The Gift Of The Magi
by O’Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Madame Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of “The Watch”. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! What could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! A quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the Lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house.
But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Oh, all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
As recorded on "Abundance", a weekly radio program by Dane Allred. Tune in every Sunday from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
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Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
My Favorite Christmas
Another episode of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Alllred"
One particular Christmas holds some of my best memories, not because of the presents I received, but because of the presents I gave. I wanted to give something to those who were needy in our neighborhood, so I collected some money from those in the area and ended up with a little over a hundred dollars.
When I visited with the single mother who seemed to need the most help, I asked what she would like us to use the money to buy. I’m not sure why I didn’t just give her the money, but I guess I wanted to do some of the shopping to make sure the donations went for presents instead of rent.
She humbly requested a turkey or a ham. She told me her son wanted moon boots. I also noticed they didn’t have a tree. I don’t remember much else, except for how I felt when a couple of us from the neighborhood delivered the stuff.
I used my own money to buy a Christmas tree, and the hundred dollars went a lot further than I imagined it would. I know I spent a lot more than this on my own family that same year, but I can’t remember anything our family received.
If she was embarrassed by our assumption she needed help, she never showed it. She was not too proud to refuse our offer, and I wondered how magnanimous I would feel delivering these few items later.
What a different feeling I had when we finally came back. I have never felt so humbled, so grateful for all I had, and so thankful I had an opportunity to help someone else.
This was a woman who had recently divorced and was living with her children in a basement apartment. It was cramped and dark, but you could tell this was a much better situation than the family had been in before. Apparently, the husband had been abusive, and it took all the courage this good woman could muster to leave him. They were a humble, happy and very poor family.
As I brought in a bag of flour and sugar, which she hadn’t asked us to bring, she began to cry. We gave her a turkey and the packages already wrapped for the children. It was such a small thing to do. Most of the neighbors had given five or ten dollars, and it wasn’t a great sacrifice for them.
But to see the happiness these few things brought to this family was incredibly satisfying. It was almost nothing, especially when contrasted with the bounty the rest of us would receive. It made me wish I had collected two hundred, or three hundred dollars.
But you could tell it wouldn’t have mattered if it had only been ten dollars. We had moved from our petty daily concerns, thought about someone outside of ourselves, and shared a little of the bounty we had been blessed with.
You would have thought we had delivered gold bars. We were thanked repeatedly, and embarrassed by the show of appreciation, had beat a hasty retreat. It was an incredible, satisfying, momentous occasion in my life. I had spent was a few dollars and some of my time collecting from others, done a little shopping, and delivered our paltry offerings.
But to be humbled by this act of service was the greatest gift I have ever received. I was able to get outside myself for a brief moment, and consider that someone else might benefit from a few simple acts of kindness.
English author and artist John Ruskin said this about humility:
"The first test of a truly great man is his humility. I do not mean, by humility, doubt of his own power. … [But really] great men … have a curious … feeling that … greatness is not in them, but through them. … And they see something Divine … in every other man …, and are endlessly, foolishly, incredibly merciful."
It wasn’t me, the neighbors, the donations, the flour, the sugar, the turkey or the Christmas tree. It was the ability I was given, for just a moment, to see the divine in someone else, that other person who is just as important as I am, but who is receiving not from me, but through me.
There are few times in life when we are able to get outside ourselves and stop considering our petty problems and complaints. It is in these moments we are most alive and vibrant. They don’t happen everyday, but they do happen often enough to remind us there are others on this planet. These moments occur when we stop the introspection, and begin to notice all of the wonderful people who are on this journey with us.
Listen to this episode by clicking on the button below:
Another episode of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Alllred"
One particular Christmas holds some of my best memories, not because of the presents I received, but because of the presents I gave. I wanted to give something to those who were needy in our neighborhood, so I collected some money from those in the area and ended up with a little over a hundred dollars.
When I visited with the single mother who seemed to need the most help, I asked what she would like us to use the money to buy. I’m not sure why I didn’t just give her the money, but I guess I wanted to do some of the shopping to make sure the donations went for presents instead of rent.
She humbly requested a turkey or a ham. She told me her son wanted moon boots. I also noticed they didn’t have a tree. I don’t remember much else, except for how I felt when a couple of us from the neighborhood delivered the stuff.
I used my own money to buy a Christmas tree, and the hundred dollars went a lot further than I imagined it would. I know I spent a lot more than this on my own family that same year, but I can’t remember anything our family received.
If she was embarrassed by our assumption she needed help, she never showed it. She was not too proud to refuse our offer, and I wondered how magnanimous I would feel delivering these few items later.
What a different feeling I had when we finally came back. I have never felt so humbled, so grateful for all I had, and so thankful I had an opportunity to help someone else.
This was a woman who had recently divorced and was living with her children in a basement apartment. It was cramped and dark, but you could tell this was a much better situation than the family had been in before. Apparently, the husband had been abusive, and it took all the courage this good woman could muster to leave him. They were a humble, happy and very poor family.
As I brought in a bag of flour and sugar, which she hadn’t asked us to bring, she began to cry. We gave her a turkey and the packages already wrapped for the children. It was such a small thing to do. Most of the neighbors had given five or ten dollars, and it wasn’t a great sacrifice for them.
But to see the happiness these few things brought to this family was incredibly satisfying. It was almost nothing, especially when contrasted with the bounty the rest of us would receive. It made me wish I had collected two hundred, or three hundred dollars.
But you could tell it wouldn’t have mattered if it had only been ten dollars. We had moved from our petty daily concerns, thought about someone outside of ourselves, and shared a little of the bounty we had been blessed with.
You would have thought we had delivered gold bars. We were thanked repeatedly, and embarrassed by the show of appreciation, had beat a hasty retreat. It was an incredible, satisfying, momentous occasion in my life. I had spent was a few dollars and some of my time collecting from others, done a little shopping, and delivered our paltry offerings.
But to be humbled by this act of service was the greatest gift I have ever received. I was able to get outside myself for a brief moment, and consider that someone else might benefit from a few simple acts of kindness.
English author and artist John Ruskin said this about humility:
"The first test of a truly great man is his humility. I do not mean, by humility, doubt of his own power. … [But really] great men … have a curious … feeling that … greatness is not in them, but through them. … And they see something Divine … in every other man …, and are endlessly, foolishly, incredibly merciful."
It wasn’t me, the neighbors, the donations, the flour, the sugar, the turkey or the Christmas tree. It was the ability I was given, for just a moment, to see the divine in someone else, that other person who is just as important as I am, but who is receiving not from me, but through me.
There are few times in life when we are able to get outside ourselves and stop considering our petty problems and complaints. It is in these moments we are most alive and vibrant. They don’t happen everyday, but they do happen often enough to remind us there are others on this planet. These moments occur when we stop the introspection, and begin to notice all of the wonderful people who are on this journey with us.
Listen to this episode by clicking on the button below:
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Running for Rolls
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Running for Rolls
I went to an ancient high school, so old that it had four stories. When I was going to the old Jordan High School, the school district was building what was supposed to be the new high school. But then tremendous growth happened and both schools remained open. It was eventually torn down and a new Jordan High School was built, but it just isn’t the same. I’ve been to the new school and even sit at this moment wearing a hoody I bought there, but I still miss the old school. I guess it’s the same with any old building.
One of my favorite memories was when lunch was served. The bell would ring and a mad dash would begin to the lunchroom, which was formerly the basketball court. With four stories, that meant you had to hustle if you wanted to get some of the delicious, fresh rolls they served every day. I remember dashing down four sets of stairs as fast as my little legs could carry me. It probably wasn’t very safe, and in today’s risk management society, I’m surprised more people didn’t break their legs back then. Maybe we were just more coordinated.
As I sit wearing Jordan High School memorabilia proudly, I wonder what it was that made those rolls so good we would risk life and limb. One of my friends didn’t like the rolls, so each day he would throw his roll into the air for the rest of us to grab at. This means four or five people were fighting over the roll, and we would each end up with a smashed scrap. But we didn’t care. We were getting bonus bread, for free.
Once a school has reached a certain age, the additions begin. There were so many passages to the same place it really was easier to just take someone where they wanted to be. Telling them the directions would take twice as long. This is a building that lasted a hundred years, and besides having four floors and a basement, there were wings out to the side. There was a courtyard converted into some classrooms and a counseling center. We also had an ancient stage which I remember as especially small.
The best part of the school was the tradition my family had of attending there. Just before it was torn down, I was in a movie at the old school. I got to sit in the front office for several hours, and I wasn’t even in trouble. I used the time to thumb through several old yearbooks. I found myself, my dad and several of his siblings and took a picture with them all spread out on a desk.
Now that I teach high school, it’s hard to imagine I was as young as my students when I went to school. The guy who used to throw his roll in the air was prematurely bald, and so he looked like he was forty when he was a teenager. I saw him 30 years later and he still looked the same.
This is the same friend I tortured every year by making him squirt milk out his nose. All I had to do was wait until he was drinking his milk and deliver a well timed funny remark and out would come the milk. He had enough manners not to spit it out all over us; he would simply laugh it out his nose. I thought it was hilarious. He was cautious around me, trying to make sure he was drinking his milk at safe moments. But once every year, I was able to get him.
Then he started drinking pop. You may call it soda. I don’t know if you have ever snorted carbonation through your nose, it is not a pleasant experience. Milk is bad enough, and water hurts. But any carbonated drink passed through your nasal passages it excruciatingly painful. It hurts for quite a while.
For some reason, we feel ageless when we are in high school. I was talking to my father-in-law about this a while ago. Though in his eighties, he told me he still feels the same way he did when he was in high school. It’s such a defining time in the development of our personalities; it becomes our definition of ourselves.
I guess it can be good and bad. One of my students from a few years ago dropped by this week. When I asked him what he had been doing, he said he just got out of jail. He was a student who didn’t really like school, and probably felt he was being punished with an education. I wonder if my friend remembers the good old bad old times, and then is grateful not to be drinking anything at the moment.
Listen to a podcast of this blog by clicking the button below:
Running for Rolls
I went to an ancient high school, so old that it had four stories. When I was going to the old Jordan High School, the school district was building what was supposed to be the new high school. But then tremendous growth happened and both schools remained open. It was eventually torn down and a new Jordan High School was built, but it just isn’t the same. I’ve been to the new school and even sit at this moment wearing a hoody I bought there, but I still miss the old school. I guess it’s the same with any old building.
One of my favorite memories was when lunch was served. The bell would ring and a mad dash would begin to the lunchroom, which was formerly the basketball court. With four stories, that meant you had to hustle if you wanted to get some of the delicious, fresh rolls they served every day. I remember dashing down four sets of stairs as fast as my little legs could carry me. It probably wasn’t very safe, and in today’s risk management society, I’m surprised more people didn’t break their legs back then. Maybe we were just more coordinated.
As I sit wearing Jordan High School memorabilia proudly, I wonder what it was that made those rolls so good we would risk life and limb. One of my friends didn’t like the rolls, so each day he would throw his roll into the air for the rest of us to grab at. This means four or five people were fighting over the roll, and we would each end up with a smashed scrap. But we didn’t care. We were getting bonus bread, for free.
Once a school has reached a certain age, the additions begin. There were so many passages to the same place it really was easier to just take someone where they wanted to be. Telling them the directions would take twice as long. This is a building that lasted a hundred years, and besides having four floors and a basement, there were wings out to the side. There was a courtyard converted into some classrooms and a counseling center. We also had an ancient stage which I remember as especially small.
The best part of the school was the tradition my family had of attending there. Just before it was torn down, I was in a movie at the old school. I got to sit in the front office for several hours, and I wasn’t even in trouble. I used the time to thumb through several old yearbooks. I found myself, my dad and several of his siblings and took a picture with them all spread out on a desk.
Now that I teach high school, it’s hard to imagine I was as young as my students when I went to school. The guy who used to throw his roll in the air was prematurely bald, and so he looked like he was forty when he was a teenager. I saw him 30 years later and he still looked the same.
This is the same friend I tortured every year by making him squirt milk out his nose. All I had to do was wait until he was drinking his milk and deliver a well timed funny remark and out would come the milk. He had enough manners not to spit it out all over us; he would simply laugh it out his nose. I thought it was hilarious. He was cautious around me, trying to make sure he was drinking his milk at safe moments. But once every year, I was able to get him.
Then he started drinking pop. You may call it soda. I don’t know if you have ever snorted carbonation through your nose, it is not a pleasant experience. Milk is bad enough, and water hurts. But any carbonated drink passed through your nasal passages it excruciatingly painful. It hurts for quite a while.
For some reason, we feel ageless when we are in high school. I was talking to my father-in-law about this a while ago. Though in his eighties, he told me he still feels the same way he did when he was in high school. It’s such a defining time in the development of our personalities; it becomes our definition of ourselves.
I guess it can be good and bad. One of my students from a few years ago dropped by this week. When I asked him what he had been doing, he said he just got out of jail. He was a student who didn’t really like school, and probably felt he was being punished with an education. I wonder if my friend remembers the good old bad old times, and then is grateful not to be drinking anything at the moment.
Listen to a podcast of this blog by clicking the button below:
Tracker Towing
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Tracker Towing
Those who know me well know I love my Tracker. Not tractor. Tracker. It’s a jeep kind-of a all-terrain vehicle made by Geo, but really made by Suzuki. Think of the Suzuki Samarai, just made for Chevy. Chevy even puts its own brand on the Tracker now, but I got mine back in the bad old days when everyone was worried they would flip over. I’ve never had that problem, but then again, I’m not trying to flip my car on its roof.
A steal when I bought it 15 years ago, I have squeezed every penny out of what I was charged for this car. I like it so well I put another engine in last year, and now have 15,000 miles on the second engine. The odometer reads 220,000 miles, and I hope to see 400,000 but you never know. I have had many repairs done on this car, mostly from wearing out water pumps and other parts never designed to last more than 100,000 miles.
It was brand new when we bought it, but now it’s 15 year old. There’s a rust-spot on the back where a daughter backed into something and broke out the rear taillight. I replace it myself, which is another thing I really like about cars. I like fixing things myself if I can, but I am repairing less and less as the years go by. I have a loose belt right now, and I know it’s an easy adjustment to tighten one nut, but I have also banged my knuckles on nuts and bolts enough to know it may be worth the twenty dollars I’ll pay.
I was once young and stupid enough to think I was a great mechanic. Our Volkswagen broke down in Las Vegas. The quote for overhauling the engine was ridiculous. I could have towed the car back home and overhauled it myself for half the price. Which is exactly what we did. We rented a U-Haul and a tow bar, and pulled the car back to the house. Here’s a good hint for those prepared to do the same. If your steering wheel locks unless the key is in, remember to put the key in so the steering wheel can turn. I forgot, and since I made a “U” turn just before returning home, the steering wheel turned a couple of times – and locked. Now that the front tires were turned, I dragged the car for the next 500 miles. If you drive long enough with the wheels turned sideways, the tires heat up, the rubber begins to peel, and when you arrive you may notice the tires are very hot and the rubber actually rubs off like an eraser. I must have worn off 20 or 30 thousand miles of tread.
I bought a manual called “Volkswagen Repair for the Complete Idiot”. It was a great book, and I followed the directions on how to overhaul an engine, which included the instructions to lower the engine to the ground after removing the four bolts holding it. You place the engine on a piece of plywood, jack-up the car and drag the engine out. It only weighs a couple of hundred pounds, and the plywood makes it easy to move.
I did my best, but the car still wouldn’t start. I took it to the dealer, who spent 10 hours diagnosing some electrical problems. I am proud to say the car did run again, and we put at least another 20,000 miles on the rebuilt engine.
I use my Geo Tracker to haul my windsurfer to the beach, and sometimes I get to do some surprising things with this little vehicle my daughter calls my “Barbie Car”. It really does look like the car Ken might pick out for Barbie. But it does have some surprising get up and go.
When I drove up and saw the Ford truck stuck in the sand, I knew I could help, but you could tell the other drivers were dubious. I just pulled out the hook with the flat rope and hooked it around the truck. Moments later, they were unstuck and I had proved smaller is not necessarily inferior.
It happened again a couple of months later. The big truck was stuck, and up I drove with the little Barbie car and offered to pull them out. They looked at my all-terrain vehicle, and I could see the doubt in their eyes. But they were stuck, and really didn’t have any choice but to let me try. I assured them I had pulled another truck out of the sand, but they still looked doubtful. Seconds later, with the torque of the small wheel base, they were unstuck.
Insert your own joke about size here.
Click here to listen to a podcast of this blog:
Tracker Towing
Those who know me well know I love my Tracker. Not tractor. Tracker. It’s a jeep kind-of a all-terrain vehicle made by Geo, but really made by Suzuki. Think of the Suzuki Samarai, just made for Chevy. Chevy even puts its own brand on the Tracker now, but I got mine back in the bad old days when everyone was worried they would flip over. I’ve never had that problem, but then again, I’m not trying to flip my car on its roof.
A steal when I bought it 15 years ago, I have squeezed every penny out of what I was charged for this car. I like it so well I put another engine in last year, and now have 15,000 miles on the second engine. The odometer reads 220,000 miles, and I hope to see 400,000 but you never know. I have had many repairs done on this car, mostly from wearing out water pumps and other parts never designed to last more than 100,000 miles.
It was brand new when we bought it, but now it’s 15 year old. There’s a rust-spot on the back where a daughter backed into something and broke out the rear taillight. I replace it myself, which is another thing I really like about cars. I like fixing things myself if I can, but I am repairing less and less as the years go by. I have a loose belt right now, and I know it’s an easy adjustment to tighten one nut, but I have also banged my knuckles on nuts and bolts enough to know it may be worth the twenty dollars I’ll pay.
I was once young and stupid enough to think I was a great mechanic. Our Volkswagen broke down in Las Vegas. The quote for overhauling the engine was ridiculous. I could have towed the car back home and overhauled it myself for half the price. Which is exactly what we did. We rented a U-Haul and a tow bar, and pulled the car back to the house. Here’s a good hint for those prepared to do the same. If your steering wheel locks unless the key is in, remember to put the key in so the steering wheel can turn. I forgot, and since I made a “U” turn just before returning home, the steering wheel turned a couple of times – and locked. Now that the front tires were turned, I dragged the car for the next 500 miles. If you drive long enough with the wheels turned sideways, the tires heat up, the rubber begins to peel, and when you arrive you may notice the tires are very hot and the rubber actually rubs off like an eraser. I must have worn off 20 or 30 thousand miles of tread.
I bought a manual called “Volkswagen Repair for the Complete Idiot”. It was a great book, and I followed the directions on how to overhaul an engine, which included the instructions to lower the engine to the ground after removing the four bolts holding it. You place the engine on a piece of plywood, jack-up the car and drag the engine out. It only weighs a couple of hundred pounds, and the plywood makes it easy to move.
I did my best, but the car still wouldn’t start. I took it to the dealer, who spent 10 hours diagnosing some electrical problems. I am proud to say the car did run again, and we put at least another 20,000 miles on the rebuilt engine.
I use my Geo Tracker to haul my windsurfer to the beach, and sometimes I get to do some surprising things with this little vehicle my daughter calls my “Barbie Car”. It really does look like the car Ken might pick out for Barbie. But it does have some surprising get up and go.
When I drove up and saw the Ford truck stuck in the sand, I knew I could help, but you could tell the other drivers were dubious. I just pulled out the hook with the flat rope and hooked it around the truck. Moments later, they were unstuck and I had proved smaller is not necessarily inferior.
It happened again a couple of months later. The big truck was stuck, and up I drove with the little Barbie car and offered to pull them out. They looked at my all-terrain vehicle, and I could see the doubt in their eyes. But they were stuck, and really didn’t have any choice but to let me try. I assured them I had pulled another truck out of the sand, but they still looked doubtful. Seconds later, with the torque of the small wheel base, they were unstuck.
Insert your own joke about size here.
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Spare Change
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Spare Change
I have a different sense of humor. Sometimes it takes a while for people to understand just what I am saying, and realize I’m joking. Teaching high school means some students come to school not feeling their best. Either mom or dad or both work, and they can’t stay home. Sometimes their folks make them go to school even when they are sick. So I get to deal with some unhappy kids at times.
It’s not hard to see who is suffering. They are not their usual selves, and when I go up and ask them how they are feeling, they usually try to put on a smile and say they are okay. If they are really feeling sick, they sometimes admit it and say something like, “I don’t feel good.” To try to lighten up the moment, I will usually put my hand on their shoulder and tell them, “You feel all right to me.”
So it does take a minute for them to think about it; remember, they are feeling sick. So when they finally get it, I usually get a smile from them. They look at me and sometimes shake their heads; remember, Dad humor is really not funny, it’s mostly stupid. But it is stupid enough to make you laugh.
I sometimes take it a little far. I really should only use this kind of humor with people I know. But most of you know by now if you’ve been paying attention that I really don’t pay attention all that well. The first time I tried my smart-aleck Dad humor on a total stranger was in Washington, D.C. as my wife and I were walking on the street.
I really don’t like it when people on the street beg from me. I know there are programs and places available to everyone who is willing to try to get help.
So with my bad sense of humor and my general lack of common sense, the following scenario probably was unavoidable.
We were walking along and there were several people begging on the street. After saying no a few times, one guy we passed leaned out and pointed his cup at me. He said, “Spare change?”
My mind works pretty fast, and my wife often has to point out most people have a hard time keeping up sometimes. So when I looked at him and said, “No thanks, I have some.”
He looked at me with a kind of dumbfounded stare for a minute and processed what I had just said. We kept walking, and from behind me I heard him laugh a bit and say, “No, I want your change.” But we were already too far away, and I just sort of chuckled.
My wife was furious, and told me to “knock it off”. She was worried I might have made him angry, and didn’t want a confrontation. She’s usually right. I’m just not smart enough to keep my mouth shut sometimes. But when someone offers a great opening like that, my brain goes on automatic and my mouth starts talking without thinking first.
My daughter was in the car with us recently and we saw a guy begging at WalMart. She’s worked in homeless shelters and knows the programs available to the needy. She started rattling off the different things someone who really needed help
could do, and started talking about how angry it made her when people begged. I asked her if she wanted me to roll down the window and let him know. Before she could answer I said I didn’t think that was the kind of help he was looking for.
One of my former students was an aide to Senator Orrin Hatch. She has a great story about people begging from when she was back in Washington, D.C. She and her husband are successful lawyers now and actually named a son after me. Back in D.C. she used to give some of her lunch money to this same beggar every day. Then one day she was at a hot dog stand, and there was this same guy paying for his lunch with a wad of bills she described as almost too big to hold in his hand.
She was indignant, and Regina was not one to hold her tongue. She was an award-winning debate and public speaker, so she spoke right up and demanded her money back.
He turned to her, probably recognized her and simply said, “I fooled you, didn’t I?” This story only confirmed what I had always thought. There must be some good money in begging if you don’t care about the hit your self-esteem takes.
Last spring I did it again, and I even had two witnesses.
Try it. Just remember.
“Spare change?”
“No thanks, got some.”
Click on the button below to hear a podcast of this blog:
Spare Change
I have a different sense of humor. Sometimes it takes a while for people to understand just what I am saying, and realize I’m joking. Teaching high school means some students come to school not feeling their best. Either mom or dad or both work, and they can’t stay home. Sometimes their folks make them go to school even when they are sick. So I get to deal with some unhappy kids at times.
It’s not hard to see who is suffering. They are not their usual selves, and when I go up and ask them how they are feeling, they usually try to put on a smile and say they are okay. If they are really feeling sick, they sometimes admit it and say something like, “I don’t feel good.” To try to lighten up the moment, I will usually put my hand on their shoulder and tell them, “You feel all right to me.”
So it does take a minute for them to think about it; remember, they are feeling sick. So when they finally get it, I usually get a smile from them. They look at me and sometimes shake their heads; remember, Dad humor is really not funny, it’s mostly stupid. But it is stupid enough to make you laugh.
I sometimes take it a little far. I really should only use this kind of humor with people I know. But most of you know by now if you’ve been paying attention that I really don’t pay attention all that well. The first time I tried my smart-aleck Dad humor on a total stranger was in Washington, D.C. as my wife and I were walking on the street.
I really don’t like it when people on the street beg from me. I know there are programs and places available to everyone who is willing to try to get help.
So with my bad sense of humor and my general lack of common sense, the following scenario probably was unavoidable.
We were walking along and there were several people begging on the street. After saying no a few times, one guy we passed leaned out and pointed his cup at me. He said, “Spare change?”
My mind works pretty fast, and my wife often has to point out most people have a hard time keeping up sometimes. So when I looked at him and said, “No thanks, I have some.”
He looked at me with a kind of dumbfounded stare for a minute and processed what I had just said. We kept walking, and from behind me I heard him laugh a bit and say, “No, I want your change.” But we were already too far away, and I just sort of chuckled.
My wife was furious, and told me to “knock it off”. She was worried I might have made him angry, and didn’t want a confrontation. She’s usually right. I’m just not smart enough to keep my mouth shut sometimes. But when someone offers a great opening like that, my brain goes on automatic and my mouth starts talking without thinking first.
My daughter was in the car with us recently and we saw a guy begging at WalMart. She’s worked in homeless shelters and knows the programs available to the needy. She started rattling off the different things someone who really needed help
could do, and started talking about how angry it made her when people begged. I asked her if she wanted me to roll down the window and let him know. Before she could answer I said I didn’t think that was the kind of help he was looking for.
One of my former students was an aide to Senator Orrin Hatch. She has a great story about people begging from when she was back in Washington, D.C. She and her husband are successful lawyers now and actually named a son after me. Back in D.C. she used to give some of her lunch money to this same beggar every day. Then one day she was at a hot dog stand, and there was this same guy paying for his lunch with a wad of bills she described as almost too big to hold in his hand.
She was indignant, and Regina was not one to hold her tongue. She was an award-winning debate and public speaker, so she spoke right up and demanded her money back.
He turned to her, probably recognized her and simply said, “I fooled you, didn’t I?” This story only confirmed what I had always thought. There must be some good money in begging if you don’t care about the hit your self-esteem takes.
Last spring I did it again, and I even had two witnesses.
Try it. Just remember.
“Spare change?”
“No thanks, got some.”
Click on the button below to hear a podcast of this blog:
Write Your Own Recommendation
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Write Your Own Recommendation
Graduating from college is exciting, but the worst thing is you now have to find a job. You can’t sign up for another fencing class, because it’s time to get out in the real world. I’m a drama teacher, so that kind of specialization does limit your potential employers. Drama teacher tend to keep their jobs a long time, and when I graduated there were no jobs available in the state.
I called about 300 places in California to see if there were any jobs, and found three or four potential interviews. But I needed something to make me stand out, so the people interviewing me would have something to remember.
Then I recalled my step-father had an uncle who was the acting president of Westminster College. They were looking for a replacement, and he really had no experience in running a college, but he had great business connections. He was retired from other leadership positions, and he was doing a great job for them. If I could only get a recommendation letter from the acting president of another educational institution; that would really be a feather in my cap.
I had already interviewed this man for a radio class I had taken earlier in college, so I really didn’t think this was going to be a problem. I brashly walked into the administration building without an appointment and asked to see the acting president. The secretary paged him, and I was let right in.
This was way easier than I ever thought it would be. So I went right into my pitch. I was graduating and I was looking for a recommendation. I paused.
This guy was a master. He had negotiated multi-million dollar contracts, led important organizations, even had his life threatened a time or two. He didn’t get where he was by writing recommendations for step-relations who were about to graduate from college. I was sure he say he didn’t have the time.
He turned and looked at me and simply said, “Sure.” Then he smiled a bit a continued. “You write it, and I’ll sign it.” He gave a few sheet of letterhead with Westminster College and the official sounding title of “Acting President”.
I was dumbfounded. I was to write my own recommendation?
He just sat silently and smiled at me.
I mumbled a “thank you” and said I would be back in a couple of days.
I don’t know if you have ever been asked to write a recommendation for yourself, but it is much more difficult than it sounds. I’ve already mentioned this is a guy who had been around the block a few times, and if I try to pad my resume, he’ll know it. I also have the delightful opportunity to try to describe what I feel are my strengths without sounding too egotistical. I am responsible for making sure it sounds like he wrote it, when in fact I really wrote it myself. I have to be good enough at this that no one who reads it will think I wrote it myself and had him sign it.
I struggled and struggled to find the right wording for sentences, descriptions, and tried not to slather on the praise too much. I worked harder on this single page of about three paragraphs than I had ever worked on any writing assignment in college.
I worked even harder on this than the paper I wrote for one of the few English classes I took. The sad part about that 20 page paper is it was the entire basis for the grade in the class. I went to every class, read the books, commented in class; I thought I was the best student in the class. Little did I know I was writing the paper completely wrong, and got an F in the class. It was a great surprise to me when I read the comments of the teacher on my 20 page labor of love. He wrote “I have no idea what you are trying to say in this paper.” There was a large “F” on the front page, too, but I don’t remember if it was a big red “F”. I just remember it was “F”. It’s okay; I didn’t need it for credit.
I was actually repeating it since I had signed up for the same class earlier with my wife. She had prudently dropped the class, while I had lagged behind until the drop deadline had passed. I received an “F” that time, too. So the second “F” wasn’t such a big deal. But on my transcript there is an “F” crossed out and replaced with another “F”.
I didn’t put that in the recommendation letter.
The acting president signed it and never even read it.
Click on the button below to hear a podcast of this blog.
Write Your Own Recommendation
Graduating from college is exciting, but the worst thing is you now have to find a job. You can’t sign up for another fencing class, because it’s time to get out in the real world. I’m a drama teacher, so that kind of specialization does limit your potential employers. Drama teacher tend to keep their jobs a long time, and when I graduated there were no jobs available in the state.
I called about 300 places in California to see if there were any jobs, and found three or four potential interviews. But I needed something to make me stand out, so the people interviewing me would have something to remember.
Then I recalled my step-father had an uncle who was the acting president of Westminster College. They were looking for a replacement, and he really had no experience in running a college, but he had great business connections. He was retired from other leadership positions, and he was doing a great job for them. If I could only get a recommendation letter from the acting president of another educational institution; that would really be a feather in my cap.
I had already interviewed this man for a radio class I had taken earlier in college, so I really didn’t think this was going to be a problem. I brashly walked into the administration building without an appointment and asked to see the acting president. The secretary paged him, and I was let right in.
This was way easier than I ever thought it would be. So I went right into my pitch. I was graduating and I was looking for a recommendation. I paused.
This guy was a master. He had negotiated multi-million dollar contracts, led important organizations, even had his life threatened a time or two. He didn’t get where he was by writing recommendations for step-relations who were about to graduate from college. I was sure he say he didn’t have the time.
He turned and looked at me and simply said, “Sure.” Then he smiled a bit a continued. “You write it, and I’ll sign it.” He gave a few sheet of letterhead with Westminster College and the official sounding title of “Acting President”.
I was dumbfounded. I was to write my own recommendation?
He just sat silently and smiled at me.
I mumbled a “thank you” and said I would be back in a couple of days.
I don’t know if you have ever been asked to write a recommendation for yourself, but it is much more difficult than it sounds. I’ve already mentioned this is a guy who had been around the block a few times, and if I try to pad my resume, he’ll know it. I also have the delightful opportunity to try to describe what I feel are my strengths without sounding too egotistical. I am responsible for making sure it sounds like he wrote it, when in fact I really wrote it myself. I have to be good enough at this that no one who reads it will think I wrote it myself and had him sign it.
I struggled and struggled to find the right wording for sentences, descriptions, and tried not to slather on the praise too much. I worked harder on this single page of about three paragraphs than I had ever worked on any writing assignment in college.
I worked even harder on this than the paper I wrote for one of the few English classes I took. The sad part about that 20 page paper is it was the entire basis for the grade in the class. I went to every class, read the books, commented in class; I thought I was the best student in the class. Little did I know I was writing the paper completely wrong, and got an F in the class. It was a great surprise to me when I read the comments of the teacher on my 20 page labor of love. He wrote “I have no idea what you are trying to say in this paper.” There was a large “F” on the front page, too, but I don’t remember if it was a big red “F”. I just remember it was “F”. It’s okay; I didn’t need it for credit.
I was actually repeating it since I had signed up for the same class earlier with my wife. She had prudently dropped the class, while I had lagged behind until the drop deadline had passed. I received an “F” that time, too. So the second “F” wasn’t such a big deal. But on my transcript there is an “F” crossed out and replaced with another “F”.
I didn’t put that in the recommendation letter.
The acting president signed it and never even read it.
Click on the button below to hear a podcast of this blog.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Three Car Pileup
A Funny Thing Happened on the way to Dane Allred
Three Car Pile-up
I drive the speed limit. I didn’t always. I used to drive a Mazda RX-7. My mom sold it to me after she had driven it a few years. I talked my wife into buying it. She was dubious until we pulled up and she remembered what the car looked like. As we pulled into my mom’s driveway, my wife turned to me and said, “Can I have it?”
She drove the car for a while until she had cancer. She’s fine now, but after chemotherapy she decided the car smell like chemo, and we bought her a new car. I loved driving that sports car. It could take corners at just about any speed, which isn’t good for your driving point total. I don’t know how many tickets I got, but eventually I had enough points to endanger my driver’s license. I could get the points reduced in half by going to traffic school, and so I did.
Eventually the car wouldn’t pass inspections, so I sold it. I got older and started going the speed limit. It’s just not as fun unless you are in a sports car, so I rarely get tickets anymore. The contradiction to this statement happened when I decided to leave the slow lane on the freeway.
There is a place on the freeway where every day there seemed to be a slow down at a particular part of the road. All of the cars were going around a slight corner, and for some reason, no one was able to keep going the speed limit. So everyone slows to a crawl.
I decided to leave the safe, slow right lane where I am nearly always found these days. I went to the middle lane, and it was slowing down, too. So I moved to the fast lane, and I was still going way too fast. The cars in the fast lane were stopped. The car in front of me was stopped. I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop.
I was right. I skidded a bit and hit the car in front of me going about 5 miles per hour. It was really more of a soft tap so I doubted there was even going to be a dent. But then I looked in the mirror. The guy behind me was not slowing down. He was going about 35 to 40 miles per hour, and he rammed my car hard enough to bounce me into the car in front of me again, and this time I hit the guy in front of me hard enough to knock his hat off.
So now I had been in a three car pile-up. We were the only three who had an accident. Everyone else was cautious enough to not hit someone else. So we checked out our damage and pulled off the side of the road. The police officer had us pull to the next exit to clear the freeway, and I was supposed to be teaching in about an hour. Here’s the problem. I got a ticket for hitting the guy in front of me. The guy behind me got a ticket for hitting me. So writing the tickets took longer than I thought it might. I had to call one of the students in my class and tell them to go home.
The guy in front of me had an old junker like me. He checked for damage on his car, and decided there really wasn’t a reason to file a claim. He was just glad he wasn’t carrying big pieces of metal in the back of his car like he usually did. My car also didn’t seem to be damaged at all, and I attribute that to the spare tire which hangs on the back of my Jeep type car. The guy behind me had hit right into the tire. I later saw that the tire and the door were moved a bit forward, and the door wouldn’t open any morebut I usually don’t use that door anyway.
So the two of us, in the front had little or no damage. Who I really felt sorry for was the guy who hit me. He was driving a fairly new pickup truck, and the tire on the back of my car had demolished his front end. The hood was bent up, the fender was crushed, and the headlights had fallen to the ground. There must have been thousands of dollars in damage. He had no one to blame but himself.
Of the three cars involved, he was driving the nicest. Of the three cars, he had the most damage. Is there a moral to this story?
It may be drive a junker, and stay in the slow lane.
Listen to this blog as a podcast by clicking the button below:
Three Car Pile-up
I drive the speed limit. I didn’t always. I used to drive a Mazda RX-7. My mom sold it to me after she had driven it a few years. I talked my wife into buying it. She was dubious until we pulled up and she remembered what the car looked like. As we pulled into my mom’s driveway, my wife turned to me and said, “Can I have it?”
She drove the car for a while until she had cancer. She’s fine now, but after chemotherapy she decided the car smell like chemo, and we bought her a new car. I loved driving that sports car. It could take corners at just about any speed, which isn’t good for your driving point total. I don’t know how many tickets I got, but eventually I had enough points to endanger my driver’s license. I could get the points reduced in half by going to traffic school, and so I did.
Eventually the car wouldn’t pass inspections, so I sold it. I got older and started going the speed limit. It’s just not as fun unless you are in a sports car, so I rarely get tickets anymore. The contradiction to this statement happened when I decided to leave the slow lane on the freeway.
There is a place on the freeway where every day there seemed to be a slow down at a particular part of the road. All of the cars were going around a slight corner, and for some reason, no one was able to keep going the speed limit. So everyone slows to a crawl.
I decided to leave the safe, slow right lane where I am nearly always found these days. I went to the middle lane, and it was slowing down, too. So I moved to the fast lane, and I was still going way too fast. The cars in the fast lane were stopped. The car in front of me was stopped. I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop.
I was right. I skidded a bit and hit the car in front of me going about 5 miles per hour. It was really more of a soft tap so I doubted there was even going to be a dent. But then I looked in the mirror. The guy behind me was not slowing down. He was going about 35 to 40 miles per hour, and he rammed my car hard enough to bounce me into the car in front of me again, and this time I hit the guy in front of me hard enough to knock his hat off.
So now I had been in a three car pile-up. We were the only three who had an accident. Everyone else was cautious enough to not hit someone else. So we checked out our damage and pulled off the side of the road. The police officer had us pull to the next exit to clear the freeway, and I was supposed to be teaching in about an hour. Here’s the problem. I got a ticket for hitting the guy in front of me. The guy behind me got a ticket for hitting me. So writing the tickets took longer than I thought it might. I had to call one of the students in my class and tell them to go home.
The guy in front of me had an old junker like me. He checked for damage on his car, and decided there really wasn’t a reason to file a claim. He was just glad he wasn’t carrying big pieces of metal in the back of his car like he usually did. My car also didn’t seem to be damaged at all, and I attribute that to the spare tire which hangs on the back of my Jeep type car. The guy behind me had hit right into the tire. I later saw that the tire and the door were moved a bit forward, and the door wouldn’t open any morebut I usually don’t use that door anyway.
So the two of us, in the front had little or no damage. Who I really felt sorry for was the guy who hit me. He was driving a fairly new pickup truck, and the tire on the back of my car had demolished his front end. The hood was bent up, the fender was crushed, and the headlights had fallen to the ground. There must have been thousands of dollars in damage. He had no one to blame but himself.
Of the three cars involved, he was driving the nicest. Of the three cars, he had the most damage. Is there a moral to this story?
It may be drive a junker, and stay in the slow lane.
Listen to this blog as a podcast by clicking the button below:
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