The Manning Boys

I grew up as an only child. I have older half-brothers and a sister from my parents previous marriages but they never lived with us so I was pretty much alone. Although, one of my brothers did spend a year with us and felt it was his duty to inflict as many noogies and wedgies as he could to make up for lost time, I never really experienced growing up with siblings.

Then I met the Mannings. There are six Manning boys. Shane, Shaun, Scot, Stuart, Stein and Sloan and they each have the middle name of David. I guess their parents were too exhausted from trying to think of new, creative “S” names. There were times when their mom, Bethany, would get so made at one of them that she would begin to stutter. “Sh…Sha…Sc…Sss…St….St….JUST GET OUT OF HERE!!!!

There was always something going on at the Manning home. Backyard baseball with a tennis ball (hits into the pond were a ground rule double), video games, board games, chemistry experiments (Bethany’s still wondering how her boiling pot got that hole in the bottom) or just plain ‘ol gooffen off.

There was the time we were in the kitchen and I was observing a pretty intense game of “Risk” between Shane and Scot while Bethany was just finishing the dishes from the evening meal. Stu comes in late from baseball practice and begins fussing and fuming about not getting to eat and how hungry he is and it not being fair that food was not waiting for him when he walked in the door. Well, Bethany had had enough. After a day full of cooking, cleaning, umpteen loads of laundry, the general chaos of having a house full of boys around, dishes, and a mysterious charred hole in the bottom of her pot, Mount Saint Bethany was about to blow.
She never said a word.
In one quick, deft, Steven Seagal type move, she hurls the fork she was washing right at Stuie’s head and “THWONK” sticks it tongs first into the drywall one inch to the left of Stu’s eyeball.
Silence.
“I’ll just make myself a sandwich”, Stuart says in a rather contrite voice.
Bethany never said a word. Just turned back to the sink and finished washing the dishes. Shane, Scot and I looked at each other with eyes as big as saucers. “So”, Shane says to Scot, “How many armies do you want to move to Mexico?”
Just another day in the Manning house.

Staff Development

“I hope I die during an inservice, because the transition from life to death is more subtle.” - Anonymous (but obviously a teacher)

I actually wrote most of this chapter while attending an inservice.

I often wonder why I bothered going to college to get a teaching degree. Every year I have to sit and listen to someone tell me how to do my job when I could be spending that time actually doing my job.
I guess they didn’t teach me how to be a teacher at teacher school.
Maybe I should ask for a refund?

Actually, I do understand why we have to go to these “trainings”. As with any profession it is important to stay current in the latest strategies and as Bo Schembechler, the legendary football coach at the University of Michigan, once said, “You are either getting better or you’re getting left behind.” But understanding does not make it any less painful. A lot of times staff development feels like your sitting in Ferris Beuller’s economics class.....anyone…..anyone.

Staff development inservices often remind me of the fishing trips my neighbor and I used to take while growing up in Inola, Oklahoma. We would get off of the school bus and say “meet me in the front yard in five minutes”, run into the house, drop our books, grab our fishing poles and tackle boxes and head for a nearby pond. We could go in just about any direction and be fishing in 15 minutes.

Sometimes the fishing trips were great. We caught lots of fish. Sometimes the trip wasn’t as productive but we still had a good time just hanging out together and enjoying the day. Then there were the trips that nothing seemed to go right. Broken poles, lost wallets, caught in the rain or stepped in manure on the way to the pond.

After teaching for a few years and having to attend “staff development”, I began to realize that it was a lot like those high school fishing trips. Sometimes it was a great experience. I caught a lot of great ideas that I could use instantly in my class. Some were just big steaming piles of manure.

One thing I’ve noticed about manure, having stepped in a lot of it over the years. Every pile of manure contains a little seed. We would pass by one of those piles a few weeks later on a different fishing trip and the grass where that pile was would always be a little greener, having been enriched by the fertilizer and there might even be new plants growing there that were not originally there. A product of the seeds in the manure.

So I guess some good can come even out of the worst of things…….but I still don’t like having to step through all the bull-shit.

Random thought

This has nothing to do with a potential chapter, just taking stock in what today brings.

I am so happy that as of today, my daughter will grow up in a world, where having a black president is no big deal because it has already been done.

Regardless of your politics, your gender, race, religon, or orientation, today Ameirca lived up to its goal of being a place where anyone can rise above their "station" to achieve whatever they dream.

What's my name?

The confusion started early enough. I was born Frank Lee Blair. Frank, after a great grandfather I never knew and Lee after an uncle who was serving in the Vietnam war at the time of my birth. My mother was afraid he would never return, but fortunately, he did.

According to my mother, and she would know since she was there after all, I was a rather hefty child at birth. My grandfather took to calling me “Chubby” and the name stuck. Everyone called me Chub or Chubby. My parents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, everyone and although I grew out of the baby fat the name stuck with me.

It wasn’t until I went to Kindergarten that I learned my name. I remember standing in line at the door into the kindergarten building with my new school clothes and freshly scrubbed face, combed hair, new school supplies in one hand and my fathers hand in the other. I was watching the other kids in front of me as one by one they walked up to this lady standing by a portable felt board with these large red apple shapes stuck to it. She would bend down say something to the kid and take an apple off the board, pin it to the kids shirt and send them inside.
All right I can handle this. No problem.
As we got closer I realize there are words on those apple shapes.
No, not words, names.
We get close and I realize the kids are supposed to find their name on one of the apples. I guess if you find it, you get to go to kindergarten. So right before it’s my turn I start looking for my name on one of the apples. I’m looking and looking and it’s just not up there.
Maybe I’m not supposed to go to kindergarten. Maybe I’m not supposed to be here. Maybe I can stay home with Mom and watch Seasame Street.
Finally, it’s my turn and this lady bends down, smiles and says, “Can you find your name up here.”
I take another long slow look at the board but my name is just not on there. I slowly shake my head and say, “noooo”.
“Well, what is your name?” This nice lady asks me.
“Chubby”
This stops her cold. She blinks a couple of times, looks at me, blinks some more, looks at my Dad, who probably felt about as tall as I was at the moment.
Daddies little genius.
Not even in school yet and already flunked the first test.
“It’s Frank”, Dad says.
The lady smiles again, takes an apple off the board and pins it to my shirt.
“I think this one right here is yours” she says.
Boy, am I confused now. She’s guiding me into the building and I’m looking down at this apple with all of these letters on it.
I thought I was beginning to get a handle on this whole letter concept. I’d seen Sesame Street. Letters make sounds, put them together they make words. I’m looking at this apple and I do not see a single “C” on it anywhere and I know Chubby starts with C.

Now, I didn’t want to be rude and this lady seemed nice enough, I’ll just go along and latter I’ll explain things to her and will get this whole name thing straightened out.
I look up at Dad, he smiles and nudges me towards the door. I get inside and there is another lady standing there who shows me where to put my things and tells me we are going to be having snacks in a little while, then guides me into a large room with other kids and shelves lining the walls with……is that….could it be……YES, Toys…..Lots and lots of toys.
Toys.
Snacks.
This place ROCKS!
Once I get this name thing straightened out, we’re in for some good times.
I’m standing there trying to decide which shelf to go to first when another boy comes over to me and says, “Hi, my name’s Robert” and points to the apple pinned to his chest. “See, that...R…O…B…E…R…T. That spells Robert”.
“Hi”, I say back. “My names Chubby. This thing is wrong” I say, pointing to the apple on my chest. “They gave me the wrong one”. But Robert is not listening. He just spotted a dump truck on one of the shelves and he is on his way to building the states newest highway.

I’m still standing there trying to figure out what to play with first when this bell starts ringing and the lady that gave me the wrong apple is saying, “Ok, boys and girls put the toys back on the shelves and come sit over here.” Not having had a chance to get a toy yet, I’m one of the first ones to sit down. I’m beginning to get the impression, that maybe, this place is not so cool after all. First of all, they give me the wrong apple, and then put me in a room with a bunch of other boys and girls that I don’t know with all of these toys and I don’t even get a chance to play with them yet.

I am pondering the injustice of it all when the apple lady says, “Boys and Girls my name is Mrs. Dennison and this is Mrs. Hulbert.” Pointing to the lady who had promised me a snack, which by the way, I have not gotten yet. Another strike against this place. “We are going to go around the group, one at a time, and I want each of you to stand up and tell us your name.”
Yes! Here is my chance to get this whole mess straightened out.
When its my turn I will simply explain that my name is Chubby. I was given the wrong apple by mistake and they will give me one with the right letters on it. We can have a snack, play with toys and all will be right with the world.

My turn comes, I stand up and pointing to the apple pinned to my shirt say, “This is not my name. My name is Chubby.”
They laughed.
Every kid in the room.
Not the teachers. In fact they both looked a little upset, like I had just farted or something.
I’m just trying to figure out what’s so funny about having the wrong apple.
I did not know at the time that chubby meant fat. To me it was a name. The only time I ever heard the word was when someone was calling for me. Chubby was just a name. No different than Robert, Bill or Sue. You want a funny name, Frank, that’s a funny name. Frankenstein, Frank & Beans, Frankfurter. Now, that’s funny.
The apple lady, Mrs. Dennison, she looks at me and says, “No, honey, your name is Frank and when you are at school that is the name you will go by.”

So, you get a new name when you go to school, I’m thinking, like a secret identity or something. I can live with that. Just bring on the snacks and the toys. Well, as it turns out the “snack” was five saltine crackers and a small box of milk, which I can’t drink because milk makes me throw-up. And as for the toys, we didn’t get to play with them again until the last five minutes before they sent us home.

That’s how it all started. Little did I know that I would spend the rest of my life going to school. Either as a student or a teacher and that my name would change with each step. From Chubby to Frank, to Blair (In high school we all called each other by our last names. Why is that?), to Coach Blair, to Mr. Blair, to Blairzebub (I’ll explain this one later), to Dad (the one I’m most proud of), to some of the names my eighth graders call me behind my back that I can’t print here. It’s enough to make one schizophrenic.
Perhaps I am.
Because, each name represents a different person.
Coach Blair is not the same person as Mr. Blair. Mr. Blair is pretty calm but Coach Blair screams a lot and gets pretty animated.
Frank is not the same person as Dad and Chubby is Mom and Dads little boy.
Their all me, just different parts of me.
So maybe I am schizophrenic.
But like the man said, “I don’t care what you call me just don’t call me late for snacks.”

And please, no milk.

The CPR story

The following is a true story. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent (and guilty).


Once upon a time in the land of Goobers there was an 8th grade Physical Education class. The teacher was a kindly older man with aspirations of expanding the minds of his young students. He carefully and thoughtfully made out his plans to maximize the amount of time the students would get to practice and yet still maintain control and safety of the class. One day the teacher thought it would be good for the students to know how to perform CPR, since they were causing so much stress in the kindly teachers life he was certain that at anytime his heart would explode from his escalating blood pressure. Knowing his students propensity for silliness (after all it was the land of Goobers) he was careful to lay out the CPR mannequins all in easy reach and in plane site. After the usually goofiness and snickering the class settled in and began to practice their CPR techniques. The kindly teacher was moving around among the students helping to perfect their skills. One student could not bring himself to practice the rescue breathing and kept laughing and trying to hold his breath when it came time to perform this skill on the mannequin. The teacher kept encouraging the young goober and finally after much coaxing and prodding the student finally completed the task. Later, the teacher found out that one of the other goobers had previously just farted over the face of the mannequin. The class continued without much more disruption until just before the end. While checking on the progress of one of the goobers the teacher noticed that it was time for the class to end and sent the students to get ready for their next class. He noticed that one student in particular seemed extremely eager to get to the bathroom but in the general chaos of gooberdom not anything too out of the ordinary. While preparing the mannequins for the next class of goobers the teacher noticed the floor around one of the mannequins was wet. Puzzled by this unknown puddle the teacher looked up to the ceiling to see if maybe a pipe was leaking. It was not raining, so it could not have come from a leak in the roof and the alcohol pads the class was using did not contain enough of the liquid to cause a puddle on the floor. What could it be? hmmmmmmm? Pressed for time the teacher did not have enough time to ponder long because a new group of goobers (is goobi plural for more than one goober?) would soon be coming in to the gym. As he was headed to the mop closet to prepare to clean the mysterious puddle, five of the goobers approached and told the teacher that "Goofus" (not his real name), the goober in a hurry to get to the bathroom, had urinated inside the mouth of the mannequin while the teacher was trying to help one of the other students. Stunned, all the teacher could say was "Thank you for telling me, now hurry to your next class so you will not be late.” The teacher removed the mannequin and placed it in a trash bag, cleaned the floor and sent for the assistant principal. When the assistant principal arrived the teacher told the story, gave him the names of the witnesses and the accused. Later "Goofus" admitted to the deed and received two weeks inhouse detention and was removed from the P.E. class for the rest of the year.

The moral of the story is “never let a goober/8th grader out of your sight”.

The end.

Possible Chapter Titles

What’s my name – Kindergarten/ nickname stories
Coach - Coaching stories, the first time called coach
Pumpkins in the trash
Missing chairs, toilet seats and other hi jinx
Teaching with the Three P’s – Pee, Poop and Puke
Rookies – Student teachers and first year teachers
Doody – Stories of things that have happened on duty.
Notes – Notes parents have written
?Image is everything
Staff Development
Teacher School
?Why teachers make bad parents – picking names for your children
Would the Real Mr. Jim Please Stand up?

Mr. GYM

First of all I want to say that I am a Physical Education Teacher. I am NOT a GYM Teacher. I do not teach students how to be a gym and even though I have taught thousands of kids only a very few have been named Jim so there were times when I was “Jim’s teacher” but not a Gym teacher or “Gym coach” as some of my students have referred to me. You might ask, “What’s the difference?” and the best explanation I can think of is, to be crude, the same as referring to a black person by using the “N” word. It is offensive and demeaning and not a true definition of my job. My job is to educate physically.

For the first nine years of my elementary teaching career, I was the only male teacher on the staff. We did have a male custodian by the name of Jim Hill, affectionately known as Mr. Jim, who was a great person and did a wonderful job of keeping our school in working order. Being the only male on the faculty I was asked to do lot of jobs outside of my job description, such as carrying things for the other teachers or checking the boys bathroom and on more than one occasion having to kill a snake.

One day I’m in the gym just teaching away when these two third grade boys came into the room carrying a trash can between them filled with old moldy pumpkins. They walked up to me and said, “Mrs. Harper said you would take this out to the dumpster for us.”
Normally, I would have obliged, but something about the situation just went across me the wrong way. I don’t know if it was that it happened right in the middle of my class or that it was just presumed that I would drop everything I was doing to go empty someone else’s trash.
So I told the boys, “You take that back down to Mrs. Harper and you tell her she can empty her own trash.”
The boys looked kind of stunned then looked at each other and off they went back out of my gym, carrying a trash can full of moldy pumpkins between them. As I watched them leave I made a mental note to myself to have a little conversation with Mrs. Harper after school about trash duty and then went back to my lesson. A few minutes later here comes Mrs. Harper walking into the gym and I’m thinking “I can take her. I’m a good foot taller than her and she probably wouldn’t weigh more than 110 lbs. with rocks in her pocket and wearing lead shoes so if it comes down to a fight, Yeah, I can take her”. But before I can get good and squared away she opens up with “I am so sorry. I told the boys to take the trash can to Mr. Jim.