Jack London, Bad Boys, and Deliverance
I have been waiting for an inspiration, but as you will see, it hasn't
come to me yet. I will just have to tell you about my mundane day.
First cat out of the bag (It's just an expression. I don't put cats in
bags. But if I did, I would tie the top so they couldn't get out,
because it seems to me that if you put a cat in a bag, you'd want
to keep him there.) I had to help my freshmen with their Language
assignment. By help, I mean that they wanted me to do it for them,
because it was a worksheet about Jack London's "To Build a Fire."
I told them I didn't have time to read it, why couldn't they answer
the questions, if they read it yesterday? Ahh...yes...there's the
problem. They "didn't finish it" or "he put in a tape of it but I went
to sleep" so they were clueless. One question was "What was the
conflict?" Hmm...I am no genius, but perhaps it was, oh, I don't
know...maybe...TO BUILD A FIRE?
We had a visitor who may or may not be added to my class at
semester. I do not like visitors. I have done my best to tame the
savage freshmen, and now another one pops in to "see who's in
this class." Uh, no. Go back to where you came from. Especially
when you start mouthing my students who are ALL doing work
ON THE SAME DAY!!! And another thing, little visitor...WE
DO NOT PICK UP MRS. HILLBILLY MOM'S PERSONAL
WRITING IMPLEMENTS FROM HER DESK!!! Oh, the
horror! Put down the mechanical pencil. Stop clicking it. It is
not yours. I do not want your bird flu cooties on it. My students
would not DARE pick up my pencil. They do not even ask to
use it. This is not a comedy lounge for you to try out your act
by heckling my students. It is MY stage, and I am the star. So
run along now, and don't let the door hit your...
Next I had to explain the concept of Democrats and Republicans
to a senior. Be afraid for your future. Be very afraid.
Moving right along, we had some math factoring and more Jack
London. "What did the author spend his winter doing?" I don't
really think the Language teacher worded the question that way,
but that's how it springs to my mind. Did you know Jack spent
the winter lying in his bunk, playing cards, gossiping, and eating
beans, bacon, and biscuits? That's what the textbook told me.
And that he bought land to mine gold, with no intention of mining
gold, but to gather information.
At the teachers' table at lunch, we had a Greatest Hits discussion
of kids who were hard-core bad news (for our little backwoods
area) and how we broke up fights or what the cops did to them.
Mr. K wished we could have had an assembly to showcase the
girl the police pepper-sprayed. Mr. M liked the one where the
bad boy told the deputy to f-off, and was handcuffed and thrown
in the back of the police car. Mr. S like the one who banged the
stapler down the spine of his victim, then bit him in the private area.
I was kind of partial to the one who, when told to get to the office,
shouted, "I will not, HA HA!" Then said, "Not 'til I get my shoe."
(It had sailed across the room when Mr. A body-slammed him
to the cafeteria floor.) Ahh...good times.
Last week, Mr. S told the story of retired Mr. B, who grew up
in St. Louis. Seems young Mr. B dressed up like a woman, and
wrapped a watermelon in a blanket, placing it in a baby stroller.
He took it into a movie theater and sat in the balcony. Halfway
through the movie, he placed it on the railing, and gave it a push.
Then he jumped up and screamed in a high voice, "My baby!"
People saw the red gooey splatter around the blanket and
screamed. I think young Mr. B left pretty soon after that. We
sure do miss him at lunchtime.
We arrived home to find three large packages on our back porch.
I didn't think I was spoiling my kids THAT much for Christmas.
I hauled them in, and found out that two of them were not ours.
(The packages, not the kids.) Go figure. Our address is 8476.
The address on these two was 8525. Gosh. Even my seven-year-
old could guess that these packages go to two different houses.
Gosh-darn UPS (Unqualified People Shipping). We called a
neighbor's girlfriend with the same first name as on the package.
Nope. Not hers. But her address is 8500, so that was a workable
clue. We drove up the road until we found the address.
At this point, I am making a NOTE TO SELF: Hillbilly Mom,
when you want to live dangerously, next time leave the
children safe at home. This driveway wound through the woods.
Then we passed the pen with the goats. Then the dog on a chain.
The front yard housed a cathouse. Not that kind. For a little kitty.
Next thing we know, the garage door started to rise. Then a
Deliverance-looking fellow popped up from behind the open
hood of a cherry-red Corvette and walked toward us. #1 son
was already out of our large SUV, as I had commanded him to
go knock and announce that we were delivering UPS packages.
This guy had most of his teeth, no hair, and bleeding knuckles.
I hoped I had not interrupted a human sacrifice in the garage,
and that he had just nicked them on some sharp engine thingy.
The goats were bleating or baaing or whatever little horny goats
do. Chickens ran around in the yard. A black cat tip-toed around
the cathouse, rubbing on the corner, looking at us like: "This is
mine. Don't you even come over here." The guy said, "You didn't
have to bring them. You could have called." Uh, yeah. We didn't
even know if they had a phone. He said he gets packages for an
auto body shop that is out on the county road. Stupid UPS. I
guess the deliverer thought, "Hey, it's Friday afternoon. I'll just
leave the rest of my packages here, they'll give them to the
neighbor. WooHoo! Weekend!" Stupid UPS. I liked the old
driver, a woman who threw out dog biscuits to the animals.
You hardly even knew she was there. She would drive up, grab
the package, toss her biscuits on the porch, set down the package,
rap three times on the kitchen door, and was gone by the time
you looked out. She must have a better route now.
That's all I've accomplished today. This weekend I have to make
my special chex mix. Hillbilly Husband will be returning Sunday.
We will try to notice.
come to me yet. I will just have to tell you about my mundane day.
First cat out of the bag (It's just an expression. I don't put cats in
bags. But if I did, I would tie the top so they couldn't get out,
because it seems to me that if you put a cat in a bag, you'd want
to keep him there.) I had to help my freshmen with their Language
assignment. By help, I mean that they wanted me to do it for them,
because it was a worksheet about Jack London's "To Build a Fire."
I told them I didn't have time to read it, why couldn't they answer
the questions, if they read it yesterday? Ahh...yes...there's the
problem. They "didn't finish it" or "he put in a tape of it but I went
to sleep" so they were clueless. One question was "What was the
conflict?" Hmm...I am no genius, but perhaps it was, oh, I don't
know...maybe...TO BUILD A FIRE?
We had a visitor who may or may not be added to my class at
semester. I do not like visitors. I have done my best to tame the
savage freshmen, and now another one pops in to "see who's in
this class." Uh, no. Go back to where you came from. Especially
when you start mouthing my students who are ALL doing work
ON THE SAME DAY!!! And another thing, little visitor...WE
DO NOT PICK UP MRS. HILLBILLY MOM'S PERSONAL
WRITING IMPLEMENTS FROM HER DESK!!! Oh, the
horror! Put down the mechanical pencil. Stop clicking it. It is
not yours. I do not want your bird flu cooties on it. My students
would not DARE pick up my pencil. They do not even ask to
use it. This is not a comedy lounge for you to try out your act
by heckling my students. It is MY stage, and I am the star. So
run along now, and don't let the door hit your...
Next I had to explain the concept of Democrats and Republicans
to a senior. Be afraid for your future. Be very afraid.
Moving right along, we had some math factoring and more Jack
London. "What did the author spend his winter doing?" I don't
really think the Language teacher worded the question that way,
but that's how it springs to my mind. Did you know Jack spent
the winter lying in his bunk, playing cards, gossiping, and eating
beans, bacon, and biscuits? That's what the textbook told me.
And that he bought land to mine gold, with no intention of mining
gold, but to gather information.
At the teachers' table at lunch, we had a Greatest Hits discussion
of kids who were hard-core bad news (for our little backwoods
area) and how we broke up fights or what the cops did to them.
Mr. K wished we could have had an assembly to showcase the
girl the police pepper-sprayed. Mr. M liked the one where the
bad boy told the deputy to f-off, and was handcuffed and thrown
in the back of the police car. Mr. S like the one who banged the
stapler down the spine of his victim, then bit him in the private area.
I was kind of partial to the one who, when told to get to the office,
shouted, "I will not, HA HA!" Then said, "Not 'til I get my shoe."
(It had sailed across the room when Mr. A body-slammed him
to the cafeteria floor.) Ahh...good times.
Last week, Mr. S told the story of retired Mr. B, who grew up
in St. Louis. Seems young Mr. B dressed up like a woman, and
wrapped a watermelon in a blanket, placing it in a baby stroller.
He took it into a movie theater and sat in the balcony. Halfway
through the movie, he placed it on the railing, and gave it a push.
Then he jumped up and screamed in a high voice, "My baby!"
People saw the red gooey splatter around the blanket and
screamed. I think young Mr. B left pretty soon after that. We
sure do miss him at lunchtime.
We arrived home to find three large packages on our back porch.
I didn't think I was spoiling my kids THAT much for Christmas.
I hauled them in, and found out that two of them were not ours.
(The packages, not the kids.) Go figure. Our address is 8476.
The address on these two was 8525. Gosh. Even my seven-year-
old could guess that these packages go to two different houses.
Gosh-darn UPS (Unqualified People Shipping). We called a
neighbor's girlfriend with the same first name as on the package.
Nope. Not hers. But her address is 8500, so that was a workable
clue. We drove up the road until we found the address.
At this point, I am making a NOTE TO SELF: Hillbilly Mom,
when you want to live dangerously, next time leave the
children safe at home. This driveway wound through the woods.
Then we passed the pen with the goats. Then the dog on a chain.
The front yard housed a cathouse. Not that kind. For a little kitty.
Next thing we know, the garage door started to rise. Then a
Deliverance-looking fellow popped up from behind the open
hood of a cherry-red Corvette and walked toward us. #1 son
was already out of our large SUV, as I had commanded him to
go knock and announce that we were delivering UPS packages.
This guy had most of his teeth, no hair, and bleeding knuckles.
I hoped I had not interrupted a human sacrifice in the garage,
and that he had just nicked them on some sharp engine thingy.
The goats were bleating or baaing or whatever little horny goats
do. Chickens ran around in the yard. A black cat tip-toed around
the cathouse, rubbing on the corner, looking at us like: "This is
mine. Don't you even come over here." The guy said, "You didn't
have to bring them. You could have called." Uh, yeah. We didn't
even know if they had a phone. He said he gets packages for an
auto body shop that is out on the county road. Stupid UPS. I
guess the deliverer thought, "Hey, it's Friday afternoon. I'll just
leave the rest of my packages here, they'll give them to the
neighbor. WooHoo! Weekend!" Stupid UPS. I liked the old
driver, a woman who threw out dog biscuits to the animals.
You hardly even knew she was there. She would drive up, grab
the package, toss her biscuits on the porch, set down the package,
rap three times on the kitchen door, and was gone by the time
you looked out. She must have a better route now.
That's all I've accomplished today. This weekend I have to make
my special chex mix. Hillbilly Husband will be returning Sunday.
We will try to notice.
posted by Hillbilly Mom at 7:59 PM
5 Comments:
Ya gotta love heathen (or heathern) children. They're always good for a "whew thank god that ain't my kid" moment.
We were awakened this morning by the oh so pleasant news that someone had broken into Lullah's high school and vandalized the office. They started a fire in the office, spray painted it (and the girl's gym). Oh, and set fire to the canteen. The estimate is around $20,000. Yep, gotta love heathen children.
I bet you just delivered a human head to Deliverance Man.
The conflict is that it's 70 below zero and dummy Alaskan explorer man built his fire under a tree. The heat melted the snow on the branch above his head, and it fell and put out his fire. And ruined his matches. He dies. The dog lives. The end. My kids recently read "The Dogs Could Teach Me" which has a similar plot, except in this story the dogs save their master. Maybe I'll make them read "To Build a Fire" next.
I have "visitors" constantly. People think I'm crazy for thinking this is crazy.
Kim,
Wow. That's hard-core. Our worst problem is at Halloween, when the seniors steal yard ornaments, pumpkins, and an outhouse, and put them in front of the school. Then they miss two hours of classes cleaning up.
Miss Ann,
It was a big box. I am thinking human skin to make a shirt and pants.
I read the end, how the dog smells death, so he leaves the man to go to the camp for fire and food. It's been a long long time since I read Jack London. "The Man on the Ledge," "The Monkey's Paw," "The Fall of the House of Usher" I know well. The 10th graders read them every year.
Hi Hillbilly Mom,
Didn't you teach the kids that if you don't want to read the whole book, all you have to do is read the blurb, and the last page, and you will get the idea.
Oh and unless the book is from the Mr Men series, or Peanuts, someone always dies.
So was this Mr B a teacher at your school? He sounds like a real catch, if you are into that kind of kinky stuff. I am so glad I am NOT into that kind (or any kind) of kinky stuff.
HooRoo
Rebecca
Bec,
My kids try to rent the movie. They can't even be bothered with reading the blurbs.
Indeed, Mr. B was a teacher here, until last year. He told a wicked leprechaun joke one year, and each year after that I stuffed his mailbox with all variety of the little fellows, from those colored by my boys at school to those cut out of catalogs. He suspected me after the second year, but I would not admit to it. Maybe I should mail him some this year. He might think I was stalking him, though, and he sells guns as a second profession.
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