The Cost of Admission

 

    I’m not sure why I’ve always been a fan of the University of Michigan. It feels like something I was born with, like a childhood scar or a favorite song you never remember learning. Every football season I watch the Wolverines hike the ball, try to run up the middle, and immediately collide with a wall of opposing players. They gain half a yard — maybe. And still I hope for the boys to win.

    I’ve got U of M foam beer holders, a big block‑M flag I hang from the house on game days, and whenever I’m around my Ohio friends, I play the Michigan Fight Song just to keep the rivalry properly seasoned.

    I doubt I could ever cheer for anyone else. But here’s the thing: never in my wildest dreams could I have attended. My high‑school grades stunk like they’d been dead for years. My wallet was so empty that if you yelled into it, you’d hear an echo. I imagine those are the top two things the admissions people look for.

    Had desire to learn been the criterion, I would have breezed right in. That, in my opinion, should be the true cost of admission — the hunger to know things. But desire can’t be measured, not in any way that fits neatly on a form. So the gates stay closed, and only the wallets that don’t echo get waved through.

    Two years ago, in an effort to add yet another piece of Michigan memorabilia to my collection, I wrote to the University and asked them to simply write back. Just a letter, an envelope, a scrap of stationery with the big block M. They must still be thinking about it.

Z. Corwin

Mrs. Henderson's Class

Each day was a true delight.  Mrs. Henderson had made her lesson plan and all her students were eager to see what came next.  Day after day, as a group, they traveled through geography, waded knee-deep into math and together built sentences and paragraphs using the letters they had learned and played with. 

The classroom was both a safe place and a pirate ship when it needed to be.   But it was no place for a dreamer.  Thinking outside of the box was unheard-of.   It wasn’t long until little Buddy was labeled as a troublemaker, a disruption and eventually Mrs. Henderson had written him off.  He was ignored and the classroom that was once filled with sunshine, now – for Buddy, was filled with dark clouds.   He felt like an outcast.  He was the square peg. 

The unfortunate aspect of the label Mrs. Henderson had hung onto Buddy followed him throughout his entire life within the educational system.  No matter where he went, people could see Mrs. Henderson’s label sticking out over the top of Buddy’s sweater.  Don’t bother with this one. 

But something quite unique happened over time.  What had happened to Buddy turned out to be his education.  For Buddy had the advantage of seeing how adults acted and how short-sighted they were.  Even how Mrs. Henderson had given up on him the moment he began to color outside of the lines.  That was an area beyond her comfort zone.  Something she had not prepared for and so she gave up.   

Buddy, the dreamer, eventually found his place in the world.  He changed his name and started a Blog.  Every day Buddy wrote about his observations and experiences.  He wrote fun things and of classrooms that turned into pirate ships.  He explored all of the places that had been roped off.  He looked behind the DO NOT ENTER doors and he followed the scent of well-traveled boots to wherever they went.   There were no limits, no teachers or supervisors.  Only his keyboard and his imagination.  For Buddy was a dreamer.

 

 

 

 

 ZC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Stems & Pieces

There are things they never put on the recruiting posters.  There are secrets Uncle Sam doesn’t share with the unsuspecting public.   The reality of accepting everyone into their army is that the unsavory, uneducated and ill-mannered are only a few of the scrapings gathered up and dressed as one. 

The slogan, a few good men, is extremely accurate, there are only a few in the entire bunch.  However, once you are on the inside, after you’ve raised your hand to volunteer to serve your country, only then do you see the back side of the poster.  Only then are you threatened daily that if you don’t fall in line you will be sent to prison. 

It is there you become witness to the harsh reality that the ones who have advanced in rank haven’t done so through education, or achievement, but only through longevity.  In the military it isn’t the cream that rises to the top.  It is those who cannot think for themselves but simply regurgitate the rhetoric.  Authority without wisdom. 

A peek behind the curtain

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Droop Factor

 

There is a tug-of-war taking place every minute of every day.  On one side we have gravity, weighing in at 32.17 ft. at sea level.  On the other side we have one, non-galvanized finishing nail, supporting a framed photograph of a ½ ton pick-up truck, with standard options.

Even without knowing the tensile strength of the nail, I feel comfortable in projecting that over time, gravity will be victorious.  I say that based on the wood fibers currently surrounding the nail ultimately accumulating moisture, allowing the weight of the framed photograph of the ½ ton pick-up truck, with standard options to eventually exert the weight at such an angle as to allow the art work to slide in  downward direction, that being the same direction as the tug of the gravitational pull.  

Variables not calculated are the type, dimensions and weight of the frame, or the color of the truck. 

 

 

 

 zc

I think its the Monkey thing

 

Propagation

 

When I hear that word, I think of Catsup slowly making its way across the plate or slowly spreading over a hamburger.   The odd thing is it also refers to brake lights. 

Cars were just fine, then someone said, “Let’s add another brake light.”  Now we have them above the rear window, or going across the tailgate, or lighting up the children bouncing around in the backseat.  

We have an abundance of lights telling people we are stopping and the propagation of that invention seems to have spread much faster than catsup ever has.  Suddenly they were on every car being produced.  Like intermittent whipers.  “Hey, it isn’t raining that much, maybe we should only use the whippers now and then.”  And now, everyone has the option of keeping pace with the weather or not.  

So, what aspect is it that caused the automobile industry to suddenly spring into action?  Was it due to legislation over safety concerns or more of a monkey-see- monkey-do kind of thing.  

“Hey, they’re doing it, so we better.”

 

 

 

 

 

 ZC

 

A Baker's Dozen

 

The last donut in the box comes with connotations.  It is no different than a traveler with a carry-on, or a baseball player tapping his shoe to remove the dirt that becomes wedged between the spikes.  OK, so maybe it’s nothing like that.  The last donut taunts everyone who sees it.  “Take me.  I taste good, you know you want me.” 

But then there is that unseen guilt.  I should leave it for someone else.  Maybe there is someone here who hasn’t had one yet.  I know the minute I bite it, I’ll feel bad.  Who left just one donut here?  Someone should take it so we can throw the box away.

And maybe connotations was the wrong word.  A better word would be feelings.  Yes, that last donut is a filled donut.  It is filled with temptation, dread, remorse, guilt and maybe a sprinkle of joy, excitement and flavor.

When you think about it, everything would have been much better if, at the bakery, they had just left that last donut out.  Don’t make it a Baker’s Dozen, just put 12 in the box and leave it at that.   Everyone would be much happier.

 

 

 

ZC

 

 

 

 

 

That's just the way it is

 

I’ve noticed that whenever there is a flock of birds on the ground and something startles them, they all fly off in the same direction.  They have the wherewithal to know that multiple directions could result in airborne mishaps.

All of the birds take their cue from the first one to be startled.  Whatever that bird does, they all do.  Hopefully, it isn’t skittish Larry.  He’s been known to jump because a leaf fell from a nearby tree.  No matter how many times they’ve talked to him, he still jumps at the slightest sound or movement. 

It stands to reason, the more birds in a flock, the more different personalities there will be.  Every group seems to have a Larry.  Not sure why.

 

 

 zc