The Devil is in the Details...

Details of what?
Day to day life in the middle of a COVID-19 pandemic...
Mine is like yours. No details that make it special. I've got the white picket fence in middle America, with a dog and 2.5 kids - All on LockDown. Just like you.

1 of those kids is able to handle her business in the digital realm of distance learning like a trained professional. We rarely see her except when she emerges from her lair for chesse sticks or strawberries. Occasionally she'll join us for a family board game or to force us to watch her weird Vampire shows. But overall, she's going with the swing of things and seems to be handling things much better than the pater familias.

You would think that the other kid would be loving life without the strains of four walls and a classroom. He's made for the outdoors. His new found hobby of outdoor photgraphy falls right in his wheelhouse. To me a walk in the woods should suffice as a weeks worth of biology lessons - better than any textbook or online video chat could offer. But the MN Department of Education doesn't see it that way. So, ISD#139 keeps throwing ZOOM classes, Schoology Lessons, Google Classroom notes and at least 15 emails a day at our 7th grade, Total Outdoorsman. And he's drowning in it.

I feel for the Dude because I'm not adjusting very well myself. This isn't how he learns and it's not how I teach but it's the challenge we've been presented and attack it we must. Daily, I diligently host a two hour open window of online video conferencing with whichever 4th graders decide to join me. Naturally, it's the same 7-8 kids evey day and mediating two hours of small talk with 9 year olds proves difficult. I've gotten better at focussing our discussions towards sharing and a little homework guidance. But being glued to a chair, staring down a desktop camera - careful to reply to any staff emails in less than 59 minutes as instructed by our administartion is potentially a violation of the Geneva Conventions rules on torture.

I need a gobbler to holler in the distance or to feel the tug on the other end of a fishing pole soon. Both are just around the corner. So, I'll wait patiently. In the meantime, I tiptoe past my better half who is navigating work from abroad herself. The whole nature of her job description fits right in with this Social Distancing well as does her introverted ways. I admire my lovely wife knocking out Kettle Bell sessions with her gym buddies on opposite ends of a video screen and think that she must actually prefer things this way. Shopping online has always been a source of joy at her fingertips but this lockdown seems to have her Leveled Up in the next round of Jumanji. Involuntarily, I've signed up for a League of "You're not Doing it Right" - of which there can be no winner. But I love her to pieces. When we're able to get out for a walk at least once a day, I'm eventually centered and reminded how grateful I am to be married to my Dream Woman.

Netflix is an addiction that Uncle Sam will have to address once this all passes. Gay Tigers and Beautiful Vampires, Australian lifeguards and Loud-mouthed fishermen... a world of mindless distraction is out our fingertips. Thankfully we can all usually come together for some family time around the TV screen.

And Raider - the old fella loves having the whole pack together. He'll curl up at your feet when you need a friend during your 3rd online chat of the day. He'll retrieve every thrown ball and happily join you on a shelter-in-place approved walk around town. Raider's got it made. He doesn't have any job description tying him down.

I lost count of what day we're on in Quarantine... probably for the better....a number is just a detail. And who cares really?
The Devil is in the details.

A walk with Big Paul...

This dang COVID got me going stir crazy. Like the rest of the extroverts struggling with their new social boundaries, I was thankful to have essential clearance to leave the house Thursday. My grade level decided to schedule a meeting to touch base that morning. From my classroom, I hosted my regular 9:00 a.am., ZOOM Video Conference - A.K.A.: Chuck E. Cheese Stage Show Madness. After convincing a handful of 10 year olds that 45 minutes of small talk was adequate, I politely excused them one by one and we went about our merry ways.

Shortly thereafter, Mr. Erdman, Mrs. D and I met with our building principal, all well aware of the mandatory social distance. We accomplished a few things but for me the value was in the face to face contact. I'm not sure much was decided but we were able to share a few things and ease each other's anxieties about Week #1 of Distance Learning.

A trip to the gas station for a treat and a slow country drive home with the windows down was helping to ease my worried mind but as the truck climbed the hill by the highschool, I still felt out of whack. Remembing that my mud boots were in the back, I pulled in to the lot at the rink and decided it was time for a walk with Big Paul.

See, I'm not Big Paul.
I'm Little Paul.

Big Paul was my Grandpa. He died in a car accident in 1994. I was an 18 years old Marine, recently assigned to the Fleet. I flew home on emergency leave to comfort my grandmother and to bury my namesake. He never saw me in uniform but I carried his casket in my Service Alphas. I'm not sure that I've been to the cemetery in 20+ years but I think of him often.

I think of him when I hear my Grandma's voice on the other end of the phone. She's the one that often still refers to me as Little Paul. I think of Grandpa when I take my kids to the Pine City Flea Market in July. Big Paul was an original American Picker. I think of my Grandpa each time I do something crafty. He was a proud German carpenter although I inherited very little of that craftiness.

What I remeber of Big Paul was his mastery of the French Language. Grandma would fuss and my mother would ask him not to talk that way in front of the kids. He heeded neither warning. I remember my grandfather knew a lot of people in his neighborhood. He'd always have someone to stop and offer his opinion to. Grandpa Paul knew his way around the BEER too. Now, I wish I remembered his flavor to have one in his honor.

But what I most remember about my Grandpa was that he loved his grandkids. It was a treat to ride up to the recycling center with Grandpa to turn in some cans for pocket change. Although I'm sure many adults probably took us to that playground by my grandparents house in Aurora, I don't have the foggiest recollection of anyone else doing it, except Grandpa. But the real reward for us grandkids was to go up to Phillips Park and hunt for golf balls.

Oh he wasn't a golfer. I've told that story before. Big Paul was Fred Sanford. He saw value in everything. And when I say value, I mean that he saw PROFIT in everything. What other people wasted, Paul Sempsrote turned in to cash in his pocket. He toted us youngins along. Maybe it was to have another set of eyes looking for another golfball to turn in to a dime but what it felt like was LOVE.

As the snow melts and the Spring rains come, you can sometimes find me pacing the receeding snow piles that surround our outdoor, city, skating rinks. It's the in between times of a fading hockey season and the hope that springs eternal of a turkey hunt or baseball on the horizon. Puddles of disappearing slush leave behind stray hockey pucks left behind from winter's games of shiny and the wandering slapshot of the next Wayne Gretzky.

I don't need anymore pucks. I have buckets full in the garage. I usually like to hunt for them with Logan but his interest is fading. He has all the pucks he could ever need. To work on their game, he and Emma shoot buckets of pucks from time to time. But I can't resist the pull to go on a nice peaceful walk around a park. Each time I do, I think of Big Paul - looking for another man's errant golf ball. Seeing value in the misplaced and discarded. Looking for a way to earn a nickle.

I don't sell the pucks like Grandpa used to sell the golf balls but each time I find another one, I smile and wish I could go on one more walk with Big Paul.

Stone Cold Crazy

The official, Latin, motto of the Marine Corps is Semper Fidelis. It translates to "Always Faithful". The details are fuzzy but I think it's tattooed on the inside of my lip.

To those of us that have served in Uncle Sam's beloved Motorcyle Club, we take these words as the gospel. But we also know that Semper Fidelis plays second fiddle to the true Marine Corps Motto -

HURRY UP and WAIT. 

From the first minute you first stand on those yellow footprints, situated at a precise 45 degree angle, you begin to learn that through ALL things you must hurry up and wait. USMC Bootcamp is longer than the other branches. Some may think that extra time is needed to Earn the Title - Marine. Truth is, it has to be longer because of all that time we sat around on our ass waiting for the word.

It doesn't stop after recruit training. Throughout MCT/SOI newly annointed, "boot" Marines perfect standing in nice straight lines. Cleaning gear and weapons in between those trips to the Range and to "the Field" may seem as a necessary means to a proper end, but I'm calling Bullsh*t. In retrospect I can see that we sat on the parade deck and fiddled with meanial tasks as a way of further driving home the official motto. Hurry Up & Wait. I don't speak Latin but it'd be interesting if the Latin translation was something poetic - fit for another tattoo.

Succesfully graduated from warrior training, Marines dropped to the Fleet are readied for days on end of NOTHING. Sure we can amaze you with exciting stories of training opportunities, and high speed weapons. Stories of heroism and un-Godly feats of strength and stamina. Understand, every single story of awesomeness is just a ruse that was paid for with minutes, hours and days of doing nothing. Nothing but waiting on the word. 

Waiting for some General to give an order. A Major to tell a Captain. A Captain to tell his Lieutenants. The Lieutenants to give the word to the Senior Staff NCO's. The NCO's to argue and question and to tell the officers the right way to do things...sometimes starting the whole process over again. And in the meantime, the junior Marines are perfecting the Art of doing NOTHING. Nothing of circumstance anyway.

Moving from build up, training and preparation and in to War Time, the only constant is that you can bet your sweet ass that you'll be sitting on your sweet ass. I earned my Combat Action award in Mogadishu, Somalia 25 years ago - for that I am proud. My journal helps reconnect the synapses of my brain with memories of long ago. Read in between the lines of any military memoir and you're sure to see that through all the smoke and mirrors, fire and brimstone - I can promise that there were times with very little ACTION in any true Combat Action. 

And then of course, one's service eventually comes to an end. The acronym of love with just 3 lonely letters is EAS. It means End of Active Service.  Home from deployment, Shortimer Marines await their civilian futures on the horizon. Time ticks by at a snail's pace and every good Marine worth his salt meets this last challenge head on. When you can see the light at the end of the tunnel and are counting the days left on your hitch, terminal Marines quickly learn that the best way to pass the time is to do nothing.

Nada.

Zilch.

Hurry Up and Wait. 

Time marches on.

And so my fellow Americans, as our nation's leaders implore us to Shelter in Place while the shelf life of COVID-19 is whittled down, I can assure you that I've trained my whole life for this. Stay at home. Grab a good book. Try a new recipe. Build some baits or bust out the crochet hooks. Play a board game or Heaven fobid - Do Nothing. It's O.K.

"General Quarters. General Quarters. All hands on deck, General Quarters"

House Arrest

Unless you've been on Mars lately, you've been somehow affected by the Corona Virus / COVID-19. At this point, I'm not sure that the Martians could have possibly escaped the widespread panic caused by this pandemic.
History will judge us.
No one may ever know if we over-reacted but the scary possibilities of under-reacting are too much to even fathom.
At this point, nothing can surprise us.
School is no longer in session. Oh sure - Monday 3/30 we start "Distance Learning" but that's not school.
19 years I have been a teacher. Those innocent children that sat in my classroom on that Tuesday morning long ago when those planes flew in to those buildings - yeah, they're Moms and Dads now. They're professionals and even colleagues of mine. We learned then that the world stopped turning but only for a little while.
And now here we are again...the rotation of the Earth seems at a stand still...but it's not. This too shall pass. Grace before grades and Love before Lessons - school will be back in Real Session some day soon.
In the meantime, we take another gubernatorial approved walk around town with our dog. Play another board game with those people that are most important to us. Another click through the interwebs to see what has changed in the last 6 hours. And wonder with each sneeze, if it's our time...

Call your Grandma.

The BLOG is back up and running!

All it took was an International Pandemic.

Except sometimes they are watching...

Jeff Jennings is a Long Term sub in our building for a gal that's out on maternity leave. While teaching 5th grade Literacy, Mr. Jennings is also working on his Masters Degree and hoping for a permanent job teaching in the district he grew up in. Every once in a while I get to have lunch and visit with him.

It's good having Jeff around. He's a funny guy and a good story teller. A couple of weeks ago he asked me about 7th grade football. I told him that things were going well and that I'd settled in to a new, kinder and gentler coaching mentality. It's easier on my blood pressure coaching towards fun in pursuit of winning. But I confessed that I may have had a relapse during a timeout a week before.
Jeff listened while I admitted to raising my voice and getting after the whole squad. Parents in the stands thought that I was trying to "fire up the troops". My wife knew that the message was more about missed assignments, lowered expectations and general undisciplined mistakes.

That's when Jeff interrupted with a story of his own.

See, back in the day, Jennings was a 3 sport stud at Rush City. Football, Basketball and Track - he had it all and made things look effortless. I'm proud that he still calls me Coach. With a huge smile on his face, Jeff retold the story of his first varsity touchdown. He was a freshman and admittedly, big for his britches. Late in a game of little consequence, he caught a pass from Jake Bosman, made a couple of defenders miss and pranced in to the endzone. Jeff says he spun the football to the ground and raised his hands in the Titanic Pose as if to say, "Look at me, World."

With a chuckle, 30 year old Jennings said that 15 year old Jeff was snatched up directly in the facemask and pulled in close to Coach Kirby while the young coach hollerd, "ACT LIKE YOU'VE BEEN THERE! Act like you've been there! Don't you ever toss a football like that again. You hustle it over to the referee and hand it directly too him. YOU HAND IT TO THE REF and then go celebrate with the linemen that got you in the endzone!"

Apparently our Teachable Moment went a little long because Jeff said we played the extra point with only 10 players on the field. Jeff missed an assignment but was learning a valuable life lesson. In the teacher's lounge, 16 years later, I was beaming with pride as our player/coach relationship had now grown in to becoming lunch buddies. Jeff said he vividly remembers that evening under the Friday Night Lights. He also shared a memory of a touchdown he scored later that season to secure a big win for us in the closing moments of a game at East Central. He recalled looking to the sidelines and seeing me jumping for joy; happy for him and being his biggest supporter. At the sideline, I assured the young wideout that he was going to be in the endzone often.

In my infinite wisdom, I asked Jeff what the real life take away from that moment was. Jeff knew the answer I was looking for. Jeff said touchdowns are less about the individual and more about the team. Jeff said that handing the ball to an official is an ultimate sign of respect and a direct way to act like you've been there before. (Sidenote - he did score often. Jennings went on to play college football and run college track)

As he pushed in his chair and was ready to leave our conversation, Jeff said that after every touchdown he scored from that day forward, he handed the football to an official. Once in college, the ref asked him to toss him the ball. Jeff refused and looked over his shoulder fearful that Coach Kirby might be watching somewhere.

I wasn't.
But I wished that I had been there to watch him play that day.
*********************************************************************************

Tuesday the 7th grade Tigers lost a 6-0 battle in the trenches at Pine City. On a muddied field, the players poured their guts out, fighting for every inch on offense and defending every inch with grit and determination on defense.
The fullback/middle linebacker on that team lives under the same roof as me. He fought hard with everything he had. He shouldered the load of an undefeated season and tried so hard with every snap of the ball. In the endzone, our tying score went in and out of the hands of a wide open receiver. We gave ourselves one last chance with the effective use of our remaining timeouts but it wasn't meant to be. We held our heads high in defeat becasue we had played with pride.
Then the 8th grade game began. An already depleated roster was thinned out even more as Coach Morgan dealt with discipline issues and nagging injuries. One by one, 8th graders were falling by the wayside. He begged for reinforcements and the 7th graders came calling.
After already playing four challenging quarters of football, a few kids stepped up and gave their best effort against an opponent with higher participation numbers and a year of experience on them. But there was no quit in the 7th graders that fought hard for the yellow and blue. The right side of the offenseive line was made up of underclassmen. The backfield had a 7th grader in support of an 8th grader. On the outside, little wideouts threw blocks as best as they could. As a matter of fact, the two touchdowns that Rush City was able to put on the board were a direct result of excellent support play by the 7th graders on the field.
But after another 4 quarters, the Tigers once again fell short. This time 16-12. We met the Dragons at midfield for the requisite handshake and awkward pleasantries. Having done this a thousand times in my career, I know that it's usually followed by a team huddle. So as I gathered the troops, I searched the dispersing crowd for my own son. I couldn't see him amongst the players that knelt before me.

That is because he wasn't there.

Along the far sideline, a torn and batterered player was chasing down the referees. The striped men had a good headstart and the worn out player was straining to catch up with them . From afar I recognized the hobbled gait of my boy. #32 was insistent on making contact and thanking each official personally with a handshake. Beat down from 8 quarters of legal warfare, Logan pushed through the agony of defeat to do what he knows is right.

Even when no one is watching....

Except, sometimes they are.

Speed Dating the Kirbys... in FIVE...FOUR....THREE....

Why didn't you say the Two & One?
Ya just don't.

*Emma is on the Homecoming Honor Court - Sophomore Edition. 5'11" Setter on the Volleyball Squad. Got her Permit to Drive 3 weeks ago and hasn't hit anything yet. She settled for Converse in lieu of dress shoes for Coronation - partly due to necessity (hard to find size 11 - she's a growing girl) and partly due to comfort and style - Black converse are more her style. Emma is making those around her happy - she's a jokester - a dancer - a real good girl that makes us all so happy.

*Tyler - 23 years old today. Hard to swallow that Real World birthdays are a lot of different than birthdays are when you're in college. Gotta get up for work. He works at ATS Transport in St. Cloud. Has a lovely lady in his life. Very opionated about the NFL and NBA circus. Has recently remembered how fun fishing can be. We see him more lately - that makes everyone happy.

*Logan sometimes wears jeans. Has mastered the curl and flip of his perfectly quaffed hair, which is an essential 7th grade/middle school skill. He's run for a TD and thrown a TD in school ball. No bad for a guy that they compare to Jerome Bettis and Herschel Walker. He works hard on his school work and so far, his grades are fantastic...even though he was up late the other night helping out a fellow classmate through some homework over the phone. Late as in - almost 11;00 pm...but it was ok, she's cute. He's happy.

*Michele is on her last day at Broekema. She went from being the new girl to being the Employee of the Month to being the short timer in the matter of a few months. But the future is bright for her. A generous salary increase. Increased paid time off. A job she can see herself excelling at and hopefully in an environment with others that enjoy lifting each other up. She's going to be a trainer in an education based tech compnay but I don't want to say too much here until she tells Grandma Judy. ( I am not going to explain this one!) We're all happy for her.

* And me. The old dog can be taught new tricks... I'm coaching football in Rush City again. Headmanning the Junior High squad with a heck of a kid playing Middle Linebacker. I missed the locker room and the bus rides. I missed the inside jokes and the sweat and hard work. I didn't miss the laundry and the discipline issues that follow missed homework. Teaching in year 19. Talking about the Old Days more often. Now, I own a boat - Michele does actually. But she lets me use it. That makes me happy.

Gimmie Three Steps..... REPOST

Nugent – “Stranglehold”, Pink Floyd – “Comfortably Numb”, Skynyrd – “Gimme Three Steps”… it was like God had his thumb on the classic rock dial and knew exactly what I needed this week each time we roamed the North Shore. There’s few places in this world that I’d rather be than cruising Highway 61 with my wife and children. No real destination in mind. Sights set on some waterfall up the road or a rocky beach down the way. Usually we’ve only got rock throwing or ice cream on our minds.

For as many years as I can recall, Michele and I have toted our kids up the North Shore of Lake Superior on mid-summer, camping expeditions. Long ago, we started with one family tent and babies and have now graduated in to a Palomino pop-up camper and big kids. All along we’ve stuck to the plan of having no real plan. Meals come when we’re hungry. A hike here or a nap there whenever we feel so moved by the spirit. Bathing can mean a dip in the Gooseberry River or a hot steamy shower in the CCC bathhouse. We’ve caught and released more tadpoles than your Average Joe has seen in his life. When we’ve been lucky, we find the blueberries and raspberries in season and stop periodically along the trail for handfuls of those delicious little gifts from God. Nightly campfires are usually snuffed out early enough for us to play a dice game in the camper before hitting the sack.

This year was just a little different in that we stayed at Lamb’s Resort in Schroeder instead of our regular, good ole’ Gooseberry Falls. An hour drive up the rocky coast put us somewhere between to Tettegouche and Grand Marais. The privately owned campground had a slightly different feel to it but the big lake to the east was just the same. This year I caught brook trout and splake in the river. The kids seemed to have a giant waterfall to themselves. Michele read books on the beach and for the first time,  Raider joined us. He was a champ - swimming and hiking, laying around camp, and tending to the flies like it was his job. He’s earned a return trip, no doubt.

The visibility was as good as we’ve ever seen it. The Sawtooth Mountains presided over the cliffs of Lake Superior for as far as the eye could see. Gitche Gumme sat still most days, clear as gin and frigid as always. The kids spent a few bucks in the malt shop at Lamb’s the same night I took a tumble somewhere up the canyon chasing another trout. Michele diligently washed the dishes each day in exchange for never cooking a meal and Raider was the perfect complement to our storybook vacation.  

Like all good things, the trip had to end. Our vacation filled with everything proved to us that good company is all you ever need to make things enjoyable. As a troop, we tore down camp. Wrapped up sleeping bags. Stowed away utensils. Policed stray trash. We condensed what remained in the coolers and packed up the truck. Unfortunately, that’s when things took a little detour.

The keys to open the locking, hitch pin were nowhere to be found. The routine of set up and tear down has never changed. As soon as the trailer is freed from the truck, the keychain goes in the ashtray of the pickup. Logan and I are typically in charge of leveling out and cranking up and down the camper. Sure, Michele and Emma help out when needed but it was painfully obvious that the responsibility for this set of keys lay somewhere on the two barrel chested, Kirby boys. Panic set in as check-out time loomed. With everything tucked neatly away, we scurried to pull out bags and start digging through pockets. Together, the four of us scoured the truck and the bags from the trailer. We looked on the ground around camp. We opened and emptied bunches of Tupperwares assigned to hold random camp supplies excluding the keys. With sweat dripping and my heart racing, I could sense that Emma felt helpless; Logan felt guilty; and Michele felt annoyed.

My wife stopped the fruitless key endeavor and asked me to explain our options. I said that it may be time to start thinking about a bolt cutter or a hacksaw. Almost 45 minutes in to the search, Michele thought it was pointless to waste any more energy on something with such a simple solution and so she sent me on my way, with my tail tucked, in search of said tools.

At checkout time, the Camp Office is filled with all kinds of excitement. People leaving early and others in search of any random vacancies. That day, I was the schlep asking to borrow the hardware necessary for breaking and entering. Luckily our host had a hacksaw, although he questioned the condition of the blade. I headed back to camp with the second rate hacksaw. It was better than having to face my wife empty handed.

Thankfully, God had spared me the necessary 1/8^th of an inch I needed to squeeze the blade in between the locking mechanism and the parts of the trailer that needn’t be cut. And luckily, Master Lock had used sufficient metal to deter thieves but not the hardened steel that I feared would tear apart my borrowed hacksaw. Within minutes, I was through and knew that I had packed a cotter pin in the emergency kit that would safely hold the hitch in place. Minus a little hurt pride and about an hour of our time, we were no worse for the wear and on our way. I stopped at the Camp Office with the remnants of my Master Lock and returned the tool with a handshake and a thank you. Sheepishly, we pulled on to Highway 61 and headed for home.

In no time, the kids had their headphones on and were tucked back in to their digital worlds. Michele was flipping through a novel and I was begging for the air conditioner to help lower my pulse. A few miles down the road, I turned down the radio and caught my kids’ attention. To my wife and children I apologized for our slight detour and thanked them for another wonderful vacation. In the rearview mirror, I could see Emma break.

“What is it, Emma?”

Logan giggled.

Michele asked if I wanted the good news… as she reached down and pulled the missing keys from the outside pocket of her purse. A pocket she swears is only used for her cell phone. A pocket that she reached for while I was inside, returning the hacksaw to the Camp Office!

I could do nothing but laugh. Michele laughed. Emma laughed.

 And Logan said, “I’m just glad we didn’t find it in my bag!”

“Gimme Three Steps, Gimme Three Steps Mister and you’ll never see me no more….”