A Cautionary Tale

I was biding my time at the Panera Bread at the mall waiting for my 11:30 a.m. appointment at the Apple Store when it dawned on me—Cade just might be right. (My appointment? It appears that I have made an inexplicable series of decisions regarding my laptop which resulted in, among other things, transforming myself into multiple users on the same machine!) At 11:30, surely one of the twenty-somethings in matching t-shirts, all replete with iPods or iPads or iThings dangling from holiday-themed lanyards, will magically press a button and assure me that my technological misery will end one day soon enough with the reincarnation of Steve Jobs or my early demise. At this point, either way, I’m good.

How the heck I became multiple users on my beautiful, new MacBook Pro, I’m not sure; but let me back up for a second. See, I have an iPad 2. I’m not complaining. I love my iPad. Add the abilities to cook, clean, and make-out, and it would be perfect. As it is, it’s pretty cool. In addition to all the stuff I already know how to do, I recently discovered Facetime. Actually, I should say that Facetime discovered me. Last week while my granddaughter and I were killing green-headed pigs with disgruntled feathered ammunition I got a Facetime request from a friend far away. From that point on, all ten days, I have used my iPad to find other Mac users to Facetime with. Enter my daughter. Yesterday, armed with her brand new iPhone, she and I Facetimed. (Surely that is not the proper verb for communicating while using one’s computer; surely.) That led to the idea that she and I would Facetime, wait…um…we will use Facetime while I am in Europe. So, I fired up my MacBook Pro laptop to make sure it would work with Facetime, too.

Uh, yeah. That’s all I did—fire it up; unless you count the two hours I spent confirming that I know virtually nothing compared to most 12-year olds with regard to technology. I learned that Facetime on my laptop won’t actually connect with other users. I learned that I have two—two different!—versions of Microsoft Office on my laptop. I also confirmed what I already knew—that I don’t care enough (to change my reality!)

The Genius Bar at the Apple Store

Long ago, Ambrose Bierce once wrote, “There is nothing new under the sun but lots of old things we don’t know.” Hello. Preacher meet the choir. With Steve Jobs’s passing, that is probably now true. Last night when my MacBook decided it didn’t like me or Facetime, I went on-line for advice. I got everything from explicit directions to chat conversations that seemed to insist that my Facetime does work (despite the evidence to the contrary.)

Oh see, I forgot to mention one thing—it works. It loads. It turns on. It shows me all my contacts (although it thinks that I am my son. Even he will admit that, in confirmation of his worst fears, the converse is the reality.) It even calls when I tell it to. What’s the problem? It doesn’t work. When I do all those things on my iPad, assuming another Mac user is on the other end, all is well. They answer. We chit-chat. We hang up. With my laptop, not so much.

Why do I bring all this up? Because as Cade, a student at Endeavor Charter School, once told his classmates after I interjected commentary during his oral report, “Guys, that was a cautionary tale!”

What if I get to Holland and I can’t Facetime? (Darn, there, I did it again…what if Facetime doesn’t work?) What if the next time I use my laptop my user id’s have multiplied—again? What if I then have yet an additional version of Microsoft Office? What if Alfred Hitchcock is my neighbor? What if Anthony Bourdain is sitting in every Dutch coffeehouse? What if my new class doesn’t like me? What if Cade was right?

11:30 cannot come soon enough.

You Got Light in Your Eyes

My chums and I play a weekly game called Mr. Football, but the rules and especially the weekly outcomes as they apply to yours truly are not worth mentioning, although I do wish to mention one aspect of the game. Each player is asked to respond to a weekly survey; and one component of that part of the game is called T3: Tell the Truth.

T3 is cool for a number of reasons but particularly because all one must do is…tell the truth. It’s just that easy. The player is presented with a “thing” (e.g. a name, a concept, a fact) and all he or she must do is admit if he or she knows of this thing without the benefit of assistance like Google or Yahoo! It sounds simple; and it is. Here’s an example: Tina Weymouth. Admit it (to yourself) do you know who this is? No? You can learn a lot about what other people hang onto and the stuff that doesn’t seem to sink in by their responses in T3. (Nabi painters? OK, I forgive you if you don’t know that one.)

In the case of the bass player and founding member of the Talking Heads, I did. In addition to her work with front man, David Byrne, Madam W. led the Tom Tom Club (which would have been a formidable T3 topic on its own). But here’s why I mention any of this at all: in the days after her name appeared in Mr. Football, I revisited the Talking Heads catalog—all of it.

I guess what they say is true—that sometimes, I mean sometimes, when you revisit something—especially after a long hiatus—that ‘something’ is gone. The thing you thought you would find and hoped would be there, just isn’t there or at the very least isn’t the same; too different. Going home again; right? Isn’t that what some people call it? Some do.

Home is where I want to be

Pick me up and turn me round

I feel numb - born with a weak heart

(So I) guess I must be having fun

The less we say about it the better

Make it up as we go along

Feet on the ground

Head in the sky

It's ok I know nothing's wrong…nothing

But I also guess that there are times, rare and precious times, when you revisit something and it reminds you of what you once knew, what you once loved, what you do love. It reminds you that you’re alive. You’re allowed a glimpse—the cherished reminder that the things for which you hope, are, in fact, very real.

I got plenty of time

You got light in your eyes

And you're standing here beside me

I love the passing of time

Never for money

Always for love

Cover up say goodnight . . . say goodnight

A few weeks ago on my drive to Baltimore, thanks to Ms. Weymouth and the rest of the Talking Heads, I was granted that peek. Surely, my impending move to Holland somehow affects my inclination to assign meaning to trivial things; but…

Home is where I want to be

But I guess I'm already there

I come home she lifted up her wings

Guess that this must be the place

I can't tell one from the other

Did I find you, or you find me?

There was a time before we were born

If someone asks, this where I'll be . . . where I'll be

…I sometimes think David Byrne wrote these words for me. Not to me, you understand—for me. When I hear them I understand (all over again) what it means to have something; to really have something.

We drift in and out

Sing into my mouth

Out of all those kinds of people

You got a face with a view

I'm just an animal looking for a home

Share the same space for a minute or two

And you love me till my heart stops

Love me till I'm dead

Eyes that light up, eyes look through you

Cover up the blank spots

Hit me on the head

(This Must Be the Place (Naïve Melody), David Byrne)

Here’s hoping that you are “home” this holiday season.

Merry Christmas.

Lar

1954

Growing up we had a bunch of names, my brother and I. He was Little Lar, Larry, Jr. or worse depending on my father’s mood. I was James, Jaime, or Jay, but most of the time, Worm (yeah, thanks Dad, OK so I had a hard time sitting still.) The two people most responsible for the multiple monikers are gone. It’s just the two of us.

Sometimes Lar and I talk about growing up. We swap memories. No elbows on the table. Mom’s unique culinary skills. Dad. Funny though, some of the stuff Lar holds onto I missed altogether. And, some of my most vivid memories were forged after he was gone. Being five years older, I was 13 when he left for college.

That’s funny, too. Despite the fact that he was born in ’49 and I in ’54, he has convinced himself that we are but four years removed (thanks to birth dates that overlap by two months). I am so tired of hearing his convoluted logic that on some level I think he’s right. (Wait, 54-49=5, right? It does. Right?)

Mom has been gone since 1999. Dad died in ’08. There are no words to describe what that means or even feels like inside. Either you know what I mean or dread finding out. Not that Lar and I weren’t close before they left, but since then it’s different. For reasons that are hard to express, before I left for Europe in January I wanted to say goodbye to him in person. So, I went home. On a very real level, Baltimore shall remain home. It’s where I was born. It’s where I grew up. It’s where I met my wife, and it’s where she and I reared our children. Lar even lives in my house on Back River.

I hesitate to speak for Lar, but I sense he would agree with me on a number of things (unlike my teenage years when I knew everything). We came from the same place. We knew the same things. We are the same guy. I like that. That’s part of why I wanted to see him one more time before I left.

1954 - 1949 = 4 (according to some)

Our three-day visit was spent talking and eating, gambling and laughing. He’s generous that way. He gives to me the things he enjoys. The most widely traveled guy I know, he tells me he’s not going to visit me in Holland. Uh-huh. I can’t wait to introduce Little Lar to all my new acquaintances in the Netherlands.

You Say ‘See you later.’

By now you know the same thing I know: in very short order I’ll be waking up in Holland; waking up each day without my wife and family very near. With that in mind, I decided to travel to Baltimore to see my brother, my family, and some of my friends who live there.

with big brother, Lar

I arrived Friday afternoon with the same realization that Dorothy Gale made about not being in Kansas anymore. I suppose it is possible that the traffic I experienced was exactly like the traffic I left six years ago although I’m guessing not. More likely my reaction to it and my ability to deal with it were what had changed. With a couple of hours until my first scheduled rendezvous, I headed for the mall. Uhhh, check that. I sat in a looooong line of traffic headed in the general direction of the mall. One illegal u-turn later, I was headed for my old stomping ground—Essex.

Pizza John's in 1966

Pizza John’s is nearly as old as I am. Everyone in my generation who grew up on the east side remembers when John Coruzzi opened his pizza place in the 1960’s. It was a “walk-up” back then. Now, it is a sprawling, got-it-down-to-a-science, culinary legend. Still serving pizza, I go for the cheese steak subs. (It should be noted that it was only after I had inhaled my sub that I realized I had forgotten to snap a photo! Believe me, I was tempted to order a second!)

Pizza John's in 2011

From there I headed to Bill Bateman’s Bistro to meet my administrator-buddies. BBB is equally recognizable if slightly less renowned. Locally known for the chicken wings, my chums and I selected it strictly for the proximity. Despite Mark's car accident en route to the restaurant, everyone arrived no worse for the wear. Among my closest colleagues during my thirty-year career in education, Peggy, Penny, Mark and I were happy to share a few hours chatting and catching up.

I could not find my wallet after this photo was taken!

From Bateman’s it was off to The Dock of the Bay, my brother’s popular seafood restaurant located idyllically on shore the Chesapeake Bay. (A theme wouldn’t be a theme without consistency; right?) On the first Friday of each month my family (thanks to resident events planner, Karen) schedules a come-as-you-are dinner at the DotB. For me there were two great reasons for choosing this weekend to visit: the family dinner and steamed crabs.

Callinectes sapidus, the 'beautiful swimmer'

Saturday had one main event: lunch with my good friends, Marge and Ray King. Marge and I worked together at Overlea High School. She had been the principal’s secretary for years prior to my arrival. After nine years in the fox hole together, we retired together. I can still remember her exact words when she told me she was leaving with me: I can’t break another one in!

As the guy at the top of the OHS food chain, I can easily give credit to any number of people for the success we enjoyed. As you know, listing names is slippery slope, so I’ll reserve my comments to Marge. Looking back, I can only imagine what she really thought as she learned more and more about “the new principal.” Marge had encyclopedic knowledge of the school system. With the demeanor of a Persian cat and the tenacity of a pit bull, Marge was my protector. I’m pretty sure Marge invented the phrase “need to know basis.” And, I am positively certain that it remains best that I still don’t know what I wasn’t told then!

After lunch as we meandered towards our automobiles in the parking lot (while Marge made sure I understood her prohibitions on Dutch “entertainment”) we approached that sometimes-awkward moment—you know, the moment of the ineffable urge to tell someone the things you want to make sure they know. To express to them what they mean to you. To say what doesn’t need to be said.

I’ve hugged Marge a million times, and I'm pretty sure I always hold on too long. I think it was at that moment last weekend when I was supposed to let loose but couldn't that Marge said to me, “Don’t you say ‘goodbye.’”

She kissed me and said, “You say ‘see you later.’”

Marge and Ray King

Maryl

One of the first people I was introduced to at ISA, albeit electronically, was the head of the Human Resources department, Maryl van Hoek. Under her leadership, the department (including Charlotte Buskens) works for employees to assure that Dutch regulations are being satisfied. That makes what they do sound less personal than it actually is. Maryl and Charlotte work for people.

Shortly after the principal offered me the job and I accepted, Maryl scheduled a telephone conference during which she informed, explained, described, and reassured me. We talked for an hour; and the longer we spoke the more comfortable I became. Maryl’s like that. Her patient and thorough descriptions allowed me to understand the enormity, the scope, and the necessity of the process that lay ahead. Put it this way: there was a lot to do. A whole lot. I was asking questions and taking notes as fast as I could write the answers. I couldn’t help thinking how impossible the whole thing seemed based on the lack of time to get everything done; that was, until Maryl told me something. In a heartbeat I was reminded; reminded of something I truly believe; and reminded how truly universal dedication to service is.

Three years before I retired as the principal of Overlea High School in the Baltimore County Public Schools I had the good fortune to meet and hire a fellow named Mark Truszkowski as an assistant principal. Even now, Mark is quick to share credit for his success. But it was Mark who taught me “the” essential lesson for school personnel. Mark liked to say that every person in a school has the same job. He had plenty of examples; for instance—the lunch lady, the social studies teacher, and the guy who cuts the grass are only there for one reason—so students can learn. He would say stuff like, “If the guy who cuts the grass believes he’s there for student achievement then he thinks twice about when he should cut near the building so he doesn’t disturb the students. If the lunch lady is really there for student achievement she does her job differently than if she thinks her job is just serving food.”

You know, he’s right. Mark’s theory is more like a philosophy; it’s my philosophy. Everything should be conceived and delivered in terms of student achievement. Everything. Every thing.

That’s brings me back to Maryl. Near the end of our call there was a moment when I knew I had landed in the right place. I expressed my sincere gratitude for the work and time Maryl had dedicated to my cause. Her reply was pretty simple. She said something like: I do it for the students. If you are comfortable then you can do a good job; and if you do what you were hired to do, the students will learn.

Amen.

That’s News to Me

Have you ever used the expression “That’s news to me”? Correctly applied, I think I could have used that expression two dozen times since October.

Here’s one: apostille. No? Don’t worry; you’re not alone. The word itself is French. Simply stated it is an international certification comparable to having something notarized. For the record, that’s the only thing simple about it. After a document is ‘apostilled’ it is recognized as ‘official’ by countries throughout the world without any further research required. So, you can see, they don’t hand these out easily.

Deb in Annapolis

By now you’re wondering how this applies to me; right? Well, let me start at the beginning. Learning about the job at the International School of Amsterdam, convincing myself I might actually be right for the job, applying, interviewing and accepting the offer turned out to be the easy part. Once done, the fun began; that’s when I ‘met’ Maryl van Hoek and Charlotte Buskens, both from the HR department at ISA.

The first person to name a department with the words ‘human’ and ‘resource’ must have known these two women. Since our introduction, their knowledge, patience, and fortitude have both encouraged and reassured me that the overwhelming set of tasks required to work in the Netherlands could, in fact, be completed, and done in a timely manner.

OK, back to apostilled documents. That was lesson no. 1 for the newest fifth grade teacher at ISA. Learning what 'apostilled' documents are is different than learning how to get them. Both my birth and marriage certificates had to be apostilled. Using the internet, my wife, Deb and I tried to order them from the state of Maryland where I was born and we were married. Easy, right? Um, yeah, well; read on. What arrived fifty dollars later was a brand-spanking new copy of my 57-year-old birth certificate. (Hey, I already owned a vintage copy of that!) It was at that moment that we decided that a road trip was in order.

Deb and I left home on Monday morning at about 4:30 a.m. and reached the Office of Vital Records in Towson, MD at about 11:00. With a newly acquired copy of our marriage license and my brand-new-really-old birth certificate in hand we set out for Annapolis to find the Office of the State Secretary of State, which of course we did. A few dead trees and a few greenbacks later we returned home to North Carolina with apostilled documents in hand.

in Annapolis, MD

By now you’re asking the most obvious question: why in the world would I need to prove that I am legally married. In retrospect, I should have asked that, too. It was Maryl who offered the explanation. In Dutch law, two individuals can establish legal ‘partnership’ and before I can live and work in Holland, I am required to prove that such a ‘partnership’ already exists. (As if anyone else would ever have me!)

Hey, that was news to me.