A funny thing happened on the way to the classroom

Teaching adult education for twenty odd years was fun, and occasionally rewarding. Yet certain moments are bound to stand out. I will never forget the two funniest incidents I have ever had in a classroom.

While grading a short essay for an Economics course, the student was asked the difference between stocks and bonds. In an obvious yet hilarious cut and paste off the Internet (a practice we frowned upon of course and graded accordingly), the answer began: "Stocks were medieval devices of public humiliation and torture." It went on to explain, in some, ah, fascinating detail, the exact nature of certain forms of torture. Reading this challenged my attempts to stay calm and professional, to not laugh out loud at my desk in a room full of students. I had no trouble keeping control until the last sentence: "Bonds are government issued interest bearing securities."

Well, the student was half right in his answer, and I was able to keep my professional wits. Barely.

On another occasion, I had an English assignment to grade. With that one, I did go on to completely lose my composure in peals of laughter which I tried valiantly to hide but to no avail. I had to leave the room for ten minutes initially, hiding in an empty teacher's lounge while leaving the other instructor (there were two of us at all times in our teaching arrangement) to lament my having abandoned him. Luckily it was a slow night.

The assignment was to make comparisons in the form of analogies. The first prompt read: "Tom's car was old." Expected responses were along the lines of, 'Tom's car was older than baseball.' Instead I was treated to, "Tom's car was older than a dead frog."

I was okay at first; I stifled my giggles, although it took it a few seconds of tongue biting to maintain myself. But I was good.

The next prompt was, 'Abby was hungry.' Harmless enough. Until I read the student's offering.

"Abby was very hungry, like a sad clown who had fell off his bike."

I immediately roared uncontrollably. Shawn, the other teacher, asked what was up. Giving him the paper I replied between guffaws, "Read the first two sentences and I'll be back in a few minutes."

On my return, finally beyond any wild laughter, the first thing Shawn said was, "I can see why you didn't give credit for the first analogy. The frog may not have been dead that long."

I returned after another twenty minutes. Good times.

Slight Comfort

I was able to start this week as so many people wish they could: an early Monday dentist appointment. Don't harbor any ill will towards me. Jealousy is so ugly.

It was simply to have my teeth cleaned, though. No needles or extractions or anything uncomfortable. Indeed the dental hygienist complimented me when the procedure was about halfway finished. "Are you doing okay, Mr. Cosgriff?"

"Mphh uhhh hmm uh huh," I answered. I mean, she had a small mirror, a pick of some sort, a water jet and a water vacuum in my mouth.

"Good, good," she responded. And then, as if to reassure me, "And you're not bleeding at all."

That was good news, considering that I had no expectations of bloodshed from a mere cleaning. But I made it a point to be a particularly cooperative patient after that.

The Prodigal Father

Most of us are familiar with the parable of the Prodigal Son. I was introduced to it in a new way through the book Death on a Friday Afternoon. It struck me deep, and that at the risk of understatement quite frankly.

We know that the father saw the returning, humbled, repentant son and ran out to greet him while he was still far off. But did the father just happen to see the young man returning that day? Did he notice him as he passed an open window or while he toiled in his fields? No; he didn't stumble upon his son's return. He spent day after day standing on the portico of his home, scanning the horizon for the lad's return, hoping, wishing, pining for his son's safe and soon coming back home. It wasn't an accident. The father actively sought his progeny. 

Then he ran - ran - out to greet him. Dad didn't sit on a throne and demand the son slink all the way back to him, prostrate and ashamed (although the boy was surely properly ashamed) and beg for forgiveness (although the young man, properly as well, expected he should do that). The father saw his son, perhaps as a spot on the horizon which gradually took human, family form, and, recognizing him after all that time, ran out to him.

So God the Father will do for us. He won't demand you inch forward and beg. When he sees your repentance, He will run to you in welcome. Such is His love for us. He will look past all the terrible things we've done and throw His arms around us. We will have been found by the One who constantly scans the horizon for all of His lost sheep.

A Matter of Trust

Technology. It allows us to do many things quickly and efficiently. Still, I have trust issues with it. Or, rather, technology has given me trust issues with, uh, me.

At one time I would add up a list of numbers all on my own. No help from a calculator was necessary. Years ago a customer might come into the Shop and want 6, 7, 10 items, and I'd write out an invoice, add it all up, multiply the total for the sales tax, and Bob's yer uncle, land on a figure which I completely trusted. I completely trusted it because I could do basic math.

In my defense, I still can. Yet now that we have calculators everywhere, even on our cell phones, I have to pull the program up and do the math, well, I suppose mechanically. Hell, if it's one cutting tool I still get out the calculator to multiply the price by .06 for the tax.

I can still do the math. I'm still pretty good at it too. But I no longer trust me. I fear the mistake which might cost me or the customer money. Thanks, technology.

That's My Spot

Those familiar with the Big Bang Theory television show know that Sheldon has his place to sit in the apartment he shares with a roommate. If someone is in it he glares and says, "That's my spot," expecting them to vacate.

I always park my new old van on Forest Avenue alongside my house. It's directly under a streetlamp and right in line with the window on the staircase landing between the foyer and the second floor hall. I can walk out of the bedroom and look directly down the steps and see my van parked safely under the glow of the LED lights installed awhile back. 

Then came last night. Or, more correctly, very early this morning. As I returned from a curling match (a 7-6 win on something of a gift, an errant shot from the opposing skip, but I take what I can get) just after midnight, ready to leave the new old van safely under the window, I was shocked to see a white sport ute parked there. "That's my spot!" I actually exclaimed aloud.

Of course it's not 'my' spot. It's a public thoroughfare. Anyone can park there and I know it. But they don't. In fact, this guy could have parked anywhere twenty or thirty feet beyond where I do, as no one else was on the street. Yet there it was, smack dab where I typically park. Right where few if any others have before.

It caused a moment of panic when I was leaving for work today. As is my habit, I looked right down the stairs and my dear new old van was not there. It was a blank space as sport ute had moved overnight. "Why isn't my van in my spot?" I immediately worried. With a curse. New old van was actually in front on Avery, in unfamiliar territory.

So it goes. But some days I really get Sheldon.

Going to the Dogs

Wow. Just, wow. We live in a world which increasingly believes that there's nothing worth living for.

An otherwise healthy Dutch woman will die by assisted suicide because of the depression she suffers. Here's a New York Post article on the issue.

One in five Dutch now die by assisted suicide. Giving up seems to be the new form of honor in Holland. Their medical community is more than willing to help. In fact, they want euthanasia readily available for everyone over 75. It saves money on government health care. Yes, that's a snarky comment. But it's becoming the bottom line. Ask Canadians about MAID, Medical Assistance In Dying.

I am in no way, shape, or form saying that we shouldn't empathize with anyone suffering from any mental or physical illness. Of course we should. Yet part of that also surely means trying to help people see the inherent value of their lives no matter what their exact condition may be. 

Instead, we stroke their hand and gently affirm: well, sure, if that's what you want. It began as saying that to the seriously, physically ill. Now we say it to otherwise healthy young women. It's easier on the doctors and the bill payers that way. We can't help her (a questionable thought on its own) so let's kill her. It gets a case off the books.

And, slowly but certainly, the right to die becomes an obligation to die. It's best for you. It's best for all of us. 

Wow. Just, wow.

Zeke's Bad Day

Northwestern Highway is a road which runs at a northwesterly angle away from Detroit. How urban planners determine road names is amazing. 

Several years ago me Uncle John who me Pops called Zeke had a bad day on that road.

He was bringing one of me Grandpa Joe's welding machines back from a job, towing it behind a car. As he pulled away from a traffic light, he felt the sudden jump of his vehicle losing weight. It had indeed lost weight: the machine he was towing had slid off its trailer and was sitting serenely blocking the right lane on Northwestern. All 2,000 pounds of it just sat there, quietly unconcerned with the world around it, just not caring one blip about the trouble it had caused.

Unbeknownst to anyone, the bolts which held the welder to its trailer had weakened and broke. Yet all was well...several hours later, after involving a crane, many police officers, an uncountable number of irate commuters, and an Uncle John happy to actually get home before dark. It could have been worse, I suppose, but it was not a good day.