matching tracksuits

fun in threes, sometimes fours

Mikołaj’s Arrival

When we go to bed, it's something of an act of faith. We assume that we'll wake in the morning, that life will continue as normal.

When you're a child of Polish heritage and you go to bed on December fifth, you do so with a certain faith that Mikołaj will come and leave a little something if you've been good. It's probably not just Polish kids -- it's probably a Catholicism thing, since St. Nicholas's day is today.

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At our house, Mikołaj tends to bring practical gifts. No toys or games -- books and other such every-day items. For instance, we recently had issues with lacking umbrellas when we had a lot of rain for several days on end. No one really had a satisfactory way to keep the rain off them. Somehow, Mikołaj figured that out and brought umbrellas for the kids. The Boy got a Thomas the Train umbrella while the Girl received an umbrella with a print of Van Gogh's Starry Night.

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And as usual, there were Polish books and CDs for everyone.

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After lunch, we all headed out to the yard for some decorating.

And some playing.

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Once everything was hung and the power cords stretched out and draped here and there, the ladders put up and the empty boxes replaced, we went to the local open air market to get our tree. It's often such a chore in a way: which one do we choose? We end up going back and forth between two or three, thinking about it, talking about it -- at least that's how it's always seemed to me. Today, though, it was a simple enough matter. I suggested a tree; K agreed, then reconsidered; K suggested a tree; I agreed; we purchased it.

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Soon enough it was strapped down to our car, then propped on our back patio, then standing in our living room. A fairly painless adventure this time. But I really shouldn't complain: however long it takes to pick a tree is however long it takes to pick the perfect tree. This year, we certainly picked a perfect one -- full, thick, and heavy, not to mention tall -- so perfect that when we put it up and K and the kids hung all the decorations, it began leaning toward the middle of the room.

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But that's a story for another post. This one needs a perfect ending, like catching Santa just as he hops in his minivan and heads out to spread some Christmas cheer.

Decorating and Exploring

When I was a kid, there was nothing better, nothing more exciting, than the discovery of some invitingly unknown path in a place I thought I already knew. Finding a bit of mystery in the known and the everyday. So today, while we were out for a walk with the kids at Nana's and Papa's, we decided stroll over to a very familiar area, the swimming pool, where we discovered a mystery: a fence atop a small ridge.

The morning had started with a mystery: the Boy had lost in the night his blue pickup truck, and rather than simply pull the bed out and retrieve it (for if it wasn't in the covers or under the pillows, there was only one place it could be), I let the Boy search on his own. Being the Boy, he looked in some original places.

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As soon as sister woke up, the urge to build a fort overwhelmed the desire to find the pickup truck, and so the bit of mystery in the middle of the morning disappeared.

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It reappeared at Nana's and Papa's. First there's the strange bit of mystery in getting holiday decorations up. To begin with, the mystery of finding everything. Then there's the mystery of figuring out how it all goes back together. Not to mention the mystery of the season.

Mystery everywhere. Including, it turns out, in places we might never have thought to look. The weather was so gorgeous that we had to head out for a walk.

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Of course the pool looks a bit mysterious with its winterizing cover.

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But more mysterious, behind the tennis courts that the residents have turned into a dog park is a small ridge, the top of which is crowned with with a fence. Reaching the top of it, we all saw easily that it was not natural but instead part of a detention pond.

Heading up the slow
"Daddy, why is there a fence here"?
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K insisted that it couldn't be a detention pond proper because real detention ponds in such developments are well taken care of.

Perhaps that's why there's a fence.

Showing, Not Telling

What do you do when you come into work to find that a tool you’ve used for almost ten years, a tool you’ve created yourself and spent probably thousands of hours over the course of almost a decade, a tool you use now daily as a result of the initiative of your principal and his vision of turning your school into a true tech academy — what do you do when that tool is suddenly, inexplicably, and without any notification made completely unavailable to your students? It was the situation I found myself in this morning, as my first group of students filed in, logged on, and one by one said, “Mr. Scott, the site is blocked.”

My first reaction, of course, was fury. For the briefest of instants, I took it personally, as if my web site was specifically targeted for blocking. That took only a few moments to clear up in my mind: surely it was just a new filtering rule that had been applied, and like dolphins caught up in a net trawling for tuna, my poor site just got dragged into the mix. In the end, I’m really not sure what was going on, and I’ll likely never know the cause. What’s most important is not the cause but the effect: one of the most useful tools in my classroom is unavailable because of the actions of unknown people who work for the same organization as I.

At this point, the astute reader is probably thinking, “Surely that is a mechanism in the school district through which teachers can request that a site be unblocked.” Indeed, there is. I’d made such a request a couple of years ago and another one at the beginning of the school year. According to the district records, those requests are still pending. There are many different ways to explain this, but none of them are particularly complementary of the school system’s mechanism for unblocking web sites. Still, I filled out the online form, and even sent an email, CC’ing my principal, explaining the situation and the fact that “all of my requests [for unblocking] are still pending” and my worry ” that it might be several months before any action is taken on this issue,” requesting that the powers that be “process this request immediately,” and expressing how much I “appreciate [their] prompt help in this matter.”

As a third fail-safe, I called the help line and explained my situation. The lady with whom I spoke explained that she had no power to unblock web sites, which was what I expected. She mentioned that she saw my email, which was what I expected. She explained that she’d forwarded it on to tier three, which I didn’t quite understand as I don’t know how many tiers there are in this particular case, but it was still a little unexpected. It sounded like progress. I asked if I might have some kind of contact information for someone in this tier three, and the help desk attendant explained that she didn’t even really know who they went to, simply that they went to tier three, which I somehow expected.

But how to turn it into a teaching experience? My second class filed in, and by then, I was in a white-hot righteous fury of epic proportions. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got, which sounds about right for me. Yet the students could not discern how angry I was, for I did my absolute best not to manifest it at all. In that particular class, I’m blessed to have a co-teacher, and when she entered, I explained to her what happened, then explained to the class what had happened. I went so far as to say that I was extremely angry about it. But I excused myself, went to the restroom, ranted for a little bit, washed my face to freshen up, and went back to the classroom and carried on as if nothing had happened. Students were finishing up summaries of a reading we’d just finished, and I and my co-teacher went from student to student, advising, helping, praising, encouraging — all the things we try to do on a daily basis to build the self-confidence of the students in this class, all of whom read below grade level. A corollary to this low reading ability for many of them is a low level of self-control. Several of them say what comes to mind when it comes to mind. Many of them, when they come into the classroom angry about some excessively emotional interaction that occurred in the hallway — “drama” they call it — enter the classroom already doomed: they will sit and stew about it the entire class, refusing to work, refusing to calm down, often disrupting the class further.

On Monday, I’ll be able to debrief them about how I dealt with my anger. “Please notice,” I’ll begin, “that I didn’t take it out on you and that I didn’t refuse to work. I dealt with it and moved on. Was I still angry at the end of class? Very much so. But I kept it from controlling me.” Will it help? Perhaps. Teaching by example is always better than teaching by words. Show, don’t tell. Who knows — that might turn out to be the most valuable session we had all year for some students.

Is it love?

Does Romeo really love Juliet? Can Juliet trust her emotions about Romeo?

The first group just dives in. They've got proof from the text -- they're ready to go. Never mind that during the preparation period with their partners, they didn't know whether they would be arguing that it is love or that it isn't. No matter: they're prepared for both.

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The second group takes a bit more to get going. They're quieter, both as a simple group of kids and as a class. But once they get going, they're backing everything -- I mean everything -- with direct quotes from the play. "In act one, scene five, lines x through y, we read..."

This is why my job is so fun -- getting kids to the point that they can have discussions like this.

(Originally published on my school web site.)

Forty Years Ago in Prophecy

"YOUR own future is laid bare, now, in prophecy!" Though intended as a compelling beginning, a startling call for readers to wake up and realize the cold reality they're facing, almost sixty years later the opening sentence of Herbert Armstrong's 1975 in Prophecy reads like the dating advertising copy it essentially was.

Written in 1956, it was a centerpiece booklet in his radio ministry. Claiming to have discovered -- rather, to have received through divine inspiration -- the key to unlocking Biblical prophecy, Armstrong claimed a certain clairvoyance unique among other religious figures. To his credit, he didn't take credit for it: he was merely an instrument of God. Still, there is a certain headiness in being the one to whom has been revealed a startling truth that, for ages, no one knew.

Prophecies that were closed and sealed tight now stand REVEALED. This mystifying, neglected third of the Bible now becomes plain. Mysteries of God, never before understood, now become crystal-clear. God's own time for this revealing has come. The KEYS that locked the future have been found.

Hidden prophecies seldom sell if they're absolutely and completely good. Like those who slow down and crane their necks when passing the scene of an auto accident, we all have a touch of the morbid in us and a suggestion of how bad things are really going to get can be utterly fascinating. This could be even more true in the 1950s, when 1975 in Prophecy first appeared. As the Cold War continually escalated, nuclear war with the Soviet Union seemed a very real possibility. Indeed, it wasn't so much a question of if it happened but rather when for most Americans. Catastrophe waited in the not-so-distant future, and it was this uncertainty upon which Armstrong built his ministry, and it was with this expected nuclear showdown with the Soviets that Armstrong created his catch, because of course, there was always a catch, according to Armstrong:

But what is actually going to happen is not what the world expects!

Today this world is changing - fast! Unprecedented events are shaking the world already. Yet what we have seen is mild compared to the catastrophic happenings that will rock this world in the near future!

You'll have to live into these tremendous times. This is YOUR life! You live here, in this erupting world! It behooves you to know what the Creator-RULER of the Universe now makes known!

Armstrong claimed that the United States and Western Europe were in fact the original ten tribes of Israel, supposedly lost to the mists of time. (Jews were only of the two break-away tribes the formed the Kingdom of Judah.) The Germans, though, were an exception: they were the ancient Assyrians, forever battling the Israelites. This battle spilled into the twentieth century, and explained both world wars. It was to be the Germans, not the Soviets, who attacked and conquered America.

Before getting to the bad news, though, and perhaps in an effort to pad the manuscript, Armstrong rehearses all the technological advances of the mid-twentieth century.

Feverishly, science, technology and industry are working to produce a fantastic, push-button world of leisure by 1975. The emphasis today is on "saving steps." Everything is to be done for us, by machines. Just push the magic button, and your work will be done automatically.

Already automobiles are equipped with push-buttons to shift the gears, raise or lower windows, move the seat forward, backward, up or down.

It's difficult to look at our current reality, with in-dash GPS, smart phones, and loads of cheap Chinese imports, and not think the advances of the 1950s somehow quaint. In spite of the stresses of the Cold War, there was a certain naivety at the time, on both sides of the Communist-capitalist ideological spectrum. Both sides were sure that their economic model would produce a not-too-far-in-the-future utopia. Francis Spufford recently portrayed this in Red Plenty, a clever, well-researched novel about the hope in the Soviet Union under Khrushchev that the Soviet Union would soon be the envy of the West; Armstrong beat Spufford by fifty years with his visions in 1975 in Prophecy:

In the dream-world MAN is devising for tomorrow, it will no longer be necessary to cook food on stoves. Food is to be cooked by heat waves in packages. You'll no longer bother taking a bath in a tub or shower. You'll take an effortless and quicker waterless bath by using supersonic waves! When you pick up your telephone, you'll see the party at the other end! The new automobiles, the new homes, the new schools are to be truly fantastic. The stores, hotels, and railroad trains will take your breath!

So far, surprisingly close to the reality we experience. Of course the waterless shower never took off -- or appeared, as best I can remember -- but we have had microwave dinners for over thirty years now while Skype and smart phones make land lines obsolete.

And air travel? Well, already leading air lines have placed multi-million dollar orders for still larger jet planes that will leave New York at 11 in the morning and arrive at Los Angeles by noon. These are under production, now. But what do you suppose air travel will be like by 1975?

For one thing, it is expected that many people will commute in their own private helicopters. Very probably these immense jets now being built will then be obsolete, and we'll travel in rockets at two or three thousand miles per hour. Think of it! Elapsed flying-time, New York to Los Angeles reduced to one hour! Since it is only 9 A.M. in Los Angeles when it's noon in New York, we may be flying across the continent, and arriving in Los Angeles two hours before we start! And elapsed flying-time from London to New York will be reduced to 1½ hours! As it is noon in London when it's only 7 A.M. in New York, we may be flying across the Atlantic and arriving in New York 3½ hours before we start!

Yes, MAN is devising fantastic things!

Unfortunately for Armstrong and the other futurists of the 1950s, their own predictions were among the "fantastic" things, though in their case, it's meant in the original adjectival form of "fantasy."

It's easy to look back on those predictions and mock them. We have the obvious advantage that it's no longer prophecy but history.

Under Cover in Europe

While America has been focusing its sole attention on its clumsy effort to meet psychological cold-war with antiquated diplomacy and military might, the real number one enemy has been perfecting its plans SECRETLY, UNDER COVER, IN EUROPE!

These plans were laid by Adolph Hitler, during World War II. The methodical Germans took into consideration the possibility they might lose, even as they had lost World War I. This time their plans for coming back and launching World War III were carefully laid before the close of World War II.

The day that war ended, the Nazi organization went underground! Their plans for coming back have been proceeding, under cover, since 1945!

Already Nazis are in many key positions-in German industry - in German education-in the new German ARMY!

In World War I, the Kaiser, allied with Austria, sought to conquer France, Britain and America. American Industry finally beat him. In World War II, Hitler tried to conquer the world, first by taking Austria and the Sudetenland thru diplomatic gangsterism; then second, with lightning-quick war, taking Poland, Denmark and Norway, Holland, Belgium and France; and third, while holding these nations by the throat with his Gestapo, and allied with his junior partner Mussolini, to conquer Russia on the east and Britain on the west. But again, American Industry, three Acts of God, at Dunkirk, El Alamein, and the destruction of the German hydrogen-bomb plant at Peenemuende defeated Hitler.

But this time the Nazis plan to side step the causes of past defeats. Instead of exhausting their own strength by holding European nations as captives at the expense of vital Gestapo man-power, they plan to head and dominate a UNITED STATES OF EUROPE -- and add the man-power of those nations to their own military divisions. And secondly, they plan to strike their first blow, NOT at France or Poland in Europe, but with hydrogen bombs by surprise attack on the centers of AMERICAN INDUSTRY!

I suppose with enough imagination, one could imagine in the mid-fifties, only ten years on from World War Two, that the Nazis had somehow managed to regroup and were planning a horrific third attempt at world domination. Such a theory certainly would work well with those still dealing with the consequences of the war, with so many people still dealing with the loss of life and property in the war.

It was this coming cataclysmic doom -- famines and pandemics would also accompany the military defeat -- that 1975 in Prophecy was using to sell Armstrong's theology. The booklet came complete with graphic, violent images depicting the coming horrors, called the Great Tribulation in Armstrongian theology.
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The man-made horrors would not be enough to cause humanity to repent, Armstrong reasoned, so the natural world would add to the world's misery with great earthquakes, tidal waves, famines, and pandemics.

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Armstrong had Basil Wolverton, a cartoonist who joined Armstrong's church in 1941, used his typical over-the-top comic style, creating images that disturb not only because of their content but also their style.

When I flipped through the booklet as a kid, I found these images repulsive and fascinating at the same time, not to mention confusing. They were supposed to be depictions of the coming holocaust, but by the time I was flipping through the booklet, it was the mid-eighties and all of this was supposed to have already taken place.

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It will be, yet it was supposed to have already been.

And now, forty years later, there are still religious groups that believe Germany at the head of the EU will rise again and conquer the United States. The Philadelphia Church of God, the Restored Church of God, the United Church of God, and the Living Church of God are the three biggest groups holding such beliefs, with dozens of smaller groups professing the same thing. They all insist that this is coming, that Armstrong was ultimately correct, and that these pictures are legitimate depictions of the coming horrors.

I find it difficult to believe that people could be so naive, given the fact that so much of what Armstrong taught has been shown to be false. Most significantly, Armstrongists are in the same situation as Mormons due to advances in DNA testing, which show that both groups' claims about the ultimate destiny of the so-called Lost Tribes of Israel are radically wrong: there are no Semitic markers in the European population (except, surprisingly, the Jews), thus discounting Armstrong's theory, and the Native Americans similarly lack such markers, thus disproving Joseph Smith's theory. Still, these organizations pull in members and money.

Long ago I wrote a letter to one of these organizations only to find out later that my letter was read to the entire church as an example of the horrendous persecution that awaits the leader.

I regret that letter in a sense: it seems like I'm saying at the end that I look forward to the death of the group's leader, David Pack. Not at all. Even in my most skeptical periods, I would have never have wished death upon someone. What I meant was that I was looking forward to seeing the scramble for power and more interesting the desperate attempt to remold Pack's statements that he would live to see these prophecies come to pass as something less prophetic than they were, just as Armstrong apologists do with Armstrong's assurances that it would all be over by 1975. Perhaps I should write again and apologize?

Chess

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Bed Time

Live each moment as if it were the first, last, and only time you do whatever it is you're doing at that moment. Like putting your son to bed -- a simple act, a simple story.

Thanksgiving Redux

Our annual family picture with our sometimes-annual Thanksgiving Day redux meal.

The Day After

It gave me a bit of hope to arrive at Falls Park downtown and find so many people. Everyone binged on food yesterday, and we historically binge on shopping today. I say "we" as a reference to the American public at large, not a reflection of our own personal habits. Shopping for me is a tremendous chore, and the thought of doing it along with great hordes of people, all fighting for "deals," is about as appealing as the thought of running a cheese grater along my calf idly while listening to rap "music." Fortunately, K feels pretty much the same way, so we spend Black Friday cleaning the house and cars in the morning and wandering around Greenville's downtown park in the afternoon.

The Boy took his glider with him, and this always solicits smiles from passers-by. L chose her roller skates, which would have solicited smiles as well if anyone had seen her trying to go off-path with them. She can be stubborn that way: if L is doing it, she must do it as well. Of course, the opposite is true as well, but he seems to take the disappointment of occasionally not being able to imitate his sister with more calm and, frankly, grace than she does in similar situations. Just another example of the incredible differences between their temperaments.

Thanksgiving 2015

When I was L's age in the early eighties, Thanksgiving almost always meant hours in a car when I was a kid. We lived in the southwestern portion of Virginia, with family in Nashville and the Charlotte area, which mean alternating Thanksgiving journeys of six and four hours respectively. After living in Poland and depending on public transportation for so long, four- and six-hour journeys don't seem like much of anything at all (I recall making back from Warsaw to my village in the south exceptionally quick once in the late-nineties and thinking, "Wow, it only took me nine hours!"). At the time, though, the trips, especially to Nashville, were endless. Add to it my propensity to car sickness and it became a little slice of hell.

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The trips to Nashville were simple, small affairs: we stayed on my mother's brother's small farm, and I was essentially alone most of the weekend as my cousins were all much, much older than I (at least at that age, ten years seemed like "much, much"). The great advantage was it was, indeed, a farm, with lots of acreage and a magical, huge barn by a small pond my uncle dug out himself. It was on this farm that I caught my first fish and first shot a gun (my father's relatively rare bolt-action shotgun). My cousins would make a tunnel in the hay just for me (or so I thought -- the truth involved church youth groups), and the hall closet included more board games than I knew existed.

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Trips to South Carolina were often much different. Often, my father's whole family gathered together, and with four sisters and a brother, all with their own kids, some of whom had kids themselves (I was the second-youngest on this side of the family), it could be quite a gathering. The vast majority of my father's family smoked at that point, and weather was always a concern. "We don't want to be cooped up in that house with all those smokers," my parents would comment.

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This pattern continued through most of my life, even into college. Then, off to Poland for three years, and Thanksgiving became a gathering with the few other Americans in the area or perhaps nothing at all. Then, two years in Boston and Thanksgiving with a friend's family, followed by four more years in Poland, during which time I don't think I celebrated Thanksgiving a single time.

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In recent years, we've taken to hosting our own little Thanksgiving dinners. "I'll take Thanksgiving," I told K, and so it was for a couple of years. I found a great recipe for stuffing that I ruined the second time though by playing around with it. And I invented a butternut squash soup that was good enough to repeat the next year.

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This year, though, we headed back to family in South Carolina, just east of us, closer to the Charlotte area. My cousin and her husband made a straw house some fifteen or so years ago that in the intervening time has grown and grown becoming charmingly eclectic in all senses.

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She and her family always have exchange students staying with them, so there's always an international flair to the dinner with K's Polish additions (by request) and Korean heat.

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The Boy made a new friend in an old cousin. It might have been the first time that K saw E. (Initials only can get confusing. Perhaps I should call cousin K "K2" or something similar.) He immediately charmed her, and she played with him and watched over him the entire afternoon.

But through all the changes in how I've experienced Thanksgiving, some things never change.

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