Mack Ames Books and Maine Moose Patrol

I know someone has written a song already called, “In my room.” I’ve no idea what prompted him to write it, but I often consider my own room and how I’d pen my song, if ever I were to do such a thing. I’m no lyricist, for one thing, and tunes are nowhere to be found in my head in any original form, for another thing, but perhaps those matters could be worked out later. Like any editor worth his salt, I’ll leave the pruning to someone else.

Boy, that didn’t make any sense at all. 

In my room there’s a double sink. It used to be the culinary classroom. Then it was the GED and mountaineering room. The east wall is covered by a mural of the North Woods gone wild. It begins in melancholy and ends on steroids. Fugly is too kind a word for it. Like gazing on a train wreck, I can’t bear the thought of having it painted over for off-white blankness. 

The west wall is windows, which I’ve smothered with pictures and memes. Bad Dad Jokes galore, interspersed with landscapes of Japan and old calendar pages. Giant posters fill panes on each end of the wall; I pretend they’re there legitimately to advertise my educational programs, while everyone knows I’m just hiding from the world. 

To the north are my whiteboard and green bulletin board. The latter has a timeline of American economic history and a homemade poster of the Four Sentence Structures attached to it, and an enormous map of the USA propped against it. Tables shoved to the wall below are covered with laptops and their charge cords, much like the ones under the hideous mural on the Eastern Front. 

The Southern Side possesses the sink, above which are bookshelves. It’s the only part of the room that actually resembles a classroom, except for the plumbing. The shelves are stuffed with encyclopedias and textbooks that typically collect dust and little use. 

My desk is under the windows, along the Western Bank, with a workstation that faces the east wall and the student areas. The physical design is secondary to the tasks at hand, of course, but contribute to the daily work of teaching and learning. In my room, day in and day out, I deal with the inquisitive and the dull, the smart and the stupid, the ambitious and the lazy. I see men that toil with limited means and others that spoil ample brains; men that sponge up every learning opportunity, and others that scoff at the chances they’re given, too stupid to know how stupid they are. There are men always willing to talk, and there are others willing to shut up and learn. 

Which will you be? Which will I be, in my room? 

I’m essential this time around. Usually, teachers for the department of corrections get lumped in with office associates and all the rest of non-essentials for snow day cancellations and the like, but for COVID-19 it’s “all hands on deck.” Since all the schools are shut down, if any CO’s (guards) have to stay home to take care of their kids, teachers, caseworkers, or other employees that used to be CO’s will be the first to be reassigned to CO positions. Then, as needed, the rest of us can expect to fill in for kitchen, cleaning crew, warehouse, boiler room, or other staffing needs. IF we get to that point, we’ll leave our 8-hour, 5-day-a-week schedules for 12-hours 3 and 4 days per week.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m thrilled to have a job and be considered essential, but I really don’t want to stop teaching, nor do I want to end up on 12s instead of 8s. Frankly, I’m not sure my back could take it. But if the situation calls for it, I’ll do my best to do my duty, and I’ll be thankful to have a job.

In God’s good providence, I’m employed well and paid well. No complaints! Thank you, Lord.

Having lived most of my life in the great state of Maine, I know what real snow looks like. I know what fake snow looks like, too, as portrayed on TV and in the movies. And I sure as heck know what spray-on snow is. Hollywood and Wall Street have done their best to make America think that the world is glamour and glitter, but the real beats the fake every time.

It’s mid-March in Maine, so winter is “supposed to be” on its way out. As with all northern states, we understand that “supposed to be” ain’t reality, and we don’t put the snow shovels away until the end of April, at the earliest. Four days ago, we had sunshine and temps in the high 40s; it felt like summer. The next day started with rain, switched to snow, transitioned to sleet, moved back to rain, and ended with a little sunshine. Yesterday, we had sunshine and temps in the 40s again. Today, it’s overcast with a chance of showers. Tomorrow it’s supposed to be in the high 50s, followed by two days in the 30s. Yeah, when March comes we buckle up and hang on for dear life.

That snow we had two days ago, though, that turned to rain in my neck of the woods stayed rain where I work. As I drove the last ten miles into the higher elevations yesterday, the shockingly white blanket that covered the landscape stood in stark contrast to the post-winter browns awaiting the arrival of spring in the low country. Adding to my surprise was the observation that the snow appeared to have been sprayed on. The southeastern side of every surface was plastered with snow, from the ground to its top–trees, houses, barns, cars, tractors, signs–everything. A movie producer couldn’t have done it better. It put a silly grin on my face as I traveled up the final hill to the facility, and I shook my head in wonder.

People like to say, “the devil’s in the details” when talking about the ramifications of fine print or unintended consequences of contracts or other agreements. What I observed the other day, though, was God in the details. And just days before that, Pastor Russell Hamilton commented on the omniscience and omnipotence of God regarding our lives, right down to particular needs of each one of us. Each of us relies on God for every single breath that we breathe whether we acknowledge it or not, and if he gives us that, then surely he can be counted on to work out all the other details, too!

He gave me that reminder with “spray-on snow” that HE sprayed on. His version is the real deal. HE is the real deal. I can provide nothing for myself without the breath in my body that God provides first. That alone should make me bow down and worship him with all I am and all I have, as Pastor Hamilton said in his sermon. The Lord spoke through that sermon, and then reminded me again with that spray-on snow. We are his sheep, the people of his pasture. Do we listen and follow him today?

As a student of history, correlations between current and past events intrigue me. One hundred-one years ago, the world grappled with an unknown virus that spread like wildfire and killed, by many estimates, 100 million people in about eighteen months’ time. Now the world is facing another disruptive virus that, thanks to modern access to social media and the broadcast media’s willingness to inflame the situation, is creating panic not seen since 1919.

Influenza A was the official name of the 1919 flu, though it is commonly called “the Spanish flu.” When it first became a problem was in 1918, as America was gathering men from across the nation to send them to boot camp and then to Europe to fight in World War I. According to historians John M. Barry and Kenneth C. Davis, the so-called Spanish flu actually originated here in the United States, on the cantonments where American soldiers were being trained for war. In close quarters, the city boys and farm boys brought all their own particular bacterias with them, as well as their respective abilities or disabilities to fight one another’s contributions to health challenges, and what sprung up was Influenza A.

It spread between Fort Devens in Massachusetts and Fort Riley in Kansas as soldiers were transferred back and forth for training and deployment. The sickness erupted rapidly, and death soon followed. Modern medicine, such as it was, knew nothing of viral diseases. World-renowned doctors researched to find treatments or a cure. Nothing worked. America’s top physicians warned the President, Woodrow Wilson, that gatherings of people in large groups would spread the disease and cause massive outbreaks in the general population, but the President, in collusion with the media, kept the news quiet. Liberty Funds parades were needed to help pay for the war effort, and the President determined that that was more important than public health. Ultimately, he learned otherwise, but not until the flu had gripped every corner of America.

Due to the media censorship in the United States and throughout much of Europe, the world did not learn about Influenza A until it hit Spain. Spain, which was neutral during World War I because of recently concluding a civil war and not needing to be involved in the world’s issues, did not censor its media. Since that is where word of this disease first entered the general public’s knowledge, that is why it became known as the Spanish flu. It rightly should have been named the “Kansas flu.”

By the time the war ended, the tens of millions of war deaths were being outpaced by Influenza A deaths. The flu continued its rampage to the end of 1919, by which time treatments had been found, and preventive measures had been taken to reduce its impact. One can argue to pros and cons of the media censorship or its cooperation with the American President to minimize the public’s knowledge of the flu, but there is no doubt that societies learned many valuable lessons from the experience. Medical science made great strides during the time, and it has not looked back, except to review procedure and process for improvements in the present and future.

In 2019, some students of history looked back at the 1919 flu and considered it thoughtfully. We wondered what would happen if something like that came along again, but then we realized that it has already come along again. In 2003, SARS was a pandemic like the 1919 flu. H1N1 and H5N1, the bird and swine flus, have been pandemics. In those cases, the media has acted differently than it did in 1919, and so has the President of each time. Death rates have not come close to 1919, but since Americans look to their government for information and for protection, it merits consideration.

Here in 2020, America had high hopes. In the state of Maine, we are celebrating our bicentennial. In fact, that is today, March 15. (Happy 200th, Maine.) The year is supposed to have a presidential election between a Republican incumbent and a Democrat challenger . The economy has been booming for the last three years. The incumbent recently beat an impeachment attempt by the Democrat Party, and it doesn’t seem to have hurt his re-election chances. Many of the incumbent’s party believe that the media have been in the back pocket of the Democrat Party since his election in 2016, so they see the current pandemic coverage in the media as further proof of collusion between the two trying to end his presidency.

COVID-19, also known as the Wuhan Coronavirus, began late in 2019 but only became known around the world in early 2020. Because of the secrecy practiced by the Communist Chinese government, it took the bravery of ten Chinese doctors to reveal to the world the knowledge of this rapidly spreading deadly strain of flu. The American government already knew about the situation before the media picked it up, and the President had taken steps to restrict travel to and from China to minimize contamination. It went unnoticed because he did so in the middle of the impeachment furor. By the time Congress took note, the Democrat leadership found reason to criticize his move as unnecessary; they changed their tune as time passed but did not apologize for their earlier comments.

Since the American media got hold of the COVID-19 story, they’ve held nothing back, hyping every possible panic element and emphasizing all the dangers of the disease in the extreme. President Donald Trump and Vice President Mike Pence have held regular briefings for the public to inform citizens of steps to curb the spread of the disease, methods of treatment, and so on. The government has not censored the media as President Wilson did 101 years ago. If anything, the easy access to information in 2020 fosters dissemination of misinformation in addition to the truth, and John & Jane Q Public must be more discerning than ever to know good from bad.

Looking back to 1919, 20/20 vision tells us so much about what should or should not have been done to prevent the spread of the pandemic. Of course, it’s easy to do that from the bird’s eye view. What will 2120 say of 2020, COVID-19, and President Trump? I won’t be around to know, but maybe someone will look at 2020 with 20/20 vision.

Among the happier moments of my workdays are when I’m seeing students be productive in their learning. Truly, even former students visiting the classroom and showing interest in learning something new brings warmth to my heart. That happened today.

Two young men that graduated from my HiSET program last year were in the library, the room next door to mine, first thing this morning. Neither one had a class in there, so I invited them into my room to see the 101-year old laminated newspapers a colleague has loaned to me. They were fascinated by the samples I had, so they decided to spend the morning in my classroom. After reading through the half-dozen or so papers available, they found the challenging pyramid puzzles I have and began working on the solutions. Meanwhile, my regular students came and went as usual.

I was excited to demonstrate some new learning techniques for two of my students today, and the tablets that they have available in their housing units will give them added opportunities to practice what they do in class. From ESL to ELA, the technology and direct instruction in the classroom is changing how we offer education in the Department of Corrections!

Another student submitted his first practice essay in preparation for the HiSET (GED) writing exam. It was a good first attempt. Then I showed him a series of videos from Tennessee Adult Education about how to prepare for the essay exam. He took good notes and left class with another writing assignment. When he has completed one or two more take-home essays, I’ll test his ability to write while in the classroom.

The puzzlers are still at it. They’ve each solved their own pyramids, and one has taken on the other’s tower. He was very critical of the first fellow’s time (about 90 minutes) for completing the tower, so we’re watching to see if he can complete it faster. It’s moving 8 wooden rings one at a time, never putting a larger one on top of a smaller one, from one post to a third post, using the middle post as needed, until the entire stack has been moved.

I think he’s going to beat the first fellow’s time, tbh. Yup, he’s nearly done; 15 minutes.

            The sky was gray with tears of glowing sunlight ripping through the gloom. Dreary buildings stood in a backdrop of freshly fallen snow, a dusty powder that coated the ugly brown of late fall, teasing the possibility of a white Christmas one week hence.

            Meager melting had ensued. Periodic drips from the roof plummeted to the ground, while thin sheets of ice molded themselves to barrels and railings in the yard. Flurries appeared briefly in defiance of the emerging sun, chased away by the persistence of the greater orb of the day.

            Under foot, the slush of melting snow and hardening ice was mixed with sand that was shoveled for safer perambulation. This is not a place to be without boots, nor without snow tires for the car, for that matter. One wrong move on foot or on the roadway could spell pain, misery, or both for the walker or driver. 

            For two hours, the room remained nearly silent, as no one attended the midday tutoring session. When students arrived at last, none needed assistance in English nor social studies, so boredom set in fully for the teacher. That was not entirely unwelcome, however, as antisocial mood and ill feeling had settled into the body, and an early departure seemed the best course of action for the day. 

            Natural beauty of creation met human nature’s discomforts.

~December 18, 2019

There are days when I don’t know where I am.
When I charge ahead, heedless of others and their needs.

There are days when I don’t know where I am.
When I wander thru the fog, seeking comfort or direction.

There are days when I don’t know where I am.
Nor do I really care to know; I just want to heal the hurt I see.

There are days when I don’t know where I am.
I laugh and I cry, never sure of my place or my role in life.

There are days.

Originally published at: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3458821/there-are-days/.

I’m not so sure that this is the biblical application intended, but I did experience pride and a fall yesterday morning. 🙂

For the last several weekends, I have endeavored to rise and shine, as they say, by taking our dog, Thumper, for a brisk walk at early light either up or down the roadside. He seems to enjoy the alternative watering or fertilizing locations to the usual yard, and I like the exercise it offers me, especially on the return trip when he’s done his business and is ready to motor.

On Sunday morning, we’d finished the routine and had arrived on the south side of our property, where I unbuckled his leash and said the magic word: “House!” He sprinted for the door, pausing at the corner of the house just where the wooden walkway passed it, waiting for the old man to catch up.

As I hoofed along in my pride of life, thrilled to have had two days of morning walks, I failed to negotiate the step onto the wooden walkway. In a blink, I realized that I was too far from the house on the left to catch myself there, and the shrubs to the right were too weak to help me. Uttering words I shall not relay here, I went down hard, skinning and twisting my right knee. Not wanting to spend my day so close to misery, I rolled over, struggled to my feet, and saw Thumper looking at me with what I deemed to be a mixture of pity and confusion. “Human, are you coming or not?”

“Go on, now, Thumper. Go to the house.” As we passed the bay window, I caught a glimpse of concern on my wife’s face. I stepped much more carefully onto the deck, up the steps, and into the house.

“Did you fall?” she asked. I nodded. I pulled off my jeans to check the damage; two patches on my knee were scraped clean of skin. I applied ointment to soothe the discomfort, and noticed that my left knee also had a scratch or two.

“Well,” I said to her, “I was getting rather proud of myself for walking two mornings in a row. Pride goeth before a fall, you know.”

Some Like It Lukewarm

“What’s it like to teach in a prison?”
“Are security guards with you all the time?”
“It must be so scary; how can you stand it?”
“Nope; it’s just me, by myself, six-to-one.”

Teachers start with a briefing. Who’s new to each class
and which day to begin them; hope he’ll work hard and pass.
Period 1 starts at 8, so my only real chance for the morning
is to get coffee before, piping hot, for tongue burning. 

Some like it scalding. Some like it hot.
I take what I can get from the community pot.
Not terribly picky, it’s the caffeine that I crave.
I’ll take it lukewarm or cold to make it through my day. 

But as for the teaching, it’s really the best
situation I’ve taught in all through my career. 
Men getting a new lease, returning to society
with education, vocation, more prepared for life’s tests. 

So, if I have to drink my coffee when it’s gone past its prime
because I’ve been tutoring this one,
or prepping that one in writing,
My reward is his success: I’ll drink when there’s time.

As previously noted, I work in a correctional facility. To the surprise of no one (I would hope), the language frequently used there is typically salty (think Dead Sea as opposed to Atlantic Ocean). MFW (Most Favored Word) status has been granted to the “F” word, which passes for nearly every part of speech needed. I reached my limit yesterday and wrote the following tongue-in-cheek “poem.”

Every effing day I effing go to my effing wonderful job,
where I effing listen to effing grown-ups who don’t effing seem to effingknow how to effing make an effing sentence without effing using the effing eff word every effing other effing moment.

My effing students say the effing eff word so effing often that they don’t effing realize that they’re even effing using it; it just effing slips out. 

So, when I say, “No, thank you,” they stare at me blankly. 

“What the eff?” they ask.

“You said I should ‘eff this’,” I reply. “No, thank you. I’d rather not.”

For one or two effing moments, they effing realize that their adjective, verb, and exclamatory vocabulary has been reduced to variations of the same effing word, but then they resume their effing, and the effing teaching moment is effing lost.

It effing drives me effing crazy!