Some Doritos and a stupid test

Today is day number ONE of High Stakes Testing across the state….maybe across the country. Standardized Tests prepared by the Devil himself to determine the efficacy of public education. In the coming weeks, children far and wide will log on to some device and start clicking away. Some will take it seriously and do their absolute best. Others will mindlessly scroll through the answers and click wherever they are so moved – with as little to no accuracy – not unlike the retirees plugged into slot machines at the casino up the road. Spending Credits and not REAL money. We have digitized everything and tied definitions of success to these stupid tests. So much data is extrapolated from this one silly test without consideration of everything else that makes these little cherubs tick.

Did they get breakfast? Do they feel safe? Are they having a good day or a bad day? What’s going on in their worlds that might affect the statistics? And since we’ve tied so much funding and money to this, let’s go ahead and make teaching a profession that is compensated on performance-based pay, like we’re used car salesman trying to meet a quota – not dealing with real humans for 180 days a school year.

In my 25 years of Public Education, I’ve never really stressed too much over these High Stakes tests. For me, it’s a snapshot of one day and I try to motivate my students to do their best but at the same time I try to relieve any performance pressure on them. It’s become a necessary evil. It’s not what really matters.

***

Our school district drinks the PBIS Kool-Aid. We use Positive Behavioral Interventions and Supports to encourage good choices and good habits. As a school wide behavior management system or philosophy, it is not without its detractors and bad side. It seems to lack consequences while over-compensating children for expected behavior. I won’t bite into that debate but I did want to share an OUTCOME from PBIS that matters.

Here at Jacobson Elementary School, kids can earn ROAR bucks for a variety of reasons. Some are caught being good, others answer or ask great questions. Staff can hand out ROAR bucks to reinforce a desired behavior and foster a positive school atmosphere. In turn, kids can save and spend these ROAR bucks periodically at the ROAR store on a smorgasbord of trinkets and harmless playthings. Included in the ROAR store are some “Coupons” for a Donut with our School Resource Officer or some Extra Free Time on the playground or Stealing the Principals Chair.

Today at the morning bell one of our SPED teachers came down the hall with one of my former students lagging behind. Mrs. Hanson explained to me that she had never seen this “Coupon” purchased before but wanted me to know that Cody had “purchased” with his very own ROAR bucks a “Buy a Staff Member a Treat” coupon….and there was my boy, Cody, with a bag of Doritos for little ol’ me.

That’s what matters….

Not your High stakes, Standardized Test.

And now I’m crying.

Cal's Beach Bums

From time to time in this hear Blogoshpere, I've been known to be a little "long winded". Given the literary freedom to let the creative juices flow, I typically just write what ever comes to my crooked mind. At times I wish I was a bit more concise for fear of losing the attention of the 3 people that actually still stop by here for a visit. Sometimes I mockingly refer to our family blog as my "feelings journal". Maybe I should reconsider that considering I don't want people's rough and tumble image of me to be swayed to the soft side.

On that note - we're doing a POETRY Unit in 4th grade. I thought I'd practice what I preach and do the childhood memory poem alongside my 9 year old constituents. 

Poetry forces us to choose our words wisely and to be concise. It was fun. 

CAL'S BEACH BUMS - a memory poem.

With the sand between our toes

    for cousins, each day was a new adventure. 

No real toys or tools to speak of- 

    we dug, shaped and dreamt with our hands.

The castles, the moats, the rivers and boats

All on the shores of Lake of the Woods. 

With age and a swim test

    the privilege of roaming the docks was soon bestowed.

We fished and climbed and ran around

    mostly minding our own business but sometimes in the way. 

I learned the dockboy chores of tying up boats, carrying bait and poles and life jackets. 

Alongside the guides, I cleaned fish and in turn

    they let me wash out the coolers by myself.

Those three docks of my Grandma's resort helped raise me.

All on the shores of Lake of the Woods. 

A freckled boy with his fishing pole, some imagination and enough determination to pull every fish from the sea.

    He is me. 

65,000 miles of shoreline but this piece was mine. 

    My beach; my lake; my childhood.

All on the shores of Lake of the Woods. 

My only hope for Heaven…

 My personal theological journey rests in between the hymnals of a Baptist church somewhere east of Oswego, Illinois in the late ‘80’s and my current, morning ritual of an 11-minute commute that’s only complete with the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. I am a Believer. I believe in life everlasting in Heaven above, and that our earthly sins were paid for by my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. For that I am grateful.

I was saved in that nondescript Baptist church at some point in my teenage years. Initially I only attended at the invitation of my buddy, Dave. His family was much more traditionally devoted. Truthfully, I probably went just to get out of the house, hang out with a buddy or chase Baptist girls. Either way, at some point, the “word” moved me. I accepted the terms of salvation and confessed my sins. Never traditionally baptized, I still feel that my relationship with Christ is recognized and try to live by the Good Book, although I’m not yet dunked. Like all sinners, I stray. Usually, a good Tyler Childers or Johnny Cash gospel song is enough to redirect my attention to the Golden Rule.

As kids, mom taught us to pray and insisted on it before every meal. In the Marine Corps, “Bootcamp Christians” who will do anything to avoid the wrath of a Drill Instructor for an hour, sought sanctuary, if not salvation, at the Chapel. Seeking a break from training stress, I lined up with the Protestants for no other reason than, I didn’t understand the Catholics. For the next few years, I periodically attended Church both on base and aboard ship. When other Marines were napping, lifting weights, or wasting their lives away, you could find me, Steve Morris and a dozen or so African American sailor, shipmates of ours, belting away songs of the Southern Baptists in the ships’ library. During our second Deployment, I was even the Protestant Lay Reader.

When I found the woman of my dreams and got the courage to put a ring on her finger, it was important to us to be wed in a church. Out of convenience, I was teaching a student whose father was the local pastor. Our relationship with Pastor Dave soon followed and we spent many evenings in premarital counseling listening to Dave’s biblical teachings and aligning our beliefs and expectations. Michele and I were married at the Rush City Baptist Church on a bland, warm, and snowless December day. Nowadays people regularly exchange nuptials in an old barn, or on a beach, at a courthouse or in Las Vegas. Luckily, we tied the knot long before our Vegas Days. Otherwise, I’m convinced Michele might have opted for the sun and Elvis to do the honors.

We started our young family, and initially lugged the kids back to Rush City Baptist. We took our turn at Awana’s. In no order and for no particular reason, we bounced around a little, searching for a church. We switched to the Lighthouse, otherwise known as the Pine City Evangelical Free Church. Gave it a shot at Journey North. Sent Emma to pre-school at Our Redeemer Lutheran Church. Although grateful for our time there, we discovered we’re not Lutheran. Volunteered for summer Bible School and sang our hearts out for a couple of years at the Evergreen Community Church. We taught our children to pray. We raised them under the guidance of the Golden Rule, but long-term attendance never really stuck for our family. Once the two youngest were placed at “the altar” of USA Hockey, our Sunday morning commitments changed for the next 14 years.

The paternal side of Tyler’s family plays the part of the traditional Catholic oligarchy well - always attending on Christmas and Easter, baby baptisms, God parents and First Holy communion as youngsters. Nieve at best, I remember questioning my eldest son’s belief system. Stating at one point that a street sign may be more Catholic than he. Politely, we attended Tyler’s First Communion and years later, we proudly attended his graduation from Saint John’s University. Perhaps he is more Catholic than I once realized. Neither Michele nor I were raised in regular, church going families. However, I am comforted in knowing that we laid a foundation of belief for our family and have modeled good choices because we have raised good people.

And now our second son is becoming Catholic.

Tomorrow night, after months of preparation and sacramental instruction, Logan will receive his First Communion at the Easter Vigil. For over two years, he has been attending the Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Rush City with his girlfriend, Cady, and her family. There, Father Matt has been instrumental in Logan’s developing relationship with God. On a cold afternoon in the pheasant fields last winter I asked my youngest son, why? Why was he pursuing the Catechism? Logan assured me that he was interested and invested. He said that he enjoys going to church and learning more about it. He enjoys the people that he’s come to know through attending and serving alongside Cady. I surmised that he felt no real pressure and was there on his own Free Will. Our father/son conversation concluded that if Catholic conversion made him happy and that made Cady happy, then his mother and I support him.

Recently, my own curiosity has led me to reading up on Catholics, Mormons, Jehovah’s Witness, and other religions of the world. It’s sparked several open and honest conversations with friends of differing beliefs and rekindled counsel from my own parents and grandmother. The thing about religion is that none of us really know… it’s about faith – about belief in a higher power. Can we afford to be wrong?

Thankfully for Emma, Michele, and me - I’ve learned that Catholics believe that God’s mercy may reach others outside of the Church.

Catholic Boys – pray for us – you’re our only Hope for Heaven!

Fly Eagle Fly

 It's on record that I'm a pretty patriotic guy. As a Marine, I proudly served my country in foreign lands across oceans. I've seen some pretty amazing places and unfortunately I've also stood a post in the armpit of the world a time or two. It's in seeing those not so inviting places that I learned a lesson early on in life. 

We've got it pretty good in the ol' U. S. of A.

Sure, the Land of the Free is imperfect. Sure, at times, the rise and fall of political tides and social unrest can make things a little less comfortable on the home front. Do we have room for improvement? Always. Evil exists everywhere. If you're looking for Dark and Gloomy, you can easily find it.

But if you choose to hold your head up high and your shoulders wide; if you choose to see the brighter side of things, it's there too. I'm not suggesting that we ignore indignities. We can address those gray times accordingly. What I'm saying is that we all could use a little more 'Hakuna Matata.' My life's philosophy isn't only centered on lessons from The Lion King  and The Jungle Book but it's OK to respect the Law of the Jungle. It's OK to have pride, courage and loyalty. It's OK to be happy. 

Man, am I happy!

And it wasn't just some Gold Medal Hockey game. 

But it helps!

***********************************************************************************

On a cold, early, Sunday morning in February, I set my alarm clock alongside 18 million of my closest, hockey-crazed friends. The NHL season had been put on hold while the World's best hockey players, minus the "Russkies", represented their perspective countries with honor on the line. The Canadians and Americans were meeting head to head on Italian ice in a clash for 4 year bragging rights and Olympic GOLD. It's hard to call this a rivalry because the Canucks have held the upper hand and own the historical gold medal total at 9 while the Americans pale in comparison with their 2. The 1960 and 1980 Yankee teams took home the Gold and Americans have been pining away ever since. 

At 7:10 am central time, 18 million and me tuned in to watch. 

At the 6 minute mark of the first period, Team USA's Matt Boldy hit the neutral zone with speed near the left faceoff dot. Standing in his way were two, top tier, Canadian defencemen in Devon Toews and Cale Makar. Boldy sped ahead and gently lifted the puck in the air, tempting Toews to go fishing at the blue line. Boldy split the D pair like a couple of traffic cones; tipped the puck ahead out of mid-air and a couple of strides later, pinned Toews' stick to the ice while executing a high speed forehand/backhand move to humble the Maple Leaf wearing goaltender. Jordan Binnington's 0% save percentage would improve as the game wore on. 

At the end of the first period, hope sprang eternal in the land of the Red, White and Blue. 

1-0.

Michele and Lewie needed to wake up and join me. Our team needed us. Lewie was easy to convince. Michele took a little more persuasion. 

Our neighbors to the North were not very neighborly and came out in the second period with their hair on fire. They peppered our tendy, Connor Hellebuyck, with an inordinate amount of angry shots on goal. The Americans gave a couple of breakaway chances to a guy called McDavid and a 19 year old kid named Celebrini. It's ill advised to let McJesus walk in like that. Luckily he was skating too fast for Our Lord's liking and Hellebuyck turned a harmless attempt aside. The kid, Canadians now thinking is the second coming, had a much cleaner look but the American goalie stood tall and offered the same result. 

At the 9:27 mark of the second, American and fellow Minnesotan, Jake Guentzel broke the rules and went to the box to feel shame. Holding. 18 seconds later his buddy, Charlie McAvoy, felt sorry for his teammate and joined him. Hooking. The American Penalty Kill unit faced an impossible climb: a nearly 2 minute 5 on 3 advantage to the moose loving, maple syrup bathing, Kokanee drinking, hockey nuts in red and black sweaters! What should have been a blood bath turned into a giant momentum swing for the Good Guys. Our record setting penalty killers valiantly defended their net and their Olympic leading, perfect penalty kill percentage. The Canadian All Stars were stifled by Hellebuyck and the men that battled in front of him.

Failing to convert on the two man advantage seemed to stir the hornets nest. The Canucks controlled the play, maintained puck possession, dominated offensive zone time, and continued to fire away aimlessly at the infallible American netminder. With the weight of his country pushing heavy on his shoulders, Nathan MacKinnon missed wide left on an empty goal  No doubt, he will forever have the mental image of the yawning goalmouth burned into his mind. A shot he makes 99.9% of the time bounced off the left pipe and into the corner. When the Canadians were on target, Hellebuyck withstood the barrage. And just when he seemed bested, he reached back with the paddle of his goal stick to make the save of his life and crush any remaining Canadian optimism. 

 Throughout the second twenty minutes, the pace of play was being dictated by the Men of the North. Still the scoreboard showed the U.S. in the lead. That is, until Devon Toews and Cale Makar made good on their first period, defensive zone misdeeds. At 18:16 of the middle frame, now in their offensive zone, Toews went D to D to his hard skating partner. Makar received the puck at the top of the right circle and with his feet going towards the party, released a rocket destined for the back of the net, blocker side on the game's best player. 

Tie Game. End of 2.

In my professional opinion, not enough coverage was given to the Zamboni drivers even though they appeared to do a fantastic job. Throughout the third, the teams both figuratively and literally exchanged blows. The stat line shows each team serving two minute, minor penalties for high sticking although Jack Hughes' dental bill will be exceptionally higher. The high stakes drama was back and forth. Both teams had scoring chances and kept their feet on the gas. It appeared that neither team was content to lay back and wait for the other to falter. They simultaneously played as if every 'next shift' would determine the outcome. It was electrifying. 

I fired text messages to friends and family. Michele asked me if I was playing. My heart was racing as if I was. I told her I felt as if Mike Sullivan was going to call me up and put me in on the next shift. I started to do some mental math... if the game remained tied, it was possible that I was going to be late for my own Sunday morning Zamboni shift! Who would be there to open the rink for the children???!!!!

The Italian horn sounded, signaling that 60 minutes had not been enough to determine a winner. 

I jumped in the truck and sped to the rink. No one was there for my personal Pine City Opening ceremonies. I unlocked the front door and flipped on a few breakers and light switches. Threw some nets on the ice. Turned on hot and cold water hoses to fill the machine and hurriedly plugged in my laptop to sign back on to Peacock and Olympic coverage with time to spare. 

Through text message banter, my friends and I concluded that 3 v 3 was anybody's game. I replied that it was "gonna be over quick."

On fresh ice, the Americans turned away an initial rush or two by some random hosers and a couple of timbits. No real damage was done. As I watched on my computer screen, I thought that if we could withstand the speed with which the Canadians were entering the zone, perhaps we could catch them out of position and have that translate to opportunities on the other end. Quinn Hughes had the US's first real scoring chance. Jordan Binnington proved worthy and got some leather on it to thwart his first real test of OT. Another rush or two went harmlessly back and forth at lightning speed. But this time, the Canadian speed was their downfall. McJesus was caught too low. This time it was Makar that went fishing at an ill-conceived moment and got neither the puck nor the guy, leaving MacKinnon back to defend a driving, Zach Werenski. Dylan Larkin had jumped on for the US and trailed in support. The two poorly backchecking Canadians were gassed and watched the puck; forgetting about Jack Hughes charging hard in the opposite circle. Werenski found him and Hughes hit paydirt!

@ 1:41 of Overtime in the Gold Medal game of the Olympics, Jack Hughes did what every hockey loving kid that's ever laced them up has dreamed of. He sealed the deal for the good guys.

I screamed loud enough that the Mites in the boys bathroom scattered for the parking lot. Their father heard me waiting in the car. Two days later, I am still horse and loving every minute of it. 

I am high as a kite.

Fly Eagle Fly.

Life is good.

And I love my family. I love my dog. I love this team. I love America.

Concrete Flowers

 

When I'm monitoring the deck of the Rush City Aquatic Center, I'm scanning for stray trash, safety hazards, loose change or anything else out of the ordinary. Swim googles, beach towels and mismatched sandals are often left behind by our sun-soaked customers. My morning patrol feels more like a USMC police call sometimes - especially if the lifeguard squad from the day before dipped out prematurely. Before anyone else arrives, I roll through mental safety checks while brooming the pool and like to put my hands on all the slides, rails and guard stands to give me a piece of mind before we start our shifts. I make my rounds through the locker rooms, into the concession stand and when time allows, I take a walk through the yard or anywhere else that might fall under my jurisdiction. When the time is right, I hit up a little secret raspberry patch.

For the past few years, the custodial staff has rotated through the assignment and responsibilities of tending to the Pool campus. It's been awhile since we've had a guy that paid attention to detail on all the things both mechanical and cosmetic. Speaking politely, groundskeeping is usually done in haste and it's the grasses, weeds, dandelions and clovers that sprout from the cracks in the concrete that get to me. 

Maybe I should be appreciative of the unplanned but ornamental grasses that decorate the otherwise drab concrete slabs of the pool deck. Their resilience to thrive under difficult circumstances should be admired and emulated rather than abhorred. Those "concrete flowers" have been able to carve out an existence and create a habitable ecosystem in a landscape seemingly devoid of life supporting essentials. Our tiny cracks in the cement provide just enough shelter and cover for a seed to grow. When water is added to the mix, tiny roots seek the path of least resistance in search of soil and sunlight. Bits of dirt prove enough to start and sustain life.  Rather than viewing them as a nuisance, maybe we could see these small miracles as a source of inspiration. If they can be beautiful than so can I. 

I tend to write metaphorically from time to time...slipping in a nondescript play on words or writing with doses of figurative language in place of being up front and confrontational. Writing about concrete flowers in the literal sense makes them seem problematic on the deck of my summertime haunts. But suggesting these weeds could be a comparison to to my own plight in this concrete jungle of life would indicate they hold a deeper meaning. I am more resilient and stronger than I give myself credit for. I acknowledge that many people have had things stacked against them during their childhood and have broken the cycle. In place of medication, counseling and therapy I face my truths head on. I talk through things with my wonderful wife. I accept the things I cannot change and change the things that I can. As I grow older more of my past has become clearer. I am not ashamed of the story that shaped me because I am so happy with my life now - my 3 amazing children, my loving and devoted wife, even our knucklehead dog... it's hard work making good choices but it's so worth it.

I am a Concrete Flower. 

Minnesota ICE Out - "a bleak midwinter's day"

 "For the citizen observer reporting data, ice out occurs when the lake is completely free of ice. Or it may be when it is possible to navigate from Point A to Point B." - publicly accepted definition as stated by the Minnesota Department of Natural Resources

Those of you expecting something different here, it's possible that you've earned 5 bonus points in Social Studies for paying attention to current events. They'll be added to your end of 2nd quarter grade. But first... - 

        A)   You have to Cite Your Sources. : Facebook doesn't count & TikTok is frowned upon. You should have read from the printed word and critically evaluated the creditability, accuracy and bias of such.

        B)   Written opinions are accepted but must be validated with facts. As stated: those facts should be vetted for relevance and accuracy, recognizing that we all have had different life experiences shaping those personal feelings. Don't forget to check your spelling.

        C)   In order to earn your bonus points, students must be humble enough to admit that few of us are experts on international law, constitutional law and/or the law of the common man. 

Those of you that have been hidden under a rock for sometime, consider yourself lucky. Presently, the state of affairs in Minnesota is bleak. In current lingo, "ICE Out" refers to something so dramatically removed from it's historical and cultural meaning here. Minnesota is under the national microscope once again. Cold and miserable as the temperatures outside plummet in another polar vortex, it may actually be our only saving grace to explain why the streets aren't ablaze with riots, looting and chaos again. Sure, there are activists taking to the streets voicing their opinions over the local occupancy by federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers. (ICE) Thankfully, the windchill limits their reach - both the protestors and the agents. 

While following orders from their chain of command, ICE officers have recently been confronted by disruptive citizens intent on distracting them from the mission of enforcing lawful orders. Citizens that should have distanced themselves and remained uninvolved have put themselves in harms way to protect the ugly apprehension of criminals and due process that follows. The 5th and 14th amendments to our Constitution have guaranteed those rights to everyone within U.S. Borders, regardless of citizenship/immigration status. Due process takes time and in some instances, the first steps seem inhumane to those watching from the comfort of their keyboard. Reminding everyone that the law abiding citizens would have nothing to fear in this transaction. If anything, temporary inconvenience could be their only cost of proving lawful citizenship and honest living. 

In the absence of lawful and honest living, we should all be glad that there are people willing to do violence on our behalf. Instead, at present, Minnesota is full of folks that mock the uniform that protect us while we sleep. Minneapolis is no stranger to this. I wish George Floyd and Renee Good were not killed at the hands of officers sworn to protect and serve. I hope we can all agree on that. No person deserves to be "un-alived" for committing petty, bothersome crimes while making the mistake of being at the wrong place at the wrong time and deciding to challenge the authority of the responding officers. But breaking the law has consequences.

Speaking of breaking the law - the Governor of Minnesota, Tim Walz, has said that he holds himself accountable for much of what happens in Minnesota. Prior to the ICE protests and subsequent violence associated with it, Minnesota was gaining national attention for a fraud scheme perpetuated by Somalian refugees living here. Called out for thousands and thousands of dollars of missing taxpayer money, legal and illegal Somalia nationals were being asked to provide proof, credentials and accurate explanations to the question: "where has all the money gone?" Again - in the absence of lawful and honest living, perhaps we should be thankful that their is overwatch, even if it is coming from Big Brother. Governor Walz stumbled and failed to offer a palatable explanation. If our Somalian friends arrived here legally, achieved citizenship and have acted in the best interests and served the local community then more power to them. But if not, they should be held liable and responsible even if the enforcement of that looks disconcerting. 

The news media is licking their chops - exposing and portraying Minnesota as the lawless, desolate landscape of the Wild Wild West.  Our image is off-putting and does not look accommodating or accepting. I'm embarrassed and will admit that my own bias has shaped my opinion.

Only because I was once the guy in the uniform just doing what he was told. 

See above: Mogadishu, Somalia 1995

Many of my cherished friends and most trusted relatives feel drastically different than I do, as evidenced by my Facebook feed. As my homeboy Voltaire is accredited with saying, "I may not agree with what you say but I will defend to the death your right to say it."

And my other good buddy, Charlie Daniels, once said, "What this world needs is a little more respect for the Lord, and the law and the working man."

In the meantime, if you need me you can find me out on the lake. ICE fishing. 

But according to the MN DNR, "Ice is never 100% safe."

"I oughta..."

I oughta... write in here more often.

I oughta... call my mom this week before the big storm hits TN.

I oughta... get rid of some of those old t-shirts I never wear.

I oughta... tell my wife that I love her so. 

I oughta... brush my teeth a little more regularly. 

I oughta... clean out my Facebook friends.

Hell - I oughta... stay off Facebook for a while.

I oughta... call my grandma more often.

I oughta... put new fishing line on a few reels.

I oughta... decide what to cook tonight for supper that goes well with fish.

I oughta... clean up my hunting mess in the dining room. 

I oughta... let my kids know I think of them a thousand times a day. 

I oughta... make a TikTok with Emma.

Hell - I oughta... stay off TikTok for a while.

I oughta... whittle away at a few of those books that are begging to be read. 

I oughta... make some geography photocopies for 3rd quarter. 

I oughta... take Lewie for a long walk tonight.

I oughta... stop worrying about the things I can't control.

I oughta... register for Yoga on Saturday.

Hell - I oughta... write a Blog about me and Yoga. 

I oughta... listen to more of that new Zach Bryan album.

I oughta... start a load of laundry and tend to some bathroom chores tonight. 

I oughta... solidify some plans for a summer, getaway vacation with #5.

I oughta... call my Marine buddies more often. 

I oughta... work a few extra shifts as the Zamboni guy and save a few extra bucks. 

I oughta... shave off this goofy beard and make a haircut appointment. 

Hell - I oughta... make a list of the things I oughta