Roots & Wings–Pt 3: “Wolf Pack”

Posted on March 5, 2014 by drdancox

The wolf pair cautiously moved into the meadow, listening carefully, searching the air and obvious landmarks for scent markers. They had been searching for their own territory for some time. She was heavy with her first litter, and they needed to find a denning spot as well as a place of their own to hunt. This tree-lined valley with its open meadow and quick-running stream would be perfect, but not if it was already taken. Two days and nights of listening and scenting assured them that they were safe from competition. They found an old badger den beneath the twisted roots of an ancient oak and enlarged it for their first den. Other sheltered locations were available for future use, too.

The four pups were born without incident. The male and female took turns hunting when the pups were close to weaning. As the young ones grew, they learned quickly and became valuable members of the small pack. A couple of males and a female that had been forced out of other packs somewhere found their way to the valley. Other litters came to the alpha pair. Some individuals and a pair or two left in the ensuing years to keep the size of the pack fit to the hunting territory.

One of the males broke a leg in a winter struggle with a young mule deer. The bones didn’t realign and left the wolf too crippled to be of much use in the hunt. He became the official babysitter and comedian to the pack, fed from every kill and helped to water when necessary.

The alpha male grew too old and blind. His mate died with a stillborn pup. A new alpha pair—a great-grandson and a wandering female—took charge of the pack, cared for the new pups and the aging grandsire as long as he lasted. When he became too weak to even chew his food, one of his pack-mates did it for him, regurgitating naturally pureed meals that kept him alive into the winter.

For several years this pack lived in harmony with the natural order in their valley. Then one morning as the latest year-old pups chased one another in the meadow, one of them suddenly leaped into the air and fell heavily and unmoving. The smell of blood and death rising to accost his fellows. No sooner had the dead wolf hit the ground than they heard to far-off boom of the gunshot that had killed him. Almost immediately another wolf was knocked rolling and bleeding to the turf. Another hollow explosion was followed by the dirt whining up beneath a nearby adult. The pack rushed for the trees, but one more of the pack was felled by the unseen hunter.

In the shelter of the forest the pack gathered around the alpha pair and strained to hear and smell this new danger. Soon they detected the approaching men, and the depleted pack turned and went deeper into the woods, staying hidden, but keeping track of the humans. The smell of wolf blood grew strong.

When the pack could no longer hear or smell the men, they cautiously turned back to the meadow, circling around the spot where their fellows had died. In the light of a full moon they gave voice to their mourning, and before the sun rose began their search for another territory, hoping the winter would hold off long enough that they could discover a safe haven.

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Roots & Wings—Pt 2: “The Vine”

Posted on March 4, 2014 by drdancox

The vine, gnarled and twisted, wrapped itself around itself and the supporting wires and stakes.  Its growth was almost visible as it reached to fill the spaces while its wide green leaves caught the sun and rain and fed the whole vine.  Now and then a little pruning helped displace shadow so that it would grow even more robustly.  Soon the first berry clusters began to appear; small, bright green and promising.

Protective netting was placed overhead to keep too many birds from feasting on the ripening berries, but still the vine fed some as well as the mice and rabbits and occasional deer that slipped in under cover of darkness.  The whole length of the vine spread out to give more room.  Its ancient roots went deep to tap the moisture and feed from the soil.  All the plants in the vineyard protected one another somewhat, holding on to the rain, blocking the—at times—furnace-like winds.

The grapes grew heavy on the vine.  They filled with sweet, succulent juice and changed from bright green to deep, dark purple.  The season was changing; the earth was drying.  The harvest would soon come.

Near the vineyard a road passed bearing traffic to towns and villages, sometimes bringing the laborers who tended the vineyard.  It also bore those who thought little of the land through which they were passing.  One evening a careless traveler rushed by, barely recognizing the passing scenery, and without a moment’s consideration, tossed from the car window a lighted cigarette.  It landed at the side of the road, but the breeze rolled it, still smoldering, into the dry grasses of the shoulder.  A fresh gust fanned the ember, and the first low flames appeared, then spread rapidly.

By the time the alarm was raised, the roadside the length of the vineyard seemed to be ablaze.  The heat from the flames created its own wind and pushed the fire into the dry vines.  The very connectedness that allowed the vines to grow became a fuse that rushed the killing flames from one plant to the next.  Soon the lush green was merely crumbling ashes and acrid smoke.

The next day a gentle rain washed the soot and ashes away or seeped into the cracked, baked ground.  The earth loosened and cooled.  Eventually, the water and the ashen solution worked its way into the depths of the roots, nourishing the small, still-living core.  This heart of the vine again sent life pushing out until eventually green shoots broke the surface and the vine reached up again for the sun.

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Roots & Wings—Pt 1: “Aspen Grove”

Posted on March 3, 2014 by drdancox

The aspen sapling reached up from the mountainside, stretching its branches to the sun and rain.  It grew and opened bright green leaves and replaced bark and lower, tender branches that fed the deer and elk and smaller creatures in the lean months.  It was pruning so that it could rise above the shade of the other trees.

When the winds howled down the mountain, the young tree held firm to the rocky earth, its roots part of the long chain connecting it to the rest of the grove.  They were a vast system spread wide and anchoring dozens of trees, young and old against the storms near the treeline.  Heavy snows bent branches low at times, but the interlocking branches of the grove were as supporting as the roots.  A few were lost, but in the long run this strengthened the tree and the entire aspen grove.

The grove thrived and sheltered many birds in their chattering leaves and swaying branches.  Below the branches dropped might become part of the nests of birds or marmots or ground squirrels.  The windbreak of the grove helped the rest of the forest survive, as well.

Above the trees the snow packed and iced.  The rocks cracked in the cold winter and then the warmth of the sun.  Spring came and the melt was like a river beneath the heavy white blanket.  A wide stream of water trickled through the aspen grove and then became a torrent in the channel formed by years of seasons changing.  All was well.  The process followed its slow progress.

Then two unwise backcountry hikers passed over the shelf of snow.  Out of bounds and unaware, each step tapped the treacherous ledge until in one colossal roar it slid down the mountainside, pushing giant rocks ahead and shearing off trees at the ground.  The slide cleaned a mile long path more than a quarter of a mile wide and buried the hikers amid the splintered aspen.

The sun rose and warmed the bare earth.  Light snow fell and then rain.  Some of the earth was washed away because the bracing trees and shrubs had been scoured from the hillside, but the roots of the aspen grove were there below the surface.  Warmed by the sun and nourished by the snow and rain, again the shoots pushed up and reached for the sky.

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“The Gambler”

Posted on February 28, 2014 by drdancox

I play the lottery.  No.  Really.  Not the Nebraska Lottery or Lotto or whatever those various games of chance are called.  If you know me, you know that I am opposed to that type of gambling to the point that I don’t even buy raffle tickets from Girl Scouts.

I gamble on people.

The reality of this life metaphor just became apparent to me the other day.  Teachers do this, I think.  We pay for our lottery tickets with our lives—time, effort, intellect, etc.—wagers that our students will be winners.  We gamble that we can make their lives better and, in doing so, make the world better.  Reflecting on my career, I think I mostly had winners.  I feel pretty good about  the work I did and what I know of the work they are doing, at least the ones who have kept in touch in some way.

My retirement has given me time to shake things up a bit.  The game has changed.  For one thing, I’m gambling on myself more.  I’ve always wanted to be a writer, so I’m giving myself the chance, taking the risks, exploring what it means.  I think teaching all those years helps because I know that I learn more from my failures than I do from my successes as long as I can get good critiques!

I’m still gambling on others, too, though.  Part of my branching out for myself is getting involved in a couple of ventures that will be successful only if people pull together.  The rewards will be intrinsic, for the most part, but that’s what I’m after here.  I’m old enough, my life has changed enough, that I’m thinking of what my legacy will be.  It’s nice to think that my students, my children, and grandchildren will remember me.  Something is pushing me to do more, though, to do something that will be of direct benefit to people I don’t know, will never know, but who will in their own turn be able to achieve their dreams.

As with my writing, I don’t fear failure in these projects, but it will be extremely disappointing to me if they don’t come to fruition, mostly because so many people who could and should benefit from them will not have that assistance.  It’s a gamble.  I’m paying to play with my time, effort, sweat, intellect, money, and, the least important, my reputation (such as it is).  What do I get if I win?  Honestly, I probably won’t even be around when the winning numbers are drawn.  And that’s OK with me, too.  It’s worth the gamble.  What are you gambling on?

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“Immigration Reform”

Posted on February 27, 2014 by drdancox

At first there weren’t too many of them.  They were awkward, didn’t know their surroundings, and seemed destined to perish or go back where they came from as soon as possible.  When things became dire, we took pity on them despite the fact that our leaders said we should leave them to their fate, but most of us just couldn’t let them struggle.  They were huddled together, tired and poor, and after we could finally communicate with them, learned that they had come yearning to be free.  So we helped them.  Gave them food, shelter; showed them how to work to help themselves.

More came.  The formed their own small communities and kept to themselves.  They refused to learn our language.  Some actually thought our government and religion were offensive, yet we watched them shun and torture and even kill their own kind.  Eventually gangs of them ran rampant, murdering us—young and old—ravaging our women and children.

After we had offered them friendship and assistance, they called us ignorant savages and even tried to enslave us.  In the name of their government and their church they sought to eradicate us completely.

We discovered much too late that the tall ships with their great white sails were not clouds bringing gods to us, but merely boats carrying the worst of plagues.

These people did not understand “Mi’ taku’ye-oyasin.”…“We are all family.”

Four hundred years later, from the lands they allowed us to keep or where they imprisoned us, we are still asking them to treat us like people.

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“Just Do It”

Posted on February 26, 2014 by drdancox

Just a few days ago I read this quotation from Goethe: “Whatever you can do, or dream you can, begin it.  Boldness has genius, magic, and power in it.  Begin now.”  I had to write it down, but it is actually one of hundreds (?) of similar messages that I’ve encountered.  My students recognize my favorite quotation from Thoreau (“If you’ve built castles in the air….”).  John Wooden (“Success comes from knowing that you did your best to become the best that you are capable of becoming.”), Wayne Gretzky (“You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.), and many, many others have commented on this idea that you have to be a doer as well as a dreamer.

Obviously, I’m a big believer in this concept.  Too many times I’ve watched young people in particular give up, just stop trying because they have not been successful the first time they tried something.  If they’ve had good advisors in their corner, they’ve usually been picked up, dusted off, and kicked in the pants and told to keep going.  Most of them did so.  No, they aren’t all rock stars or movie stars or stars of any kind.  A majority is simply living their lives as best they can—raising families, going to work, being productive members of society.  That was their dream.  OK.  Some of them “settled” for that dream.

Since most of my high school students were juniors and seniors, I had the opportunity on many occasions to answer questions and give advice about life, from going to college to applying for jobs and, always, setting goals.  If they were in my classes long enough, they always heard me tell them that they needed to examine themselves carefully, think clearly about their dreams, and discover the best paths to achieving whatever they wanted.  Upon careful analysis, most realized that some ideas were fanciful impossibilities for one reason or another, but many of those dreams that seemed farfetched were, indeed, possible if the dreamers were willing to put in the effort to achieve them.

One intelligent youngster once asked me if my dream had always been to be a teacher.  I swallowed hard and honestly answered, “No.”  Every eye in the room was on me then.  Whatever I had planned for the period was out the window (as it often happened).  This was a teachable moment that couldn’t be ignored.

My dream had been to be a writer.  I realized late, about seven years into my teaching career, actually, that I had always been a teacher and, if I do say so myself, I was a pretty good one most of the time.  Whether I was teaching English in a high school somewhere or teaching future teachers, I felt good about what I was doing.  I knew that I was helping my kids achieve their own dreams and, for my future teachers, they would, in turn, open doors for their students.

That explanation didn’t satisfy that group of students, however.  We’d just had one of those “If you can dream it, you can become it” conversations.  Why had I given up on my dream?

Well, I hadn’t.  When I realized that teaching is what I am and not just what I do, I also understood that my experiences in the classroom were part of my training to become a writer.  “Cop out,” someone dared.  “A bit,” I said.  The writing required of me as an English teacher as well as reading essays and doing research for my lessons took up most of my time, so I didn’t write much.  Other authors put in full days of work at different jobs and still found time to write.  I just couldn’t do it.  Even during my summers, if I was awake, I was usually thinking about teaching.  My wife would look at me, see the faraway stare, and ask me what lesson I was planning or what student I was remembering.  Only on rare occasions did something affect me, arouse the muse, and literally make me write.  If you look at the poems in my book, Dandelions & Other Flowers, they’re in chronological order.  Notice the big time gaps.  My teaching career was pretty intense those years that I wasn’t writing poetry.

My “apprenticeship” is over now.  I am a retired college professor and high school English teacher, but I am a full-time writer.  I don’t have a regular schedule, no office hours.  I am my own boss.  But my conscious—and sometimes unconscious—thoughts and preparations are for my writing.

Oh, I’m still teaching.  My correspondence with former students continues.  I’ve been asked to speak to some high school kids about writing.  It’s on my time now, though.

What is your dream?  Given your circumstances and abilities (be honest), if you put your mind to it and gave it the effort it requires, could you achieve it?  What’s holding you back?

Just do it.

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“Definitions”

Posted on February 24, 2014 by drdancox

No surprise—I’ve always been a word geek.  When I discovered dictionaries, my mind exploded.  Send me to look up a word and I’ll be back half an hour later if you call me.  One word leads to another.  Encyclopedias are the same.  It’s like looking at a family tree.  All the connections and nuances are simply intriguing to me.  The Oxford English Dictionary was almost my undoing.  It not only gives the current definition(s) of a word, but its uses and changes in meaning, by date, since the word first appeared in print!

Even the word definition itself is interesting in its denotations (specific meanings) and connotations (inferences).  Bear with me….  Coming from Latin and Old French, it combines the de, meaning “of,” and fini, meaning “ending” or “limit,” so quite specifically, it means “the limits or boundaries” of a word.

The most fascinating aspect of this that I have observed is how the essence of definition is important in our lives.  Think about the arguments in which you’ve been involved (especially those of you in relationships with significant others) and how, if you think about it, most of these disagreements have stemmed from a lack of a shared definition.  For instance, when you were younger, “Clean your room” meant one thing to your mother, and something quite different to you!  My wife’s definition of “vacuuming” was very different from mine.  I could run the vacuum through the entire house in the time it took her to do the family room.  (What?  Move furniture?)

When I was working with the National Council of Teachers of English, I was once on a three-year Commission to set “Guidelines for the Preparation of Secondary English/Language Arts Teachers.”  About a dozen of us were on the panel—high school English teachers, college/ university teacher education professors (my role at the time), administrators, a college student.  We were from cities as diverse as Los Angeles, New York City, Shenandoah (IA), Melbourne (Australia; NCTE represents all English-speaking countries!), London (England), a country in Africa I don’t remember, and others.  Also, the demographics and geographic locations were just as disparate.  The group met twice a year.  It took us at least three meetings just to gain a working knowledge of how different our settings were.  My friend in LA told of a sophomore English class with sixty students (yes, ONE class) who brought 57 different languages of nurture to the classroom.  I explained that Nebraska (I was teaching at Peru State at the time) had entire high schools with about 3,000, and others with fewer than 100, and a “diversity” that was only about 4% of the population.  The “Guidelines” that resulted were fairly broad!

These differences in our perspectives are cause for all sorts of misunderstandings as well as occasions for humor.  Winter weather always reminds me of this.  I laugh when the local television weather reporters (I still think “forecaster” is a misnomer; definitions again) get all bent out of shape over approaching snowstorms.  “BLIZZARD WARNING”  “STAY OFF THE STREETS”  Well, some people should, as indicated by the fender benders that happen when we do get a few inches of snow.  I admit, now and then it’s pretty dicey when the wind is blowing 40 mph and it’s snowing a couple of inches an hour.  Why the hell is anyone out in that anyway unless you’re a First Responder of some sort?  Then there are our neighbors to the south.  The city officials in Atlanta were lambasted because they weren’t prepared for a snow and ice storm that hit the city a couple of weeks ago.  Why would they have snowplows and mountains of road salt?  I had a friend in Georgia when I was in high school.  I used to give her a bad time when she’d write and tell me that they got out of school early because it was snowing—not accumulating, just snowing—and she’d never seen it before!

These misunderstandings happen in almost all aspects of our daily lives, and a majority of those disagreements are typically over something as simple as a shared definition of terms.  Think about categorizing the music you like.  When you sort the albums and artists in your iTunes library, what do you put into a file labeled “Rock”?  Only Heavy Metal?  I love ZZ Top.  Are they Rock?  Southern Rock?  Texas Rock?  Or are they a Blues band?  Texas Blues, since that’s their home?  Maybe they’re Country Western (Billy is looking more like Willie all the time).  I listened to a group the other night that I’d hate to try to classify.  They sounded at times like Lady Antebellum, and at others like Springsteen or the Dead.  All original music. Next time you feel your temper rising, stop and think about the words being used before you resort to demeaning or derogatory attacks—because you’ve run out of anything productive to offer.  If you have the chance, find out if everyone involved is operating from the same definitions.  I think we get caught up in generalities, from politics and religion to food and beverages.

Excuse me.  I have to let out the dog: black male canis lupus familiaris, about 75 lbs, with white markings on muzzle and chest; primarily Labrador but of undetermined mix; approximately ten years old….

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“You Know Who You Are”

Posted on February 22, 2014 by drdancox

I think my heart is too small.  Not physically.  Metaphorically.  Spiritually.  Whatever you want to call it. When you have touched me in such a way that I say to you, “I love you,” then you have somehow reached that part of me that acknowledges you as a person, a spirit that I want to keep close to me somehow.

It means that you can call on me for anything.  Anytime.  I can be your best friend.  Your father or grandfather or your bff or …, however our connection is best or most appropriate.  It’s a 24/7/365 commitment whether you are really aware of it or not.  We can work out the details as we go.  It doesn’t matter to me.  You may not even understand.  Sometimes it takes me by surprise.  Often it does.  Suddenly here is a person who just seems to be a very special part of my life.

We can go for days, weeks, months, years without seeing one another and nothing has changed about the way I feel about you except that I am immediately aware that I have missed you when I see you again.  You may be surprised by the hug you get that feels like a bone crushing, rib cracking cocoon, and I’ll look at you clear to your essence.  It may be uncomfortable both physically and emotionally and you’ll be confused, unless you understand.

I don’t get it sometimes myself.  I just go with what I feel.  And I’ve missed you.

Because I love you.

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“Don’t Tread on Me”

Posted on February 21, 2014 by drdancox

One of the things that has defined the American spirit and character since the first Europeans arrived here is our independence.  In order to be the pioneers we are in almost everything, we have to be willing to go it alone…sort of.

Sure, there are those misanthropic types who have struck out into the wilderness with nothing but what they could carry and lived their lives of adventure and loneliness.  The trappers and mountain men of the early 1800’s are good examples.  Many of them, however, were discovered some time later as frozen corpses or piles of bones left by the bears and coyotes and vultures.  But, hey, they didn’t need anybody.

From the time I was quite young, I wanted to be independent; to be able to take care of myself; stand on my own two feet; provide for myself.  I worked, learned how to cook and sew and clean, and planned for continued growth.  All by myself.  Hardly.

I had teachers everywhere I turned.  I had a home to which I could return if things got bad.  No matter where I was or what happened, I could always call my parents or my brothers or my good friends, and I knew someone would be there to help, and, boy, have I needed help!

For forty years I was extremely fortunate to have a wife to help me be “independent.”  When I was away either at my job or going to school (again), she was at home with our sons, taking care of them and our home.  When I came home, it was to a well-kept place and good meals and sons who were growing into fine young men.  I was permitted time to work and enjoy “the fruits of my labor.”

Now my sons are living their own lives and, unfortunately, I do have to take care of myself.  I’m an independent old cuss.

When I got up out of my warm bed this morning, the furnace was running.  The lights came on at the flick of a switch.  I had hot water by turning the tap.  Before long it was snowing big, wet flakes and blowing a gale, so the street was about three inches deep in a short time.  Right after I returned from the gym, the county snowplow came by and cleared the public street in front of the house.  The mail carrier came by and delivered today’s advertisements, a note from a former student, and the bill for my cable.

Yes, sir.  I am a typical, independent, 21st century American.  Damn, that reminds me…I need to make an appointment with my accountant so he can do my taxes.

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“Tweedledy Dee”

Posted on February 20, 2014 by drdancox

My father always gave me good advice (he always said).  Usually I recognized this after I failed to heed that advice and realized the truth of his wisdom.  I was lucky, too, in that I rarely heard “I told you so.”  Most of the time a look said volumes.  He did tell me once, however, that he was proud of the fact that eventually I was smart enough to learn the lessons even if I had to teach myself.  I read the quotation always attributed to Mark Twain about this when I was fairly young, but it still didn’t make much sense until I was old enough.  One of Dad’s pearls was, “Never say ‘Never.’”  Oh, how true I learned those words are.

I hated broccoli and cauliflower.  I couldn’t stand the taste of beer and whiskey.  After my maternal grandmother’s funeral, I swore I’d never go to another one; I even planned to miss my own.  I wasn’t going to be a teacher; I wanted to write poetry and prose, not lesson plans (I’d seen him labor over those).  Live in a small town in Iowa?  No.

Ahem.  I like broccoli and cauliflower.  Without cheese!  I drink too much beer and whiskey, and I’m even picky about what I have.  Unfortunately, I’ve been to too damned many funerals.  I learned to go to support those who are suffering most.  Still don’t like them for a variety of reasons, but I go when I must.  My own?  Still don’t plan to be there.  Let me know.  I lived in three small towns in Iowa for a total of about 30 years.  I go back often to visit.

My worst vow of all, though, is my pledge several years ago that I would NOT get a Twitter account.  What can I possibly say that’s worth saying in 140 characters?…and I write short poetry!

You probably guessed where this is going.  Since I’ve published my first book, I’ve had to start thinking of marketing it.  One of the very first things I read about marketing is that authors need to lock in their name, their brand, if you will, in all different social media to guarantee that someone else doesn’t get it.  Too often “undesirable” folk sew these up, and legitimate users are left with less obvious user names.

So, I don’t plan to do much “tweeting,” but I still try to never say “Never.”  And you can follow my not posting @DanCox03.

I promise never to write anything you won’t like.

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