watched Ike on TV like most everyone else I guess. Father, John and I sat up all night Friday night watching the weather coverage. I was about half asleep, but as the South wall of the storm moved through Brazoria County I heard an alarm on Father’s PDA go off. He looked at it, punched a few buttons and told John the “power in our house just went out,” but as far as he could tell "the integrity of the house is still unbroken."
* * * *
She: Sunday, I figured we were headed home when I saw Mom in John’s kitchen packing the picnic hamper again.
He: We drove home just like we drove up, at a leisurely rate with Mom reading to us from Eragon.
She: As we got closer to Lake Jackson, we saw more and more torn up stuff. Trees, houses, lots of signs just blown completely away.
He: There weren’t many streetlights working anywhere. As we skirted around Houston, Father called Tony—the guy who takes care of our yard and stuff—and asked if he had crews out working already. Then he started punching buttons on the PDA again.
She: He told me he was going to turn on the power at our house!
He: He logged onto the burglar alarm system to find out if there were any windows or doors broken—he said the house was okay. He also had the generator rigged up so he could start it remotely.
She: If everything worked like it was supposed to, he said the house would be cool by the time we got home.
He: It was.
She: I still think he’s nuts. He doesn’t get excited about anything. We were unprepared. We should have prepared more. We were just lucky. (She leaves the stage.)
He: He gets excited about some things. Like Monday, the 15th, right after the storm, I heard him in his study and it sounded like he was talking to Uncle John. I looked in and saw they were using a voice/picture connection between their computers. I’ve never seen anything on those screens but numbers and graphs. They’ve never acted like that before, either—way beyond chuckling. John was almost giggling like my sister’s friends, saying, “You got us out just in time.” Father shrugged, “We were just lucky we were able to sell when we did.” John laughed, “completely out without a hit,” and logged off.
He: I think my father . . .
She: Our Daddy
He: . . . is not like other fathers.
She: He’s nuts!
He: When I arrived home from school today . . .
She: Everyone else’s parents are rushing around, getting ready for the hurricane . . .
He: He was sitting at his computer looking at numbers, as usual.
She: Our whole house could blow down and he wouldn’t notice unless the internet went down.
He: It wouldn’t do that.
She: The house won’t blow down?
He: No, our connection won’t go down. It’s broadband wireless.
She: Great! He’ll be sitting in the wrecked house staring at the computer. We’re not ready! We’ve got to get ready!
He: I think you’re nuts. When has he ever been not ready for anything. . . . So I go to the study . . .
She: Me too, I go too.
He: I knock, wait a minute and he says come in. He looks up like nothing is happening, so I say there’s a storm headed our way. He looks back at his computer and says “There is storm coming, but I think we’re almost ready for it.” He punches a few keys and the numbers on the screen change.
She: And I can’t stand it, so I tell him that everyone is boarding up their houses, stocking up on food and water, and that even that lazy Mary Grace Crussell next door is hauling their patio furniture into her garage, and that we’re all going to be refugees and that I don’t want to be a refugee.
He: He looks at us a minute like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, and says “Oh, yes, the hurricane. We’ll be evacuees, not refugees. It’s much better. We’ll go to your Uncle John’s.” I keep standing there looking at him and finally he says, “Well let’s get out the boards.” He’s got these boards he keeps in a rack in the garage, all cut, painted, and numbered. They fit over every window and door in the house. We pull them out and slip them over our windows with these little clips he has for them.
She: I decide to save the patio furniture and go outside but most of it is built-in as part of the patio. I put the chairs in their little house, went to check on Mom, she’s packing a picnic and asking me what book we would like her to read to us in the car, like it was vacation or something.
He: When we finish putting the boards up Dad tells me to get my laptop and a few days clothes packed up and goes back to his computer. He gets out his PDA and seems to be syncing it up with the computer and some new gadget he’s got. Then he goes back to the screens of numbers he’s always checking. I can hear our neighbors cutting boards and hammering them over their windows.
She: I tell mom there’s a storm coming our way, she says she knows and tells me to get the bag she packed for me from my room. I ask her if we have all the food and water we need for after the storm, and she shows me a cabinet I didn’t know we had high in the garage filled with water and canned food.
He: While I’m putting the bags and picnic hamper in the car, Father stops in the doorway of the house, punches a couple of buttons on his PDA and suddenly I hear that monster generator he has in the back yard—it’s in its own little louver-sided house that every one thinks is a pool house—anyway it started up. He says, “Oops, gave it the wrong command.” He hits a few more buttons and it shuts down. I thought he was a little nuts when he towed that thing home from an equipment auction once, but maybe we’ll get some use out of it now.
She: Driving out of town, I ask mom if our house will be there when we get back. She says, “Yes, I hope so” and dad says “if it’s not we could probably turn a tidy profit selling the lot as a scrape-off.” Mom says, “Now Justin (she always calls him by his first name when she’s scolding him), that’s our home, not some commodity you flip for cash.”
He: And he said, “You are right dear.” Which is what he always says when she calls him, “Justin.” Except this time, he also said, “confusing homes with commodities is what brought on this storm . . . that and greed.”
She: I didn’t understand, but mom started reading Eragon, and I didn’t want to interrupt.
He: We drive to Father’s brother, our Uncle John, in Austin and just wait for everything to blow over. Both of them work at home, investments, and so they both spent the whole time on John’s computers, screens of numbers, just like Father’s.
She: When I asked them what they were doing, John said they were, “buying and selling,” Dad added, "mostly selling." Then they laughed that funny way they do . . .
He: . . . they chuckle . . .
She: Anyway, it’s irritating. It’s like they’ve guessed a big secret that no one else has a clue about.
He: We sat at Uncle John’s and watched Ike on TV like most everyone else I guess. Father, John and I sat up all night Friday night watching the weather coverage. I was about half asleep, but as the South wall of the storm moved through Brazoria County I heard an alarm on Father’s PDA go off. He looked at it, punched a few buttons and told John the “power in our house just went out,” but as far as he could tell "the integrity of the house is still unbroken."
* * * *
She: Sunday, I figured we were headed home when I saw Mom in John’s kitchen packing the picnic hamper again.
He: We drove home just like we drove up, at a leisurely rate with Mom reading to us from Eragon.
She: As we got closer to Lake Jackson, we saw more and more torn up stuff. Trees, houses, lots of signs just blown completely away.
He: There weren’t many streetlights working anywhere. As we skirted around Houston, Father called Tony—the guy who takes care of our yard and stuff—and asked if he had crews out working already. Then he started punching buttons on the PDA again.
She: He told me he was going to turn on the power at our house!
He: He logged onto the burglar alarm system to find out if there were any windows or doors broken—he said the house was okay. He also had the generator rigged up so he could start it remotely.
She: If everything worked like it was supposed to, he said the house would be cool by the time we got home.
He: It was.
She: I still think he’s nuts. He doesn’t get excited about anything. We were unprepared. We should have prepared more. We were just lucky. (She leaves the stage.)
He: He gets excited about some things. Like Monday, the 15th, right after the storm, I heard him in his study and it sounded like he was talking to Uncle John. I looked in and saw they were using a voice/picture connection between their computers. I’ve never seen anything on those screens but numbers and graphs. They’ve never acted like that before, either—way beyond chuckling. John was almost giggling like my sister’s friends, saying, “You got us out just in time.” Father shrugged, “We were just lucky we were able to sell when we did.” John laughed, “completely out without a hit,” and logged off.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Daddy's Girls
Also part of our IKE play, though largely made up of whole cloth, there are tidbits of actual stories here and there. Like "On a Stick," the "Daddy's Girls" sections are essentially long monologues, in this case broken up and bounced between the three girls. The three asterisks in the middle of the monologues and in all of the play's stories represent the storm passage. The "Stick" monologue was broken up and woven through the whole play as one of the connective devices to, excuse the expression, "stick" the whole play together. The stick girls last line, "my sister cried, but I ain't gonna" was the last line of the show.
The girl evacuating alone after her shift as a waitress was a student story, told to me as true, except it was a story about the Rita evacuation. She took the back roads and made it to Huntsville nearly a half a day before her Mom and Dad did via 288 and I45. She also had her ten-year-old sister riding with her. That was possibly a better story than I wrote, but it didn't fit the IKE frame.
The man who cut down a tree, dropping it across a trunk line, cutting off power to a whole neighborhood after it had been restored is a story that went around via email in LJ after Ike. I suspect it is an urban legend.
Muffy's story is whole cloth, though I know a few non-mechanically inclined guys who struggled comically with generators after the hurricane.
We called them Daddy's Girls, but named the segments . . .
RONNYE My Dad is nuts.
BRANDY My Dad is nuts.
MUFFY My Dad is nuts.
RONNYE So I get home after school Tuesday and he’s already there, got off from work early. He’s running around saying “There’s a storm in the gulf and it’s headed our way.” I’ve never seen him moving so fast. He’s got a pile of plywood and he’s boarding everything up. I get to hand him nails and carry his hammer.
BRANDY When I got home, my Dad had the car packed. And the engine running. Says we’re getting out early, not getting stuck on the road like Rita. It took us twenty-four hours to get to my aunt’s in Huntsville. This time he had this map marked with a special route that goes around all the evacuation routes. He said that was the real problem last time. He joined the Lemmings on the road and got jammed up. He says get in the car. I tell him I have to work. He says the restaurant is probably already closed. I tell him I at least oughtta call. He says okay, so I call. They’re open and want me to come in if I can. I tell my Dad they really need me because they’re shorthanded. So we argue.
MUFFY My Dad is unloading a generator when I get home. I don’t know where he got it, but mom keeps calling it her new couch. He says we’re really going to need it when we get back, after the storm—says the power may be out for weeks, but we’ll be okay because he got this generator.
RONNYE Dad boards up everything, the house, the tool shed, the doghouse, and the garage door windows. I reminded him to leave the front door open so we could get in and out of the house. I thought he’d be mad—he doesn’t have much of a sense of humor when he gets like this--but he just said he wished he had some sandbags, and left the board to go over the front door on the porch.
BRANDY We argue with my Mom and sister sitting in the running car until finally he says I can work my shift if I promise to get right in my car and drive to Huntsville as soon as I get off work. He gets out another map and marks the route for me. It looks like spaghetti. He takes my mom and sister and drives off. I go to work. After work, I call him on my cell. He says they’re some-place-I-never-heard-of “making good time.” I hear Mom say they’re lost again and why doesn’t he just stop and ask directions. He says he has his map and knows exactly where they are, then whispers into the phone, telling me to "be careful of the Needville cutoff," then loudly he says to "be sure and follow the route he marked on the map, and to call him every hour."
RONNYE I asked him why sandbags and he took me inside and made me look at this computerized map that showed Angleton as coastal city if a 21-foot storm surge hit Freeport. He played it over for me, twice—10-foot surge and Surfside is gone, 18-foot surge and Freeport is under water, a 21-foot surge and Lake Jackson is . . . well a lake. He wanted to go to Surfside and see how many sandbags we could make with beach sand and mom’s pillowcases. I told him it was illegal to take sand from the beach, Mom would probably hide all the pillowcases if she knew what he was planning, and that this was a particularly crazy time to go to Surfside, so instead he made us haul most of the furniture upstairs.
BRANDY After I talk to Dad, I toss his spaghetti map in the back seat, pull out on 288 and drive straight to Huntsville, no traffic, no problem. I arrived at my aunt’s an hour before they did.
RONNYE Wednesday morning we load the car and go to Waco to stay with Grandma & Grandpa.
MUFFY We don’t leave until Friday morning. Mom made him check us into a really nice hotel in Dallas. She said if she couldn’t have a new couch, she was at least going wait out the hurricane in a nice spa.
* * *
MUFFY The hotel was nice. I wish we had stayed longer. Saturday afternoon, after the storm passed through Lake Jackson my Dad was in a big hurry to get back home. Driving down from Dallas, we ended up in the edge of what was left of Ike. It was pretty bad, rain, wind, even a little hail. The power was out when we got home. I think dad was glad.
BRANDY We drive back from Huntsville Tuesday the way I went up, straight down 288. I never did find out what took them so long going up. They don’t talk about it. I never did tell Dad I drove up 288 and there was no traffic. I don’t think he wanted to talk about that either. When we got home, there was no power
RONNYE When we get back to our boarded up house there is no power, no air conditioning, the weather is cool outside but the house is hot, muggy, and we just lay around like dead people, hot sweaty dead people. It’s like all our energy was used up getting ready for the storm and after the storm, we lay around in a boarded up house unable to move.
MUFFY When we got back, he went straight to the garage and started fiddling with the generator. He had his nose buried in a book trying to start it, trying to hook it up to the house. It took three hours. Finally, we heard it start and we had power. Everything came on. Then it sputtered and stopped . . . but we still had power. The power came on for our whole end of the street. We were some of the first in Lake Jackson to have our power restored. We didn’t need the generator.
RONNYE We eventually started taking down the boards so we could open the windows. Taking down boards, picking up branches. When the air came on it was like my dad got his second wind. He was out picking up the yard, hauling limbs to the curb. He got so into it he fixed the patio door and the back light—stuff mom has been after him to fix for months.
BRANDY My sister and I had to pick up tree limbs and pile them at the curb. She pretended we were building a fort. I got a call to go in. With everybody, eating out because they had no power, the restaurant really was shorthanded and needed me.
MUFFY That generator didn’t do us much good. I wished he’d gotten something that would pick up limbs and branches from the yard. Maybe he can trade it in on a new couch.
RONNYE Everything was okay--I mean I thought Dad would end up repainting the house or something--but everything was okay until he decided the big tree in our back yard needed to be cut down because “it would probably fall in the next storm.” He borrowed our neighbor’s chain saw and started on the tree, but something went wrong. Instead of falling across our back yard, the tree crashed through the power line behind our house, taking out the power for the whole neighborhood.
He went in the house right after it happened—made me sneak the borrowed chainsaw back into our neighbor’s garage. I think he’s hiding out, trying to pretend the tree fell over because of the storm.
I guess that’s kind of true.
The girl evacuating alone after her shift as a waitress was a student story, told to me as true, except it was a story about the Rita evacuation. She took the back roads and made it to Huntsville nearly a half a day before her Mom and Dad did via 288 and I45. She also had her ten-year-old sister riding with her. That was possibly a better story than I wrote, but it didn't fit the IKE frame.
The man who cut down a tree, dropping it across a trunk line, cutting off power to a whole neighborhood after it had been restored is a story that went around via email in LJ after Ike. I suspect it is an urban legend.
Muffy's story is whole cloth, though I know a few non-mechanically inclined guys who struggled comically with generators after the hurricane.
We called them Daddy's Girls, but named the segments . . .
My Dad is Nuts
RONNYE My Dad is nuts.
BRANDY My Dad is nuts.
MUFFY My Dad is nuts.
RONNYE So I get home after school Tuesday and he’s already there, got off from work early. He’s running around saying “There’s a storm in the gulf and it’s headed our way.” I’ve never seen him moving so fast. He’s got a pile of plywood and he’s boarding everything up. I get to hand him nails and carry his hammer.
BRANDY When I got home, my Dad had the car packed. And the engine running. Says we’re getting out early, not getting stuck on the road like Rita. It took us twenty-four hours to get to my aunt’s in Huntsville. This time he had this map marked with a special route that goes around all the evacuation routes. He said that was the real problem last time. He joined the Lemmings on the road and got jammed up. He says get in the car. I tell him I have to work. He says the restaurant is probably already closed. I tell him I at least oughtta call. He says okay, so I call. They’re open and want me to come in if I can. I tell my Dad they really need me because they’re shorthanded. So we argue.
MUFFY My Dad is unloading a generator when I get home. I don’t know where he got it, but mom keeps calling it her new couch. He says we’re really going to need it when we get back, after the storm—says the power may be out for weeks, but we’ll be okay because he got this generator.
RONNYE Dad boards up everything, the house, the tool shed, the doghouse, and the garage door windows. I reminded him to leave the front door open so we could get in and out of the house. I thought he’d be mad—he doesn’t have much of a sense of humor when he gets like this--but he just said he wished he had some sandbags, and left the board to go over the front door on the porch.
BRANDY We argue with my Mom and sister sitting in the running car until finally he says I can work my shift if I promise to get right in my car and drive to Huntsville as soon as I get off work. He gets out another map and marks the route for me. It looks like spaghetti. He takes my mom and sister and drives off. I go to work. After work, I call him on my cell. He says they’re some-place-I-never-heard-of “making good time.” I hear Mom say they’re lost again and why doesn’t he just stop and ask directions. He says he has his map and knows exactly where they are, then whispers into the phone, telling me to "be careful of the Needville cutoff," then loudly he says to "be sure and follow the route he marked on the map, and to call him every hour."
RONNYE I asked him why sandbags and he took me inside and made me look at this computerized map that showed Angleton as coastal city if a 21-foot storm surge hit Freeport. He played it over for me, twice—10-foot surge and Surfside is gone, 18-foot surge and Freeport is under water, a 21-foot surge and Lake Jackson is . . . well a lake. He wanted to go to Surfside and see how many sandbags we could make with beach sand and mom’s pillowcases. I told him it was illegal to take sand from the beach, Mom would probably hide all the pillowcases if she knew what he was planning, and that this was a particularly crazy time to go to Surfside, so instead he made us haul most of the furniture upstairs.
BRANDY After I talk to Dad, I toss his spaghetti map in the back seat, pull out on 288 and drive straight to Huntsville, no traffic, no problem. I arrived at my aunt’s an hour before they did.
RONNYE Wednesday morning we load the car and go to Waco to stay with Grandma & Grandpa.
MUFFY We don’t leave until Friday morning. Mom made him check us into a really nice hotel in Dallas. She said if she couldn’t have a new couch, she was at least going wait out the hurricane in a nice spa.
* * *
MUFFY The hotel was nice. I wish we had stayed longer. Saturday afternoon, after the storm passed through Lake Jackson my Dad was in a big hurry to get back home. Driving down from Dallas, we ended up in the edge of what was left of Ike. It was pretty bad, rain, wind, even a little hail. The power was out when we got home. I think dad was glad.
BRANDY We drive back from Huntsville Tuesday the way I went up, straight down 288. I never did find out what took them so long going up. They don’t talk about it. I never did tell Dad I drove up 288 and there was no traffic. I don’t think he wanted to talk about that either. When we got home, there was no power
RONNYE When we get back to our boarded up house there is no power, no air conditioning, the weather is cool outside but the house is hot, muggy, and we just lay around like dead people, hot sweaty dead people. It’s like all our energy was used up getting ready for the storm and after the storm, we lay around in a boarded up house unable to move.
MUFFY When we got back, he went straight to the garage and started fiddling with the generator. He had his nose buried in a book trying to start it, trying to hook it up to the house. It took three hours. Finally, we heard it start and we had power. Everything came on. Then it sputtered and stopped . . . but we still had power. The power came on for our whole end of the street. We were some of the first in Lake Jackson to have our power restored. We didn’t need the generator.
RONNYE We eventually started taking down the boards so we could open the windows. Taking down boards, picking up branches. When the air came on it was like my dad got his second wind. He was out picking up the yard, hauling limbs to the curb. He got so into it he fixed the patio door and the back light—stuff mom has been after him to fix for months.
BRANDY My sister and I had to pick up tree limbs and pile them at the curb. She pretended we were building a fort. I got a call to go in. With everybody, eating out because they had no power, the restaurant really was shorthanded and needed me.
MUFFY That generator didn’t do us much good. I wished he’d gotten something that would pick up limbs and branches from the yard. Maybe he can trade it in on a new couch.
RONNYE Everything was okay--I mean I thought Dad would end up repainting the house or something--but everything was okay until he decided the big tree in our back yard needed to be cut down because “it would probably fall in the next storm.” He borrowed our neighbor’s chain saw and started on the tree, but something went wrong. Instead of falling across our back yard, the tree crashed through the power line behind our house, taking out the power for the whole neighborhood.
He went in the house right after it happened—made me sneak the borrowed chainsaw back into our neighbor’s garage. I think he’s hiding out, trying to pretend the tree fell over because of the storm.
I guess that’s kind of true.
Saturday, November 01, 2008
On a Stick
I'm not a prolific poster, particularly when I'm in the middle of productions--which is most of the time--and especially when my involvement includes writing for a production. Without spending time trying to justify it's inclusion, thematically, in e-verities, I'm posting this and reserving judgment on it's place here for later.
It is a monologue I put together using bits and pieces from three student storm evacuee stories, several events reported in newscast, a little research about "on a stick" foods at fairs, my own memories of working a funnel cake booth at the Brazoria County Fair for several years, and my own imaginings. It is one of several segments I've written for our production, IKE, the *not so* Great Storm of 2008. In the production several monologues, duets, comedy skits, songs, dances, a few poems and special effects are woven together to make up the evening's entertainment. First conceptualized to include only student created work, it has evolved into something broader, including a whole company dance number to a brief excerpt from Gene Kelly's "Singing in the Rain," that delights me every time I see it. If you're nearby, Nov. 6, 7, & 8th, consider attending a performance.
So, the monologue we call,
First, we loaded up Dad’s truck and the van with everything we could haul down from the apartment and headed up to my Aunt’s in Houston. That was late Wednesday. Dad drove back down to work in Galveston Thursday and helped his boss, Virgil, board up his boat shop. Dad does fiberglass work on boats, repairs and stuff. He made a whole boat once, nearly by himself. By the time he got back up to my Aunt’s that night, there were twelve of us staying in the house. I gotta lot of cousins.
Friday mornin’ TV announcers were tellin’ us where we were in Houston had to evacuate, too close to the ship channel. It looked like Ike was going to roll right over us, so we loaded everything back up and drove north to my Uncle’s place south of Tatum. We drove up in our truck, the van and my Aunt’s two cars. Including us, the Houston folks, and some others that just showed up at my Uncle's from the piney woods, there was nearly twenty people bedded down. It was crowded. Like I said, I gotta lot of cousins.
The TV in the workshack was up high. We sat around on the floor, boxes, and workbench to watch the storm roll in over Galveston. In one of the reports, Dad was pretty sure he saw his boss’s boat shop flooded with the roof partly blown off. Maybe also it was on fire, he wasn’t sure. Even if he didn’t see it, the TV said there was six feet of water and mud in the buildings along the bayside and that had to include the boat shop.
Saturday, Dad kept trying to call in and couldn’t get Virgil. By then it looked like Ike was gonna roll right up over Tatum too as a tropical storm. Some of us was sleeping in the shop, and the little boys were outside in tents, so Dad decided we’d ease the crowdin’ and go to my Mom’s parents, Granmaw and Granpaw, in Dell City, Ok. He had to borrow money from my Uncles to buy gas for the van and the truck.
Dell City is near Oklahoma City, home of the State Fair of Oklahoma, and tho’ Granpaw and Granmaw are retired—I can’t remember from what—they run a couple of concession stands at the fair. They’ve run food concessions at the fair for longer than I’ve been alive. Mom said she use to work them when she was my age. It sounded fun. Granpaw said he could use help, so Mom and Dad went to work for him. I didn't get to go, at first. I had to sit around Granpaw and Granmaw’s house and watch my little sister, she’s a first grader. She’s okay. Only sometimes, she’s a brat, but she’s waay better than any of my cousins.
At the fair, Mom was makin’ Deep Fried Twinkies on a stick. Never heard of ‘em before. They poke a stick through a Twinkie, dip it in batter, and deep-fry it. Mom said when the fryer gets going they smell so good you can’t make ‘em fast enough for the people that crowd up. The smell just pulls people to ya. Granpaw says if you could figure out how to sell stuff by smell over TV, you could get "double dog rich." I don’t know what that means really, but it sounds good, I think, at least the rich part.
Mom brought home some broken fried Twinkies for us. They were good, but mom said they tasted better fresh hot out of the fryer. She couldn’t hardly stand the sight of them after the first day. I never saw her eat one.
Dad worked serving Bar B. Q. Baby Back Ribs—on a stick. He says that’s a funny thing about the fair. They sell all kinds of food on a stick. Granpaw says it’s a tradition. Says he was the first vendor to batter dip and fry a chunk of cheese on a stick about twenty-four years ago. He said he started the whole on-a-stick food thing. I don’t know if he really did, sometimes he just says things ‘cause they sound good. He said back then the only thing ya could get on a stick was corn dogs and some kinds of ice-cream.
By Tuesday, Granpaw said they needed more help in the concession stands and he’d rather pay family than foreigners, so I got to go work at the Oklahoma State Fair. I thought my sister would get to go too, but Granmaw an Mom did a funny thing. They enrolled her in the Dell City Public Schools. She didn’t like it much at first, but she didn’t get to choose. Mom told her it was just for right now and that she didn’t want to fall behind and disappoint Mrs. Taylor when we went back home. That’s her first grade teacher; she just loves Mrs. Taylor. That settled her down and she went right off to school without crying.
I fried Twinkies for twelve hours that first day. When one would break, I got to eat it. I ate a bunch the first hour. I didn’t break any on purpose. I was just learning how to do it and sometimes they just fell apart. After the first six hours, I couldn’t eat any more. After ten hours, I couldn’t hardly stand to smell ‘em. Now, it makes me a little sick just thinking about ‘em.
Standin’ over the fryer that long makes you feel greasy: greasy skin, greasy hair, greasy clothes. Grease would drip on the floor—you couldn’t help it when you got to frying them fast. It got so you could skate around on it, but Granmaw doesn't like foolishness while workin'. All the grease smelled like fried Twinkies. After you were good and sick of the Twinkies you got to thinking only crazy people would be buyin’ them to eat. I showered for an hour that first night and washed my hair three times.
My second day, Granpaw said I was working good enough to get a break for lunch and dinner. I didn’t have any money to buy food, couldn’t stand the Twinkies, and don’t really like ribs, so Granpaw taught me about “barter.” He fried up a perfect Twinkie and went to the back doors of the other concession booths, offering to swap for whatever they were making. He got me a turkey leg, on a stick of course. It was pretty good. After I learned how to barter, I could have almost anything I wanted. Sometimes other vendors would come knockin at our back door with something to barter and I didn't even have to go lookin' to trade. Usually I could find someone who wanted one or the other, Twinkies or ribs, so for the rest of the week I just bartered through the whole on-a-stick menu.
I made a list of everything I tried:
Twinkie on a stick, of course.
It is a monologue I put together using bits and pieces from three student storm evacuee stories, several events reported in newscast, a little research about "on a stick" foods at fairs, my own memories of working a funnel cake booth at the Brazoria County Fair for several years, and my own imaginings. It is one of several segments I've written for our production, IKE, the *not so* Great Storm of 2008. In the production several monologues, duets, comedy skits, songs, dances, a few poems and special effects are woven together to make up the evening's entertainment. First conceptualized to include only student created work, it has evolved into something broader, including a whole company dance number to a brief excerpt from Gene Kelly's "Singing in the Rain," that delights me every time I see it. If you're nearby, Nov. 6, 7, & 8th, consider attending a performance.
So, the monologue we call,
On A Stick
First, we loaded up Dad’s truck and the van with everything we could haul down from the apartment and headed up to my Aunt’s in Houston. That was late Wednesday. Dad drove back down to work in Galveston Thursday and helped his boss, Virgil, board up his boat shop. Dad does fiberglass work on boats, repairs and stuff. He made a whole boat once, nearly by himself. By the time he got back up to my Aunt’s that night, there were twelve of us staying in the house. I gotta lot of cousins.
Friday mornin’ TV announcers were tellin’ us where we were in Houston had to evacuate, too close to the ship channel. It looked like Ike was going to roll right over us, so we loaded everything back up and drove north to my Uncle’s place south of Tatum. We drove up in our truck, the van and my Aunt’s two cars. Including us, the Houston folks, and some others that just showed up at my Uncle's from the piney woods, there was nearly twenty people bedded down. It was crowded. Like I said, I gotta lot of cousins.
The TV in the workshack was up high. We sat around on the floor, boxes, and workbench to watch the storm roll in over Galveston. In one of the reports, Dad was pretty sure he saw his boss’s boat shop flooded with the roof partly blown off. Maybe also it was on fire, he wasn’t sure. Even if he didn’t see it, the TV said there was six feet of water and mud in the buildings along the bayside and that had to include the boat shop.
Saturday, Dad kept trying to call in and couldn’t get Virgil. By then it looked like Ike was gonna roll right up over Tatum too as a tropical storm. Some of us was sleeping in the shop, and the little boys were outside in tents, so Dad decided we’d ease the crowdin’ and go to my Mom’s parents, Granmaw and Granpaw, in Dell City, Ok. He had to borrow money from my Uncles to buy gas for the van and the truck.
Dell City is near Oklahoma City, home of the State Fair of Oklahoma, and tho’ Granpaw and Granmaw are retired—I can’t remember from what—they run a couple of concession stands at the fair. They’ve run food concessions at the fair for longer than I’ve been alive. Mom said she use to work them when she was my age. It sounded fun. Granpaw said he could use help, so Mom and Dad went to work for him. I didn't get to go, at first. I had to sit around Granpaw and Granmaw’s house and watch my little sister, she’s a first grader. She’s okay. Only sometimes, she’s a brat, but she’s waay better than any of my cousins.
At the fair, Mom was makin’ Deep Fried Twinkies on a stick. Never heard of ‘em before. They poke a stick through a Twinkie, dip it in batter, and deep-fry it. Mom said when the fryer gets going they smell so good you can’t make ‘em fast enough for the people that crowd up. The smell just pulls people to ya. Granpaw says if you could figure out how to sell stuff by smell over TV, you could get "double dog rich." I don’t know what that means really, but it sounds good, I think, at least the rich part.
Mom brought home some broken fried Twinkies for us. They were good, but mom said they tasted better fresh hot out of the fryer. She couldn’t hardly stand the sight of them after the first day. I never saw her eat one.
Dad worked serving Bar B. Q. Baby Back Ribs—on a stick. He says that’s a funny thing about the fair. They sell all kinds of food on a stick. Granpaw says it’s a tradition. Says he was the first vendor to batter dip and fry a chunk of cheese on a stick about twenty-four years ago. He said he started the whole on-a-stick food thing. I don’t know if he really did, sometimes he just says things ‘cause they sound good. He said back then the only thing ya could get on a stick was corn dogs and some kinds of ice-cream.
By Tuesday, Granpaw said they needed more help in the concession stands and he’d rather pay family than foreigners, so I got to go work at the Oklahoma State Fair. I thought my sister would get to go too, but Granmaw an Mom did a funny thing. They enrolled her in the Dell City Public Schools. She didn’t like it much at first, but she didn’t get to choose. Mom told her it was just for right now and that she didn’t want to fall behind and disappoint Mrs. Taylor when we went back home. That’s her first grade teacher; she just loves Mrs. Taylor. That settled her down and she went right off to school without crying.
I fried Twinkies for twelve hours that first day. When one would break, I got to eat it. I ate a bunch the first hour. I didn’t break any on purpose. I was just learning how to do it and sometimes they just fell apart. After the first six hours, I couldn’t eat any more. After ten hours, I couldn’t hardly stand to smell ‘em. Now, it makes me a little sick just thinking about ‘em.
Standin’ over the fryer that long makes you feel greasy: greasy skin, greasy hair, greasy clothes. Grease would drip on the floor—you couldn’t help it when you got to frying them fast. It got so you could skate around on it, but Granmaw doesn't like foolishness while workin'. All the grease smelled like fried Twinkies. After you were good and sick of the Twinkies you got to thinking only crazy people would be buyin’ them to eat. I showered for an hour that first night and washed my hair three times.
My second day, Granpaw said I was working good enough to get a break for lunch and dinner. I didn’t have any money to buy food, couldn’t stand the Twinkies, and don’t really like ribs, so Granpaw taught me about “barter.” He fried up a perfect Twinkie and went to the back doors of the other concession booths, offering to swap for whatever they were making. He got me a turkey leg, on a stick of course. It was pretty good. After I learned how to barter, I could have almost anything I wanted. Sometimes other vendors would come knockin at our back door with something to barter and I didn't even have to go lookin' to trade. Usually I could find someone who wanted one or the other, Twinkies or ribs, so for the rest of the week I just bartered through the whole on-a-stick menu.
I made a list of everything I tried:
Twinkie on a stick, of course.
BBQ baby back ribs on a stick.
Turkey leg on a stick.
Cheeseburger on a stick.
Cheeseburger on a stick.
Hoagie on a stick.
Hamburger on a stick.
Hamburger on a stick.
I think they put some of the stuff on a stick just so they can say it's "on a stick."
Ice cream on a stick, four kinds!
Teriyaki beef on a stick.
Corn dog on a stick.
Pork Chop on a stick.
Pickle on a stick.
Funnel Cake on a stick.
Catfish on a stick.
Popcorn Ball on a stick.
Pickle on a stick.
Funnel Cake on a stick.
Catfish on a stick.
Popcorn Ball on a stick.
Broccoli on a stick, really gross. Broccoli is still Broccoli.
Cheesecake on a stick.
Baked Potato on a stick.
Spaghetti on a stick, really strange.
Frozen grapes on a stick.
Deep-fried Oreo on a stick.
Bacon on a stick.
Caramel Apple on a stick.
Eggroll on a stick.
Choc covered banana rolled in nuts on a stick.
Spaghetti on a stick, really strange.
Frozen grapes on a stick.
Deep-fried Oreo on a stick.
Bacon on a stick.
Caramel Apple on a stick.
Eggroll on a stick.
Choc covered banana rolled in nuts on a stick.
Gator on a stick, greasy, but taste like chicken.
Chicken on a stick, three different kinds, some of 'em didn't taste like chicken.
Chicken on a stick, three different kinds, some of 'em didn't taste like chicken.
Sausage and roll on a stick.
Frog Legs on a stick.
Caramel Pear on a stick.
Pizza on a stick.
Steak on a stick.
Jalapeno on a stick.
Frog Legs on a stick.
Caramel Pear on a stick.
Pizza on a stick.
Steak on a stick.
Jalapeno on a stick.
Deep-fried garlic mashed potatoes on a stick.
Meatballs on a stick.
Cajun Quail on a stick.
Shrimp on a stick.
Lamb on a stick.
Cheese on a stick.
Meatballs on a stick.
Cajun Quail on a stick.
Shrimp on a stick.
Lamb on a stick.
Cheese on a stick.
Fried Coke on a stick. It's kind of like a funnel cake made with Coke syrup in the batter and Coke syrup drizzled all over. Taste okay, but I like my Coke with fiz.
Pecan Pie on a stick.
Fried Marshmallows on a stick.
Deep-fried corn on the cob on a stick, really good.
Fried praline on a stick.
Fried peanut butter, banana, and jelly sandwich on a stick.
Fried Marshmallows on a stick.
Deep-fried corn on the cob on a stick, really good.
Fried praline on a stick.
Fried peanut butter, banana, and jelly sandwich on a stick.
Fried macaroni and cheese on a stick. I took some to my sister. She liked them cold, yuck.
And my all time favorite,
deep-fried Snickers on a stick,
I had four one day, was sick all night.
* * *
I’m back now, but not for long. Mom and I came back in the van—spent a bunch of her Twinkie money on gas. We’re gettin’ the rest of the stuff from our apartment. There's not much that's ours. She’s been sneakin’ around actin’ all hangdog (that’s what Granpaw calls it). I think we still owe rent.
Dad finally got Virgil on the phone. The boat shop is closed—Virgil is taking the insurance money and retiring my Dad said. We’re going to be stuck stayin’ on with Granmaw and Granpaw for a while.
My sister is still in school in Dell City and begged me to take Mrs. Taylor this letter.
I’m withdrawing from B'wood today and going to Dell City next week.
The fair’s over, so no concession jobs ‘til next year. I might be able to eat a Fried Twinkie On A Stick again by then.
Dad’s going to work at Sooner Fiberglass in Oklahoma City.
Mom’s looking for a job.
My sister cried a lot, but I’m not gonna.
I had four one day, was sick all night.
* * *
I’m back now, but not for long. Mom and I came back in the van—spent a bunch of her Twinkie money on gas. We’re gettin’ the rest of the stuff from our apartment. There's not much that's ours. She’s been sneakin’ around actin’ all hangdog (that’s what Granpaw calls it). I think we still owe rent.
Dad finally got Virgil on the phone. The boat shop is closed—Virgil is taking the insurance money and retiring my Dad said. We’re going to be stuck stayin’ on with Granmaw and Granpaw for a while.
My sister is still in school in Dell City and begged me to take Mrs. Taylor this letter.
I’m withdrawing from B'wood today and going to Dell City next week.
The fair’s over, so no concession jobs ‘til next year. I might be able to eat a Fried Twinkie On A Stick again by then.
Dad’s going to work at Sooner Fiberglass in Oklahoma City.
Mom’s looking for a job.
My sister cried a lot, but I’m not gonna.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
My Classes This Year Are Great
My classes this year are great. Once I get the students in class things go well, but it has been a slow start.
The first two days we had three hours of advisory class each day. We did the kind of paperwork and paper shuffling we usually do a little at a time over the first two weeks. I guess it is better for the principal to get all that out of the way quickly, but we seemed to lose a lot of instruction time.
In addition, the principal decided to take the freshmen out both afternoons those first two days for tours of the school, teambuilding, and such. Most of my freshmen came into class on the third day of school expressing relief and happiness finally to be starting “real” school. I guess it is easier for the principal to get all the freshmen in one place for a while to explain how things work in high school.
Of course then the new textbook issuing procedure didn’t seem to work for Theatre Arts. It was supposed to put students in class the first day with books in hand after having been issued from a central point. Well over half of my classes and all of one class had to leave my room five at a time during class to go to an assistant principal’s office to scan their assigned textbook into the computer record. I guess it is easier for the principal to centralize all textbooks this way.
Finally, there was class leveling. Once they get everyone in a class, they shuffle them around so we don’t have one section of forty-five and another of the same class of twenty-five, they “level” so we have two sections of thirty-five. It’s also during this leveling time, I’ve noticed, many students mysteriously end up in sections together with their best friends, students leave classes that appear to be “too hard,” and a class section taught by a student’s favorite teacher is secured. For this reason, there have been many schedule changes the latter half of the second week. I won’t have a stable class list in most of my Arts 1 classes until nearly the end of the third week. It makes it hard to keep up with students, attendance, grades, and hard to create a theatre learning ensemble in each class with new faces popping in and out so often. I guess it is easier for the principal to do it this way.
As I said after I got students into class things went well, though we seem to be about a week behind in our assignments. I’m looking forward--by at least the fourth week of school, certainly--to being able to settle down and concentrate on our learning. One thing seems a little different this year; I don’t seem to have as many troubled children as I did last year.
Some of the classes I had last year were the most challenging I’ve had in my thirty-year career. I had to be so strict with some, just to keep chaos at bay, the class became about discipline not theatre. Keeping control of the class became task one rather than making sure everyone learned as much as they could. Additionally, I don’t believe many enjoyed Theatre Arts 1 last year. I certainly didn’t.
Several teachers and principals commented to me at different times about how the freshmen were “just a bad batch of kids.” I’ve always found that kind of talk offensive. It’s not even a rational thing to say. I have certainly never seen any objective research pointing to any radical change in any measurable trait in students from one year to the next. Change happens more gradually than that.
Rather than blaming last year on a “bad batch” of children, I think it more likely that the slightly frenzied push to force a universally unpopular dress code on the student population and the subsequent loss of respect engendered by such petty tyranny poisoned the school atmosphere. While change happens gradually, administrative dictates seem to drop on us with alarming speed and frequency.
Frequent comments from my most serious and compliant students led me to believe they thought everyone involved in that “no tolerance” “full court press” on dress code violations were fools. I choose not to put into print what my less serious and less compliant student comments were. I eventually came to agree with my students, even as I--fool that I am--did my best to enforce the policy. I am glad to see the principal ease up on the dress code this year. It is probably easier on him to do so. I believe the decision will give us all more time to focus on learning; we’re going to need the extra time to make up for time lost to other tasks. It may even allow the learning climate of the school to improve.
I’ve always tried to hold what I believe is a Christian, scripture-based view: externals are less importance than internals, and ephemeral things have less value than eternal ones. It is hard for children to hear the message that you care about them, want them to learn, and want them in your class if you are—no matter how gently— “always on their case” about dress code violations they and apparently their parents don’t see as significant.
The first two days we had three hours of advisory class each day. We did the kind of paperwork and paper shuffling we usually do a little at a time over the first two weeks. I guess it is better for the principal to get all that out of the way quickly, but we seemed to lose a lot of instruction time.
In addition, the principal decided to take the freshmen out both afternoons those first two days for tours of the school, teambuilding, and such. Most of my freshmen came into class on the third day of school expressing relief and happiness finally to be starting “real” school. I guess it is easier for the principal to get all the freshmen in one place for a while to explain how things work in high school.
Of course then the new textbook issuing procedure didn’t seem to work for Theatre Arts. It was supposed to put students in class the first day with books in hand after having been issued from a central point. Well over half of my classes and all of one class had to leave my room five at a time during class to go to an assistant principal’s office to scan their assigned textbook into the computer record. I guess it is easier for the principal to centralize all textbooks this way.
Finally, there was class leveling. Once they get everyone in a class, they shuffle them around so we don’t have one section of forty-five and another of the same class of twenty-five, they “level” so we have two sections of thirty-five. It’s also during this leveling time, I’ve noticed, many students mysteriously end up in sections together with their best friends, students leave classes that appear to be “too hard,” and a class section taught by a student’s favorite teacher is secured. For this reason, there have been many schedule changes the latter half of the second week. I won’t have a stable class list in most of my Arts 1 classes until nearly the end of the third week. It makes it hard to keep up with students, attendance, grades, and hard to create a theatre learning ensemble in each class with new faces popping in and out so often. I guess it is easier for the principal to do it this way.
As I said after I got students into class things went well, though we seem to be about a week behind in our assignments. I’m looking forward--by at least the fourth week of school, certainly--to being able to settle down and concentrate on our learning. One thing seems a little different this year; I don’t seem to have as many troubled children as I did last year.
Some of the classes I had last year were the most challenging I’ve had in my thirty-year career. I had to be so strict with some, just to keep chaos at bay, the class became about discipline not theatre. Keeping control of the class became task one rather than making sure everyone learned as much as they could. Additionally, I don’t believe many enjoyed Theatre Arts 1 last year. I certainly didn’t.
Several teachers and principals commented to me at different times about how the freshmen were “just a bad batch of kids.” I’ve always found that kind of talk offensive. It’s not even a rational thing to say. I have certainly never seen any objective research pointing to any radical change in any measurable trait in students from one year to the next. Change happens more gradually than that.
Rather than blaming last year on a “bad batch” of children, I think it more likely that the slightly frenzied push to force a universally unpopular dress code on the student population and the subsequent loss of respect engendered by such petty tyranny poisoned the school atmosphere. While change happens gradually, administrative dictates seem to drop on us with alarming speed and frequency.
Frequent comments from my most serious and compliant students led me to believe they thought everyone involved in that “no tolerance” “full court press” on dress code violations were fools. I choose not to put into print what my less serious and less compliant student comments were. I eventually came to agree with my students, even as I--fool that I am--did my best to enforce the policy. I am glad to see the principal ease up on the dress code this year. It is probably easier on him to do so. I believe the decision will give us all more time to focus on learning; we’re going to need the extra time to make up for time lost to other tasks. It may even allow the learning climate of the school to improve.
I’ve always tried to hold what I believe is a Christian, scripture-based view: externals are less importance than internals, and ephemeral things have less value than eternal ones. It is hard for children to hear the message that you care about them, want them to learn, and want them in your class if you are—no matter how gently— “always on their case” about dress code violations they and apparently their parents don’t see as significant.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
The Boy With the Crooked Smile
I asked him to stay after class for a moment. I had had it with his disrespect. While the classroom emptied, he sat in his desk, warily. As I began my one-sided “talk,” my mind raced ahead to gather the long list of his shortcomings and my short list of expectations, focusing on the gap inbetween. I found myself, beetle browed, jut jawed, stern postured, finger in mid-point, with nothing to say.
I thought he thought I was stupid, but I couldn’t remember even so much as a mutter from him expressing that. I thought he was disrespectful to me, but why, how? It came to me. It was his smirk.
I would say something to pull a laugh from the class and he would smirk.
I would smile, say good morning to the class, and he would smirk.
He didn’t slouch back in his chair, broadcasting disdain with every slow move. He didn’t hump over his desk, head-down, asleep, unresponsive and slack; until a touch or a shake furied every body muscle, pent-up, poised to explode as he slowly rose and glared, confronting the toucher or shaker. He didn’t chatter endlessly heedless of my calls for his attention.
He just sat up in his desk, straight-backed from his butt to his brainpan, and smirked.
I looked at him, paused, and put my pointed finger away. I couldn’t read a riot act to a kid for smirking.
His brows went up, he looked me in the eyes, briefly, then down and side to side. “What,” he said.
I thought a while. He continued in the silence, “What . . . what! Am I in trouble? I didn’t do any. . .”
I cut him off. “Do you ever find yourself in a situation where a teacher, a coach, or—I don’t know—anyone who’s an authority figure, suddenly goes off on you for no good reason? Like they’re mad at you for something you did, but you don’t know what, and they never tell you. Maybe they use the phrase ‘bad attitude.’”
He left me for a minute, staring straight ahead, eyes focused on something a long ways off, beyond the whiteboard ten feet in front of him. His answer seemed to grow from that distance, like someone hollering out a car window at you as they come down the street.
“Yeah.” His inflection got louder as the pitch went up, a questioned surprise. And suddenly he was back from the distance, looking straight at me, cautiously, distrustfully.
“Come here,” I said, leading him to the mirror on the wall in the corner of the classroom.
“What?” he said as he reluctantly followed to the mirror.
I hesitated, “I don’t really know how to ask this any way but bluntly, but have you ever had a serious head injury or something?”
He pulled back, looked directly at me. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “Why?”
“Because you have a one-sided smile. Look . . . smile in the mirror.”
“What are you . . . no. Can I just go?” He turned to leave.
“Just look in the mirror, smile, tell me what you see, and then you can go,” I pleaded, feeling a little foolish. “You’ve never had a stroke or anything like that have you?”
He looked in the mirror and made his lopsided smile. “The smirk,” I thought, “His normal smile is a one-sided smirk.”
I said, “There, you see how that corner of your mouth goes up when you smile and the other doesn’t move at all? Why do you do that?”
He smiled at himself in the mirror again. “I don’t know . . . habit.”
“Can you smile with both corners of your mouth going up?” He looked in the mirror, looked at me, looked in the mirror again and pulled both corners up, independent of each other at first, but finally together in an awkward, leering smile.
“Like this?” He said through his open mouth, rolling his eyes over to look at me.
“See, you can do it.” I startled him with my enthusiasm.
“This is just too weird.” He was heading for the door again.
“Wait, wait.” I stopped him. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to tell you how you have to smile. You can smile with a frown if you want, but you need to know something.”
“Okay, what?” he said.
“There is something about the one-sidedness of your smile that leads me to think you think I’m an idiot. Your natural smile is a sarcastic looking smirk!” He tilted his head slightly, arching an eyebrow at me, about to speak. “Don’t say it; I think I know what you’re going to say.” I held up my hand to stop him. “Several times this year I’ve found myself irritated at you for no good reason that I can tell.”
I continued. “Maybe it’s just me, maybe I’m too insecure or something, but I bet I’m not the only person who interprets your smile that way. Just consider the possibility you may be sending negative messages you don’t intend to people with that smile.”
He looked at me, looked in the mirror, and looked at me again. He wasn’t smiling. I plunged on, feeling I had gone too far to stop now. “How about you try a little experiment for me?”
“What?” he said.
“Every time you laugh or smile try to make yourself use both corners of your mouth and see if it makes any difference in how people react to you.”
He went back to the mirror and again launched both corners of his mouth upward into a smile; again, they came up alternately, one at a time at first. He looked at his awkward, leering face, gave his head a little shake, and again spoke to me through the open-mouthed smile. “Looks stupid.”
“Not so bad as you think, maybe. You’re just not use to it.” I offered.
He shook his head again, let his smile collapse, and headed out the door. “This is nuts.”
I just let him go.
After that day, he started what I chose to interpret as a gentle tease. Every time I saw him in the halls, greeted him as he entered the classroom, or he laughed at one of my jokes, he would pause for a fraction of a second, launch both corners of his mouth into that goofy, leering smile, and present his face to me, so I was sure to notice. Greeting me in the hallways he would add, “Hello Mr. White,” through the teeth of his frozen open-mouthed smile.
Because of his teasing, I didn’t ask him about the experiment I had proposed until the very end of the year. That day I met him coming down the hall. He grinned his goofy grin and greeted me.
I stopped him and said, “I have to know. Have you been experimenting with your smile on anyone but me?”
He grinned his goofy grin again and nodded.
“Can you tell if it makes any difference in how people react?”
He left me again for a minute, staring straight ahead, eyes focused on something a long ways off, down the hall maybe, but I didn’t turn to look. Again, his answer seemed to come from that distant place.
“Yeah.” Same inflection, same look of surprise on his face, but with less confusion and more humor. With that word, he was suddenly and once again back from the distance.
He gave me a perfectly natural, symmetrical smile and went on down the hall.
I thought he thought I was stupid, but I couldn’t remember even so much as a mutter from him expressing that. I thought he was disrespectful to me, but why, how? It came to me. It was his smirk.
I would say something to pull a laugh from the class and he would smirk.
I would smile, say good morning to the class, and he would smirk.
He didn’t slouch back in his chair, broadcasting disdain with every slow move. He didn’t hump over his desk, head-down, asleep, unresponsive and slack; until a touch or a shake furied every body muscle, pent-up, poised to explode as he slowly rose and glared, confronting the toucher or shaker. He didn’t chatter endlessly heedless of my calls for his attention.
He just sat up in his desk, straight-backed from his butt to his brainpan, and smirked.
I looked at him, paused, and put my pointed finger away. I couldn’t read a riot act to a kid for smirking.
His brows went up, he looked me in the eyes, briefly, then down and side to side. “What,” he said.
I thought a while. He continued in the silence, “What . . . what! Am I in trouble? I didn’t do any. . .”
I cut him off. “Do you ever find yourself in a situation where a teacher, a coach, or—I don’t know—anyone who’s an authority figure, suddenly goes off on you for no good reason? Like they’re mad at you for something you did, but you don’t know what, and they never tell you. Maybe they use the phrase ‘bad attitude.’”
He left me for a minute, staring straight ahead, eyes focused on something a long ways off, beyond the whiteboard ten feet in front of him. His answer seemed to grow from that distance, like someone hollering out a car window at you as they come down the street.
“Yeah.” His inflection got louder as the pitch went up, a questioned surprise. And suddenly he was back from the distance, looking straight at me, cautiously, distrustfully.
“Come here,” I said, leading him to the mirror on the wall in the corner of the classroom.
“What?” he said as he reluctantly followed to the mirror.
I hesitated, “I don’t really know how to ask this any way but bluntly, but have you ever had a serious head injury or something?”
He pulled back, looked directly at me. “No,” he said, shaking his head, “Why?”
“Because you have a one-sided smile. Look . . . smile in the mirror.”
“What are you . . . no. Can I just go?” He turned to leave.
“Just look in the mirror, smile, tell me what you see, and then you can go,” I pleaded, feeling a little foolish. “You’ve never had a stroke or anything like that have you?”
He looked in the mirror and made his lopsided smile. “The smirk,” I thought, “His normal smile is a one-sided smirk.”
I said, “There, you see how that corner of your mouth goes up when you smile and the other doesn’t move at all? Why do you do that?”
He smiled at himself in the mirror again. “I don’t know . . . habit.”
“Can you smile with both corners of your mouth going up?” He looked in the mirror, looked at me, looked in the mirror again and pulled both corners up, independent of each other at first, but finally together in an awkward, leering smile.
“Like this?” He said through his open mouth, rolling his eyes over to look at me.
“See, you can do it.” I startled him with my enthusiasm.
“This is just too weird.” He was heading for the door again.
“Wait, wait.” I stopped him. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not trying to tell you how you have to smile. You can smile with a frown if you want, but you need to know something.”
“Okay, what?” he said.
“There is something about the one-sidedness of your smile that leads me to think you think I’m an idiot. Your natural smile is a sarcastic looking smirk!” He tilted his head slightly, arching an eyebrow at me, about to speak. “Don’t say it; I think I know what you’re going to say.” I held up my hand to stop him. “Several times this year I’ve found myself irritated at you for no good reason that I can tell.”
I continued. “Maybe it’s just me, maybe I’m too insecure or something, but I bet I’m not the only person who interprets your smile that way. Just consider the possibility you may be sending negative messages you don’t intend to people with that smile.”
He looked at me, looked in the mirror, and looked at me again. He wasn’t smiling. I plunged on, feeling I had gone too far to stop now. “How about you try a little experiment for me?”
“What?” he said.
“Every time you laugh or smile try to make yourself use both corners of your mouth and see if it makes any difference in how people react to you.”
He went back to the mirror and again launched both corners of his mouth upward into a smile; again, they came up alternately, one at a time at first. He looked at his awkward, leering face, gave his head a little shake, and again spoke to me through the open-mouthed smile. “Looks stupid.”
“Not so bad as you think, maybe. You’re just not use to it.” I offered.
He shook his head again, let his smile collapse, and headed out the door. “This is nuts.”
I just let him go.
After that day, he started what I chose to interpret as a gentle tease. Every time I saw him in the halls, greeted him as he entered the classroom, or he laughed at one of my jokes, he would pause for a fraction of a second, launch both corners of his mouth into that goofy, leering smile, and present his face to me, so I was sure to notice. Greeting me in the hallways he would add, “Hello Mr. White,” through the teeth of his frozen open-mouthed smile.
Because of his teasing, I didn’t ask him about the experiment I had proposed until the very end of the year. That day I met him coming down the hall. He grinned his goofy grin and greeted me.
I stopped him and said, “I have to know. Have you been experimenting with your smile on anyone but me?”
He grinned his goofy grin again and nodded.
“Can you tell if it makes any difference in how people react?”
He left me again for a minute, staring straight ahead, eyes focused on something a long ways off, down the hall maybe, but I didn’t turn to look. Again, his answer seemed to come from that distant place.
“Yeah.” Same inflection, same look of surprise on his face, but with less confusion and more humor. With that word, he was suddenly and once again back from the distance.
He gave me a perfectly natural, symmetrical smile and went on down the hall.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
The Belief Engine
I was reading my recent issue of Scientific American (August 2008) and came across Michael Shermer’s opinion column, “Skeptic,” entitled “Wheatgrass Juice and Folk Medicine.” Other titles/subtitles I found on the Internet were:
“How Anecdotal Evidence Can Undermine Scientific Results”
“Why subjective anecdotes often trump objective data”
The column may still be online:
http://www.sciam.com/article.cfm?id=how-anecdotal-evidence-can-undermine-scientific-results I accessed it on 25 July 2008.
Writing about a controversy over the possibility some vaccinations cause autism, Shermer alludes in passing to what he appears to believe is the evolved pattern of reasoning our brains use that gives greater weight to anecdotal evidence than to scientific evidence.
“. . . we have evolved brains that pay attention to anecdotes because false positives (believing there is a connection between A and B when there is not) are usually harmless, whereas false negatives (believing there is no connection between A and B when there is) may take you out of the gene pool. Our brains are belief engines that employ association learning to seek and find patterns. Superstition and belief in magic are millions of years old, whereas science, with its methods of controlling for intervening variables to circumvent false positives, is only a few hundred years old.”
My mind leaped to agree with this because the trumping power of anecdotal evidence over research-based conclusions has always frustrated me in my dealings with decision makers on education issues. Additionally, I found Shermer’s characterization of our brains as “belief engines” delightful. Unfortunately, I suspect the reasons for my delight would chagrin him. Finally, my life experience has led me to believe the brain is hard wired to “make meaning,” so I thought, “This guy’s a genius; he agrees with me.”
His conclusions about why our “evolved brains” . . . “pay attention to anecdotes” seemed compelling at first, but after further thought, they appeared to be undercut by his own supporting assertions. I understood him to say millions of years of superstition and belief in magic have evolved brains with a predilection to see cause and effect where it may not exist because “false positives” are benign. He goes on to assert that failing to see cause and effect where it does exist “may take you out of the gene pool.” The assertion he assumes is that through natural selection our brains developed as "belief engines," seeing connections and making meaning even when there was nothing to see or understand.
Does this mean false negatives are deadly?
Is he saying our “belief engines” have served the species well for millions of years only because of the slight statistical advantage we gain by frequently perceiving connections that cannot be supported by science, and in fact do not exist?
Then is he saying “science, with its methods of controlling for intervening variables to circumvent false positives,” a method of decision making “only a few hundred years old,” is somehow to be preferred?
Also he appears to assert that science can distinguish conclusively the true from the false positives, the true from the false negatives and free us from millions of years of superstitious reasoning. Suddenly, the superstitious reasoning that has been evolutionarily successful for us as a species is now unacceptable and should be replaced by scientific reasoning.
Even if I were to stipulate to every thing he said: his assertions about superstitious belief, his apparently logical assertions that false positives are benign, that false negatives are evolutionarily deadly, and his assertion my brain, my belief engine, evolved in a way that makes it prone to believe things that that do not exist; even if I were to accept all of this as true I’m not sure I would be willing to replace my belief engine with scientific skepticism.
The conclusions of science are always subject to modification, change, even total reversal when new data is discovered or old data is reinterpreted. As I understand it, science never, by its essential nature, claims infallibility. The short few hundred-year history of science would refute such a claim.
Shermer appears to assume the superiority of scientific beliefs over any superstitious beliefs even though science is subject to error and expends no small part of it’s energy pointing out what it reasons to be “false negatives” (based on current data, subject to change). I can’t embrace the assumption that scientific beliefs are superior. It sounds too risky. After all, false negatives are deadly.
“How Anecdotal Evidence Can Undermine Scientific Results”
“Why subjective anecdotes often trump objective data”
The column may still be online:
http://www.sciam.com/article.cfm?id=how-anecdotal-evidence-can-undermine-scientific-results I accessed it on 25 July 2008.
Writing about a controversy over the possibility some vaccinations cause autism, Shermer alludes in passing to what he appears to believe is the evolved pattern of reasoning our brains use that gives greater weight to anecdotal evidence than to scientific evidence.
“. . . we have evolved brains that pay attention to anecdotes because false positives (believing there is a connection between A and B when there is not) are usually harmless, whereas false negatives (believing there is no connection between A and B when there is) may take you out of the gene pool. Our brains are belief engines that employ association learning to seek and find patterns. Superstition and belief in magic are millions of years old, whereas science, with its methods of controlling for intervening variables to circumvent false positives, is only a few hundred years old.”
My mind leaped to agree with this because the trumping power of anecdotal evidence over research-based conclusions has always frustrated me in my dealings with decision makers on education issues. Additionally, I found Shermer’s characterization of our brains as “belief engines” delightful. Unfortunately, I suspect the reasons for my delight would chagrin him. Finally, my life experience has led me to believe the brain is hard wired to “make meaning,” so I thought, “This guy’s a genius; he agrees with me.”
His conclusions about why our “evolved brains” . . . “pay attention to anecdotes” seemed compelling at first, but after further thought, they appeared to be undercut by his own supporting assertions. I understood him to say millions of years of superstition and belief in magic have evolved brains with a predilection to see cause and effect where it may not exist because “false positives” are benign. He goes on to assert that failing to see cause and effect where it does exist “may take you out of the gene pool.” The assertion he assumes is that through natural selection our brains developed as "belief engines," seeing connections and making meaning even when there was nothing to see or understand.
Does this mean false negatives are deadly?
Is he saying our “belief engines” have served the species well for millions of years only because of the slight statistical advantage we gain by frequently perceiving connections that cannot be supported by science, and in fact do not exist?
Then is he saying “science, with its methods of controlling for intervening variables to circumvent false positives,” a method of decision making “only a few hundred years old,” is somehow to be preferred?
Also he appears to assert that science can distinguish conclusively the true from the false positives, the true from the false negatives and free us from millions of years of superstitious reasoning. Suddenly, the superstitious reasoning that has been evolutionarily successful for us as a species is now unacceptable and should be replaced by scientific reasoning.
Even if I were to stipulate to every thing he said: his assertions about superstitious belief, his apparently logical assertions that false positives are benign, that false negatives are evolutionarily deadly, and his assertion my brain, my belief engine, evolved in a way that makes it prone to believe things that that do not exist; even if I were to accept all of this as true I’m not sure I would be willing to replace my belief engine with scientific skepticism.
The conclusions of science are always subject to modification, change, even total reversal when new data is discovered or old data is reinterpreted. As I understand it, science never, by its essential nature, claims infallibility. The short few hundred-year history of science would refute such a claim.
Shermer appears to assume the superiority of scientific beliefs over any superstitious beliefs even though science is subject to error and expends no small part of it’s energy pointing out what it reasons to be “false negatives” (based on current data, subject to change). I can’t embrace the assumption that scientific beliefs are superior. It sounds too risky. After all, false negatives are deadly.
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