Thank You Mr. Allen

Autumn

By: Scott Robert Allen, United Kingdom

As autumn casts its russet veil
Over trees and sun-dappled dale
Golden hues amongst withering leaves
And pine cones strewn randomly as time weaves
Its meandering course, betwixt summer heat
And cold winter nights and snow beneath feet
Heaven azure glimpsed between branches high
Before night conquers day and lays claim to the sky
Myriad stars clad in ebony cloak,
Moonlight casts shadows from willow and oak.
Darkness envelopes all things, plant and beast
'Til crimson and amber return from the east
Restoring the colour to meadow and brook
Returning the gifts that the dark hours took.

How to Cure What Ails You

Remember how when we were kids if you got cranky, uncooperative or threw a tantrum your mom would declare: "you need a nap!" It makes perfect sense. Bad day? Go lie down. When you get up have a cookie. Or three. Life is suddenly better and you can handle what ever crap is flying around in your personal solar system. Moms are so smart. I keep having the same realization over and over: the answers are a lot more simple than you think. Take a nap, wash your hands, don't be rude. Simple stuff.

You Get What You Pay For

We know that when children have strong social skills, by default their academic experience is more productive and positive. When you start with the heart you clear the road to the head. We need children to excel academically so that our future work force is strong and capable. My experience has been that there is less and less money for quality, outcome based after school programming. Just because the kids are in an after school program doesn't mean that the experience impacts them in a way that elicits a positive change. You can't throw a quarter at something that costs two dollars and expect to get two dollars worth. You get a quarter's worth less a nickel for the insult. It may take a village, but when the village is broke, hope moves out of town and despair moves in. No one flourishes in a town called despair except the predators.

Letter to the Postmaster General John Potter

Dear Postmaster Potter:

As a lifelong fan of letter writing and all things postal, the gradual decrease of hand written cards and letters has been a disappointing outcome of the phenomenon of email and Facebook. I realize that like many business' in a changing world, the United States Postal Service has to continually re-invent itself in order to remain relevant and competitive for a generation that doesn't know the necessity of good penmanship or the joy of sending and receiving mail.

Perhaps if the USPS partnered with the schools across the country to launch: READY, SET, WRITE!! a national campaign to encourage pen pals, penmanship and letter writing among school children, a whole new generation of communicators would be excited about getting and sending real mail. READY, SET, WRITE is a win-win situation. R.S.W., would help children practice the art of waiting in a world where instant gratification has become the norm. Educators would appreciate the children's motivation to write and spell and the children would be rewarded with mail! Writing, receiving and opening letters connects you with someone in a personal way. Email can't do that. Postmaster Potter you have the power to create a whole new generation of correspondence enthusiasts; I hope you will take it!

Sincerely,

A life long letter writer

There Is No Moment After Pill

That email you sent to party A was forwarded on to parties B, C & D saved, printed and maybe filed away somewhere. When someone in emotional pain lashes out, we want others to share our “can you believe this shit?” moment so we forward the offending email. This summer on three separate occasions, I have been forwarded emails that weren’t penned to me. These were not your run of the mill emails. Because these emails were so mean and vitriolic they had become entertainment. They will make you cringe in the same way you would cringe while watching episodes of Jackass. I have had some seriously difficult disagreements and fights with people I care about but those fights happened face to face. The yelling, the tears, the confusion, it all happened in person. There seems to be a frightening trend of taking your hurt feelings, misunderstandings, things you-know-you-would never-say-in-person, to email. Of course I have sent emails out of anger or frustration, and let me tell you, I regret it. Blasting someone in an email is a little like sitting in your car with the windows rolled up cursing out the person in the car next to you. It is an act of impulsive cowardice because you are protected by the vehicle whether the “vehicle” is your car or cyberspace. It takes a lot of courage to look someone in the eye and say your piece. It seems that no matter what the message, being eye to eye at least keeps the possibility of forgiveness alive. The emails that were forwarded to me were so hate-filled and mean that there was not a response the receiver could offer that wasn't angry. I love all of our technology but think it is stunting our emotional growth.

It's in Black and White

Most of the kids at my high school wanted to be cheerleaders or football heroes or in Glee club and I was too clumsy, hated athletics and couldn’t carry a note even in a special note carrying Coach bag. So I was a debater. I have always been clever with words and like nothing better than a spirited, well- researched debate, so it was perfect for me. I was good too. My specialty was extemporaneous speaking. You pull a topic out of a box and give a 3 to 4 minute talk about the topic you pulled. I loved it. I took second place at State one year; I was truly in my element. Our debate coach was Ruby Gubitz. Mrs. Gubitz stood about 5’0 and had a beautiful silver shag hair cut with the hair over her forehead dramatically swooped to one side. She was tiny and had a ruddy complexion and an easy smile. Mrs. Gubitz always wore platform shoes. She was saucy, outspoken and could work those shoes like nothing I had ever seen. I adored Mrs. Gubitz. Traveling around the state with everybody was fun. It meant we got to ride in a school issued white van and go all over Kansas debating capital punishment and alternative energy. We each had a metal 3x5 card box that held our 3x5 white note cards with the facts on each well researched subject handwritten or pasted on so we could debate either side of the issue. One of the other things I liked about going on the road was that we got to eat out at interesting places on the road. One afternoon on our way home we stopped at a little diner in the middle of Western Kansas. There weren’t very many people in there and I remember it being dark and quiet. The entire team led by Mrs. Gubitz shuttled in to the restaurant, and like most adolescents we were so busy talking we missed the action. Suddenly Mrs. Gubitz turns to all of us and put her arm around me and says: “We will be eating someplace else team.” I did not hear what happened, but I looked behind the counter and there was a smug, skinny little white man with greasy spectacles watching us leave. I knew that somehow I was responsible. Mrs. Gubitz pulled out a cigarette, lit it, took a deep drag and said: “screw it kids, we’re going someplace else.” That was all that was said, and I learned that day that little black kids couldn’t walk into any diner in America and expect a cool drink and a sandwich. It didn’t matter that I was a good debater or that I had placed second in extemporaneous speaking, I was Black first.

Georgia On My Mind

Well not really, but like the rest of the country, I have been thinking about race lately. A lot. So rather than me telling you what I think and feel, I thought I would share two stories in two separate blog postings about race. These are my stories. In the seventies, there weren't too many privileges you could look forward to while you were in high school. Sure you could drive, but that was about it. In my house being older did not necessarily mean more freedom, it just meant that you had more responsibilities. Unlike high school where age and class meant status. When you became a senior, you were at the top of the status heap. With that status came one very special privilege. That was that seniors could leave campus and go out to lunch. Because no one had their own car, "out to lunch" really meant you could cross the street and hang out in front of the tiny burger shack eating on the sidewalk. Eating your burger and onion rings standing up in a cloud of adolescent second hand smoke just seemed so very cool. I was so excited about being able to go “out” to lunch. I had a friend, a fellow debater; Eva Goodman-who was very pretty and smart. She was tall with long, thick, straight dark hair and was a clever debater. She was the coolest. We talked everyday and would walk together to our classes planning and plotting our senior lunch. We talked about it for at least a month and then we picked a day. Eva had to get permission from her father. I waited for her response for what seemed like weeks, but was probably only a day or two. One night, the green princess phone in our kitchen rang and it was Eva! I stood there twirling the endless and tangled green spiral cord anxious to hear her father’s decision. That night on the phone, her voice was different; softer or smaller I don’t know which really. Eva spoke softly and said: “My father said I could not go to lunch with you.” I had not a clue why but just knew it was because of all those kids smoking cigarettes on the corner. That wasn’t it. In a very truthful and deliberate way, Eva said, “I can’t go with you because you are black.” Now she may have said Negro or colored or *Schwartza, I don’t remember, but I remember why she couldn’t go. I was devastated. I couldn’t change who I was and on top of that, I wouldn’t get to go out to lunch and eat my burger in a cloud of second hand smoke. We didn’t talk much after that and I have often wondered what happened to Eva Goodman. If the Gods have a sense of humor, perhaps she fell in love with a black man. *Yiddish pejorative for Negro