The Real Nicknames of Guernsey County, #1

Not the real Funny Clouse artwork.
I couldn't find any as alarming as his; although the
cyclops look on Prancer there kind of hints at it.

Funny Clouse was an old man with white hair and a red, bulbous nose.  He didn't talk--maybe not at all--so I don't know why everybody called him Funny. Actually, everybody called him Funny Clouse. I never heard the names said separately.

Every December, Funny Clouse would come around to the "Byesville Merchants" on 2nd Street and paint Christmas pictures on the windows of the storefronts and bars. He wasn't a very good painter, though. The reindeer were particularly difficult to recognize. The merchants tried to dissuade him from painting anything with a person face because it could turn out pretty scary. No creche scenes.

Even though Funny Clouse wasn't very good at painting, he got hired by everybody in town every Christmas. I asked my dad why once and he said it was because that was the only money Funny Clouse earned all year.

I have to say, I kind of like these. Funny Clouse's reindeer didn't look like this, though.

How they do grow up!

Asa at Airport Security, age 5

OMG, shirts can catch on fire!

TSA Agent: Do you have anything flammable?

Asa:  Well... shirts....

[They took that as a 'no.']

Asa at Airport Security, age 9

Asa and Unnamed Accomplice

TSA Agent:  Do you have any firearms or flammable items?

Asa [sarcastically]:  Oh sure, we have guns.

[I'm surprised they didn't investigate us more thoroughly. They seemed satisfied with listening to me explain that airports weren't the place for sarcasm.]

Early Lessons, #2

Mrs. Sharpe's house was like this.

My 5th grade teacher at Byesville Elementary was Mrs. Winnie Mae Sharpe. She was the wife of the mayor, O.J. Sharpe. They lived in the biggest house in town, a large (palatial to us) colonial with green grass in the yard and a garage that was used for putting cars into. This was different from other houses in Byesville.

Whereas our houses were more or less like this.

Mrs. Sharpe was formidable for reasons beyond those trappings, though. She was considered the meanest teacher you could have at Byesville Elementary. (Personally, I favored my 4th grade teacher, Mrs. Thorla, in that spot and not just because of the name--Thorla vs. Sharp would be a hard one to call. No, I was going on first-hand evidence from when Mrs. Thorla shut my hand in the classroom door, on purpose.)

Mrs. Sharpe traditionally assigned seats at the beginning of the school year. You were to sit in one of five rows, lettered A, B, C, D, and . . . F. Hm. Mrs. Sharpe explained that the very best pupils in the class would be in the front seat of each row. If you were at the front of A row, then you helped all the A students who sat behind you. And so on. Down to F row. Being in 5th grade already, we caught on almost immediately. Mrs. Sharpe was very careful to explain that the "front-row person" (that was the official title, we were soon to gather) of the F row deserved our respect because it was very hard to help all the F students.

At this point you probably think I am making this up. I am not. This was 5th grade in Byesville, Ohio, in the 1970s. And it's not like these kids weren't already carrying around emotional and intellectual baggage. On top of the fact that they probably didn't have enough to eat. Or warm enough clothes. Or eyeglasses if they needed them.

To the point where American education had progressed in Appalachia by then, no one questioned the schools about anything. Teachers were the only college-educated members of our community. Usually they were clueless first-year teachers who beat it out of there after a year's experience. But there were also a few lifers like Mrs. Sharpe, who became "pillars of the community." What with being all that and the mayor's wife, Mrs. Sharpe could have eaten a kid for breakfast and no one would say 'Boo.'

Dunce by Shadowland-Dreamer

So no one did say, 'Boo.' This was the classroom arrangement for our whole 5th-grade year, and for years before and after. As a front-row person myself, I was delighted and proud and queasy and ashamed. Christ, I was only in 5th grade. If I can't forget that experience, I wonder how many of Mrs. Sharpe's students can't forget their own version of it. The only thing an adult perspective has added to my understanding is that I don't think Mrs. Sharpe was an evil person. I don't think she wanted to hurt kids, really. At least not as badly as she did. But that kind of thinking doesn't mitigate; it just complicates. There's really nothing redeeming to say about it. It's just a melancholy story from the past, in Appalachia.

Takes a Village, #2

Zolboo and the Mama.
We're on our way to his basketball banquet.

Guess what. I was an exchange student. I was in high school and I went to live in Mexico. It was stressful and lonely, and at times frightening, but I've always been really glad I did it. So when this woman named "Bunny," whom I'd met in the grocery store (making eye contact again), asked if we could host an exchange student, I said Sure!

I asked if it mattered that we were a gay couple with no teenagers, only a 3-year-old boy. Nope, said Bunny. This is America. They're coming here to learn about it. They have to deal with where they end up. (I love Bunny.)

And that's how Ganzolboo "Zolboo" Galbadrakh of Mongolia came to Maine to stay with us. He was 17 and from the capital city of Ulaan Bataar. To become an exchange student, applicants must pass a test to show that they're proficient in English. When Zolboo arrived at Portland International Jetport, I asked (cleverly), How was your trip? And he said, Yes...?

Zolboo was about as miserable as I was as an exchange student. I think he liked living with us, and loved Asa, always reading to him and holding him up high to make basketball shots. But his beginner's English held him back in making friends at school and he wasn't much of a self-starter when it came to exploring the city or finding other ways to meet teens.

Zolboo brought home one friend, another exchange student named Ruslan. He was from Tajikistan. That guy was dangerous and nuts. He got drunk at a party, which embarrassed Zolboo to death but he had to bring him home with him--Ruslan was staying the night. I gave Ruslan a small room of his own. He threw up all over the white duvet cover and it went through to the comforter. We had to throw it all away.

Other than that lapse in judgment, Zolboo was a great guy to have in the family! He calls sometimes. His English is much improved. He lives in Washington D.C. and has some big job with an international corporation there. He is so grown up.