Ghost of Christmas Past

More random Christmas memories.

One year, when our older kids were just 'tweens, we had a Christmas wreath on the front door. It had a hand-painted ceramic, fluffy-bearded Santa face hanging down in the middle of it. I got home one night to find an Anne Arundel police cruiser parked out front. Diane and the kids were home, and they'd heard someone picking the lock, trying to get in. They were all quite terrified. Diane bravely went to the door, looked out the peephole and saw some activity out there. She immediately called 911 and told them that someone was trying to break into the house, and that she was taking the kids upstairs. Fortunately, the police got there in time to catch the guy right in the act. The little fluffy-bearded man was being taken away and locked up just as I arrived. And he is still locked up, in a box in the attic.


Before K.C. the Kitty Cat was hired as the Academy's mascot, in fact, before the Academy even existed, we owned two of the most ill-behaved cats in the history of cats, with the possible exception of the Smilodon fatalis that used to lock Fred Flinstone out at night. A brother and sister set of barn cats, the female would have very little to do with anyone, and the male, named Jordan, was the feline embodiment of Stanley Kowalski, minus any redeeming qualities. He would park himself at the front door and howl to go out in the wee hours. Then, after cruising the neighborhood to fight all other males and impregnate all other females, he'd schlep home with whatever diseases he'd managed to pick up, park himself under our bedroom window and howl to come in. On a good night, perhaps he'd drop a beheaded bunny or two on the front porch. Once inside, he'd knock his sister around and then howl until someone fed him. Having gorged himself, he'd lounge for a bit, then get up and start the whole business over again. It was nearly as bad as living with two colicky newborns. His howl was similar to those small dogs that people train to bark out sentences, like "I love you". Except they're not really saying anything - they're just trying to get a treat. Jordan's howl sounded eerily like a plaintive "STELLA!" I went out to go to work one morning, and found him locked in my car. Yeah, the neighbors loved him. The neighbors loved US for having him. Anyway, our Christmas tree was very close to the front door. One day, after returning from some holiday shopping, we discovered that we were unable to get into the house. The cats had knocked the tree over and somehow lodged it between the front door and the closet door in such a manner that the door simply could not be opened. I had to break in through a window. Jordan very nearly became acquainted with the Ghost of Christmas Present that year.

Man-Priorities

Hey, this guy's just doing what the rest of us are only thinking.

Closed-Door Policy

During the holidays, the Academy adopts a closed-door policy - doors must be kept closed so K.C. the kitty cat doesn't terrorize the Christmas tree. Talk about "War on Christmas". The problem is, we didn't have any doors to close.

Above is the first of two doors that had to be installed before the Christmas tree could go up. French doors are so practical with the toddler set, n'est pas? Clean the little glass panes, and within the hour they appear to have been visited by a pack of miniature, rabid St. Bernards.

Below is the second of two doors that had to be installed. Pay no attention to the holes and patches in the wall - I just finished rewiring the entire house, and those little holes and patches are EVERYWHERE. This door was donated by a friend of the Academy. I have a dozen more, just like it. They're slab doors, which means its just a door, without a frame. In this situation, you have two choices:

1 - build your own frame, and chisel hinge-mortises into the frame to match the door hinges exactly.

2 - use the existing frame, trim and shave the door to match it, chisel hinge-mortises onto the door to match the frame exactly, and remove/replace existing door stop molding.

Both are a total pain in the threshold, but you save a ton of money.




Anyway, the room is now properly congigured to prevent the Academy's mascot from entering. This should work out great with four kids, right? You know how a cat always wants to be on the other side of a closed door? Yeah, kids are worse. Its highly likely the closed-door policy will have the effect of locking the cat IN with the tree, thereby guaranteeing its complete and utter destruction.

At any rate, construction begins tomorrow, as soon as I pull the county permits.

Oh, you see that molding on the second door frame? The plain cove molding with peeling paint - just like ALL the other molding in this house? I lie awake at night, thinking about replacing it. Oh, you think I'm kidding?

Stream of Yuletide Consciousness...

Some random holiday memories, in no particular order......

Life was stressful for the first couple of years after the boys were born. I mean, unhealthy stressful. I don't think I got two hours of sleep on any given night. I can't recall much about those years - the mind has a way of blocking out unpleasant experiences. But I do remember putting up a Christmas tree on Christmas Eve one year, and if you've ever seen my tree, it is a huge undertaking. After hours of work, I slid underneath to push it back against the wall, and it tipped over. Funny, I didn't have much Christmas spirit when I'd started the project. And at that moment, it wasn't so much sleigh bells jingling as it was a yuletide GONG that signaled my freefall over the edge. Ever seen the Incredible Hulk's Christmas Special? I took the tree, ornaments and all, dragged it through the dining room and out the back door, and tossed it as far as I could into the back yard. The headmistress wouldn't talk to me for several weeks after that episode.

Each year my older brother and I always try to outdo each other with gifts or calls to mom. You don't want to be the last person to make the phone call on THAT day. This year, he claims he really outdid himself. Told me that it wasn't even worth trying; that I should just send no gift and start focusing on next year; that if I do send a gift, I'll only embarrass myself. Oh, he's made a big deal over this one. And he won't tell me what it is. But he made one KEY mistake. Flying at 36,000 feet on his way to Norway this week, he crafted an email to mom telling her to expect a large package, and explaining the shipping arrangements, etc. Then he realized he didn't have the email address, so he sent it to me requesting that I forward it. What, are you kidding? Have you ever MET me, brother? You trust ME? Ha! After some clever editing, mom now expects a package from BOTH of us. Have fun in Norway 'Bro! Don't worry, I've got your back.

A friend once got a photo of my sister sitting on the potty. It was a classic pose - pants right down around the ankles. Yup, it was a sight. So this friend, she had the photo made into Christmas cards that year. You know this "War on Christmas" thing? Yeah, it started right there.

I used to love going to Grammy and Fat Leon's place in the winter time - we called it camp, they called it home. It was a small, dark brown house in Ossippee, New Hampshire, isolated at the top of a steep grade up a dirt road. If the snow was too high, you sometimes had to park at the bottom and schlep a mile or so up the hill on foot. We never went there for Christmas, but I do remember some winter visits. The thing I remember most is Fat Leon's Ford Galaxy. It was dark blue, with a purple haze from too much sun and salt, and it had two things on the dashboard that simply fascinated me - one was a tartan-plaid beanbag ashtray, and the other was a statue of the Virgin Mary. But what I really remember about winters there, is how the car sounded. In summer, he'd speed down the dirt road like the blazes, rocks rattling 'round the wheel wells like coins in a clothes dryer. It was a "hell of a racket", as he would say. But in winter, it was like you were driving on plush carpet. The car made no noise, except for the snow crunching under the tires.

The last time I ever saw my dad was the Christmas of 1991. I flew to Florida to spend the holiday with Mom and Dad, a brother and a sister. Christmas in Florida - very strange, especially for a Down-Easter. In his later empty-nest years in Florida, Dad got a real kick out of pretending he was a big kid at Christmas. He'd put a poster in the window every morning as the big day approached - 3 MORE SLEEPS! 2 MORE SLEEPS! Which is what we used to say as kids. Anyway, that year, the Christmas of 1991, we got my dad a new bicycle, and outfitted it like we used to do as kids, with clothes pins holding playing cards on the back rails, so that the spokes clicked the cards and made this motor-boat sound. We put streamers in the handlebars, and mounted a holster with a cap gun. Dad hated Muskovee ducks, and used to chase them all over the yard with a cap gun, trying to scare them away. He got a good laugh out of that bike, and we took his picture standing next to it in the driveway. It was the last picture we ever took of him. I'd never spent Christmas in Florida before that year, and I don't know what made me go. But I'm sure glad I did.

Brake Pads and Gumdrops

Normally, I pay way too much for stuff. Never been a good shopper, no sir. It runs in the family. We're all lousy with money. A few recent examples come to mind (and these are the simple, non-interest-bearing variety).

Recently, the Washington Post contacted me to inform me that they intended to print one of my many letters to the editor. So when I stopped the next morning at the gas station (of course, there is no such thing as a gas station anymore - only grocery stores that also happen to sell gas), I started the pump then ran inside to purchase the morning edition of the Washington Post. Behind the counter was a new trainee who knew perhaps less English than I know Spanish. Directly ahead of me in line was a hungry contractor with conceivably the most complicated transaction in convenience store history. The collision was unavoidable, and spectacular. By the time they'd cleaned up the mess and I finally paid my twenty-seven cents for the paper, the total back at the pump was $87. Since I'd planned to purchase only $15 of gas, I figure that morning edition of the Washington Post cost me seventy two dollars. And they didn't even print my letter.

Recently, I'd taken the man-truck to the dealership for scheduled maintenance. I really think there is a typo in the owner's manual though, because the only thing you get when you take your car to the dealership for "scheduled maintenance" is unscheduled maintenance - things like "breather valves" and "ballast resistors" and "adamantium condensers". Whatever. So the dealership informs me that the vehicle requires new brakes. Stange, since it only has 40k miles on it, but what the hell, it sounds better than a valve job. Except the price was $750. I began to figure I could save hundreds of dollars by doing the job myself. So I went to the parts counter instead, and purchased the necessary parts for $179. At home, I got the front wheels taken apart, removed the rotors, and took them to the local machine shop to have them turned (don't ask - its like a shave). They informed me that only the dealer could turn them. I took them to the dealer. They informed me that they lacked the equipment to turn these high-tech rotors. Um.... excuse me, but weren't you just trying to SELL me a brake job? How would you have dealt with the rotors? "We would have replaced them." Well, that explained the price tag, but I wasn't buying it. So I begged and they turned them on the low-tech equipment for $75, but refused to guarantee the work. I finished the job, and drove around for weeks with the satisfied smile of one who'd just saved hundreds of dollars. Except after several weeks, every time I applied the brakes the vehicle would shake to the point where all occupants' teeth would chatter. So I returned to the dealership and got the work done correctly. Not bad - a $750 brake job for over a thousand dollars.

Every Christmas, I purchase the largest poinsettias I can find and put them in the front window with spotlights on them. This year I bought some from Home Depot of all places. I was so proud that I'd found these enormous poinsettias for just $18 each. Except that the Academy's mascot got into them, and several trips to the veterinarian later, we were able to bring the kitty back to life from comatose toxic shock. Two poinsettias? Five hundred thirty four dollars.

Hey, the list goes on and on.

But today was the exception. Today the entire student body of the Academy went on a holiday field trip to build gingerbread houses at another regional school. We had the best time, and it cost us nothing. You might think that a such a party, put on for small children, might be held in a dark basement with card tables and wooden benches, bags of gumdrops placed unceremoniously on the tables. And you would be wrong. This party was prepared by perhaps the world's most gracious host, and it was phenomenal - magical. The table was set for a king, with dozens of silver bowls filled with different types of candy and assorted house-building goodies. There was food and drink for the adults. Christmas scents and Christmas music filled the air. What a treat for adult and child alike.


Morning edition of the Washington Post - $72
Brake job for the man truck - $1,004
Two holiday poinsettias - $534
Sharing good times with good people - Priceless

Tool Time

Many times, in the middle of the night, our dormitory monitors have had to intercept sleep-walking students as they fumble around trying to locate the bathrooms. They walk about aimlessly, yet seemingly with great and urgent purpose - that's the sure sign of someone who desperately needs to relieve themselves, yet cannot manage to understand why the toilet isn't to be found in the kitchen.

And so it was tonight. I, the headmaster, was in the kitchen watching my daily.. well, Daily Show with Jon Stewart. Suddenly I became aware of a presence behind me, and turned to find one of the students standing there, staring at the ground with a troubled look, and holding a part of his anatomy in a manner that suggested a prompt visit to a potty was recommended.

I took his hand and led him to the bathroom. On the way, I recalled that earlier in the evening I'd turned off the breaker that controls the bathroom lighting circuit. I was rewiring a switch, and hadn't finished the job. Poor thing, I thought to myself. He'd probably gone into the bathroom and found that the lights weren't working, then came looking for me. I escorted him into the bathroom, and then discovered that I'd left a pile of tools on top of the toilet seat. "Ha! Sorry buddy!" I said, as I reached down to pick them up. The poor guy might even have made his way into the bathroom, only to find that he couldn't use the toilet because of all the tools on top of it.

As I scooped the tools up into my hands, the reality of the situation hit me...

He hadn't so much come to me to ask for help going to the bathroom, as much as to inform me that he'd just pissed all over my tools.

We will tell no time before its time

The students here have been analog-deficient for so long that its become embarrassing. Clock-time is one of those sneaky questions traditional school parents use to test the knowledge of homeschool kids. Its innocent enough - "Hi Junior! How do you like homeschool? Oh, that's nice - what time is it on the clock over there?"

For the Academy's students, that's a deer in the headlights moment. We've just not spent much, um, time on it. Ask 'em the time on a digital clock though, and DAMN! they nail it every time. Of course, its more of a new-agey interpretation, but everyone knows what "six-two-seven o'clock" means, right?

Anyway, today we decided it was high time to take a leap backwards, technologically, and get right with the analog world. It went surprisingly well. By building our own clocks, we were able to really understand the concepts. Here is the technique we used.

We created three clocks, each with onehand. The first clock was the hour clock, the second was the minute clock, and the third was the seconds clock. Each had an identical "hand". The hour clock had 12 marks on it, and the corresponding numbers 1-12. The minute and seconds clocks had 60 marks on it, with the 5-minute interval marks standing out, and the corresponding 5-minute numbers on them, 5-60. The actual making of the clocks was where much of the learning took place. When they were complete, we discussed the differences, and noted that the minute and seconds clocks were identical, and also noted how they differed from the hour clock.

Then we got comfortable with how each clock worked, starting with the seconds clock, and working our way up to the hour clock, tying each into the next, and then discussed speed. All this really helped them understand the relationships.

Then we tried some relationship exercises. I'd rotate the hand of the seconds clock some number of times, and then ask them to set the hand on the minute clock accordingly. When they were comfortable with that, we moved onto the minute/hour clocks.

When they were comfortable telling the time using the three-clock arrangement, we discussed the impracticality of a three-clock system. We took this to the extreme by putting on three watches and pretending they represented the hour/minute/seconds clocks. We then set out to combine our clocks.

Obviously we started with the hour clock as the base, and added in the elements of the minute clock - the hand, the additional "tick marks", and the numbers of the 5-minute increments. When we were done, the clock looked very messy. We cleaned it up by removing the numbers for the 5-minute increments, after noting that they corresponded with the hour increments/numbers. What we had at that point was a clock where the numbers (1-12) represented the hours, and the tick-marks going all the way around represented the minutes, with special markings for the 5-minute increments, and special markings for the quarter-hours. In other words, a normal-looking clock, with the exception of having two identical hands.

We then set out to merge in the elements of the seconds clock. The students recognized that there was nothing to do but bring over the hand from the seconds clock (again, identical in every respect to the hands from the hour and minute clocks).

Now, with our merged clock complete, I would set the hands and ask the students to tell me the time. They had paid good attention to the merging of the hands, and did a good job of remembering which was the hour hand, which was the minute hand, and which was the second hand. But I mixed them up and they realized they could not tell the difference. So we set out to make the hands different - one they colored black, one red, and the other orange. At that point, they were doing a decent job of telling the time. The method we used was to get the hour straight first, then get the minute, and then the seconds.

At this point, we looked at an actual clock. They recognized how the hands were different, and understood why. We discussed the absence of the seconds hand, and talked about why many wall-clocks don't have one, while many watches do. We discussed clock purpose and usage, and tied that to the presence or absence of the second hand. They did a great job of understanding all this.

From there, it was a simple task to help them understand the general standards of hands (short and fat; skinny and long; skinnier, long and red). We remade our clock hands to fit the standard. Then we talked about how to actually SAY the time, and WRITE the time. And then we used the apple-pie method of discussing quarter hours and half hours, using our minute clock, and tying back to the actual clock. It took about an hour and a half, but they have it down cold now.

So I say, bring the clock questions on, baby! I have no doubt that the Academy's students will look at their interrogator with the blank stare of a deer caught in the headlights...

Muchas Gracias, Hermana

The Academy wishes a joyous Christmas to all those who celebrate our GDP. More and more each year, the holiday seems to resemble fiscal year-end contract cramming from my corporate days. I'll be glad when this one is in the books. I'm sorry, but the joy in the children's eyes would look a lot better if there were more joy in the Academy's endowment.

So, today marks the day when the Christmas tree begins to go up. More shift work looms ahead. We have a very strict approach to the tree here - no kids are allowed to touch it as it goes up, or after it is complete. How did I get to this place? When I was a kid the tree went up with the misguided efforts of 7 Ritalin candidates throwing time-worn ornaments and tinsel at it. Now, it goes up in carefully crafted stages of lights (small white, non-blinking only), ribbon phase I, ribbon phase II, raffi, floral spears, eucalyptus, dried fruit, beaded ornaments, angelic cherub ornaments, bulbous ornaments, paper ornaments, and then, finally, several time-worn sentimental ornaments that I struggle against a tide of protests to locate in the back of the tree, out of sight. Last year, a number of students, aligned with the headmistress, threatened to create a splinter group with their own tree. And that is how the time-worn ornaments landed a prime spot in the front of the tree, under the crisp glare of several carefully-placed halogen spotlights.

On a different note, the Academy wishes to dispel recent rumors of holiday impropriety on the part of its headmaster. It has come to our attention that certain individuals, whom shall remain nameless (except they live in upstate New York), have been spreading stories about our headmaster. The stories vary, but the theme remains constant - at gatherings of friends and relatives, he is fond of saying goodbye to his guests and/or hosts in a manner that leaves them agape, agog, and otherwise stunned as he bends with his backside to them, drops his pants to his ankles and leaves them with the lasting memory of his bare behind. In fact, there are several unauthenticated photographs of said guests, mouths agape, basking in the warm glow of the headmaster's gluteous reflection.

These rumors are simply not true. The pants are only dropped to mid-cheek.

Yesterday, the Academy received a special holiday delivery from these same upstate New York zealots. It is a statue of a talking Santa Claus, on a pedestal. Push the button, and he speaks, turns his backside to the unsuspecting holiday reveler, and drops his pants. The students here love it. Two of these students are 2 and 4 years old, and the other two are 7 years old. Teaching them such behavior, and using a cultural icon that represents childhood innocence and wholesome goodness. Special night? Beard that's white? Milk and cookies? See, I'm just saying.... maybe the headmaster isn't the bad influence around here? Thanks, sis.




On the subject of full moons, the headmaster wishes to submit, for the approval of the Budget and Appropriations Committee, his Christmas wishlist of a Maksutov-Cassegrain 102mm telescope. This morning's moon was fantastic. The picture below was taken with the naked camera at full 40x zoom. With some Nikon binoculars held in front of the lense, one can actually pick out rock formations, craters, and a shocking amount of detail. However, it is impossible to hold them steady enough for a good photograph.

Lace and Lachrymosity

Who'd have thought a spinsterly group of 18th century women could affect my lachrymal glands so? I mean, we're not talking mere weeping, folks. No, this is a full-on mucous extravaganza. Something about this movie simply sweeps me away, no matter how many times I've seen it (which is, maybe.. 20 times). Each time it has the same effect. I've never seen such a successful investment in a final scene - it makes me cry like a baby.

But don't tell the drywall guys.

Silent cry is the worst...

The afternoon shift didn't show up, but we still managed to get the laundry room done today - in fact, the first test-load is complete. You gotta love a full laundry in the master closet. Sweet!

Now, where did I put all that Christmas tree stuff? hm, must have been lost in the move.



- oh, that subject line? Just as I was typing a subject line in, one of the students here slipped on their roller skates and banged their head on the kitchen floor. It was one of those cries where the face is all contorted and turning red, the body is completely still, the mouth is turning purple and making wailing motions, but no sound is coming out. Yeah, that's the worst...

Paint/Baseboard Bender

Progress as of 1:00. Dang - gotta run!

Primer Bender

As of 10:00 am, the morning crew has made some progress.

I feel the shadow of a Christmas tree looming over me.....