The last ride of Sir Galahad

Many children have a period marked by imaginary friends.

This is a staple of childhood and often indicate a healthy imagination.These friends help the lonely child to pass an hour in pleasant company, playing games together, running through the back yard, and even practicing social skills as they carry on conversations together. I had a few imaginary friends myself, as I recall.

My younger brother had an imaginary horse whom he called Sir Galahad.

Steve was perhaps 4 years old at the time, and he already was well on his way to developing what would become a lifelong love of horses. We were driving from our home to the middle of the state to visit our grandmother, and my brother had decided the trip would go faster if he were riding a horse.

Cars in those days had a bench seat in the front as well as in the back, including head rests for the driver and at least the main adult passenger, that could be extended to whatever height was comfortable. To our father, this head rest was at the perfect height for comfort as he drove.

To Steve, the head rest was perfect for a horse.

As we were getting loaded into the car, Steve took a jump rope and worked it under the front of our father's head rest so its two ends dangled down into the back seat like a pair of reins. Steve took them in hand and cried out "Giddyap!' and "yeehaw!" as he rode.

As the car drove down the road, my brother was in his element, riding Sir Galahad across the plains of Texas while clouds of dust trailed behind him and marked where he had been. While Route 22 carried us steadily and uneventfully eastward, a dry zephyr blew across Steve's face and he saw herds of cattle waiting to be driven through the sagebrush and ill-mannered desperadoes awaiting the justice of the frontier.

He whooped and hollered, and loved every minute of it as Sir Galahad moved like water underneath him and carried him ever onward, further up and further in to this wondrous land he had discovered.

This was all a new experience to our father, who once claimed to have been born 18 years old. He had been raised with his younger sister, in a household where children were quiet, well behaved and seen more than they were heard.

He was a good man and long on patience, but life had not prepared him to be the father of four boys all younger than 10. Nor had it suggested that one of his sons would enjoy galloping all over the Old West, using the driver's seat of the family station wagon for his horse. Life had just dropped him in that situation and told him to handle it, the way it does.

It was around the time that Steve had ridden into town to deliver the settlers from the bandits who had rustled the cattle, shot the preacher and stolen all the yellow Zingers from the snack machine that my father finally had enough.

At a traffic light, with that quiet and unspoken exasperation that fathers everywhere think they are concealing from their faces and that children everywhere know and cower from inside the nearest bedroom closet, my father turned around in his seat and grabbed the headrest with both hands. Without a single word, he yanked it violently upward. If a safety mechanism hadn't been in place, I am sure he would have pulled the entire thing from the seat entirely and thrown it into the intersection.

My brother stared in shock at Sir Galahad's broken neck. The return from his cowboy adventures to the back seat was so sudden that Steve gaped, wide-eyed, and suddenly he began to laugh. A second later, I joined in.

Within five minutes we had found a new way to annoy our parents, together. After all, imaginary friends are a lot of fun, but for some jobs only the real thing will do.



Copyright © 2001, 2020 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Super Bowl Sunday away from Pittsburgh

About eight years ago, I was talking to a fellow after church, and he suddenly said, "Hey, you're from Pittsburgh! You must be excited."

"Um, yes, I'm excited," I said blankly. Pittsburgh's a great place to be from, with its role in American history and the presence of great schools like Carnegie Mellon University, but it's not like I wake up every morning and run around the house, caught in the ecstasies of heaven and screaming "I'm from Pittsburgh! I'm from Pittsburgh!"

"What am I excited about?" I asked.

"The Steelers!" Tony said.

"Well sure, they're from Pittsburgh too," I said. When I was 8, our elementary school music teacher taught us the Pittsburgh Polka, which was the closest thing the Steelers had to a fight song. "What about them?"

"They're going to be in the Super Bowl!"

"Oh yes, yes," I said with all the relish someone might muster for washing the dishes. "When is that?"

"Today," he said. He groaned as he realized that my disinterest wasn't an act, and he turned away. "Never mind."


Copyright © 2017 by David Learn. Used with permission.

Kiam ni ne respektas havis por mia frato

Mia frato Blejr neniam respektitas, ne eĉ kiam li falas el aŭto.

​Antaŭ 43 jaroj, mia familio loĝis en Forest Hills, urbeto ekster Pittsburgh. Blejr havis amikon, Akti, kiu patrino havis kabrioleto. Somertage, ŝi ofris kondukis la aŭton malrapide dum ni sidas sur la dorsoj de la seĝoj, por nia amuzo. (Mi aĝis 2 jarojn; Blejr kaj Akti aĝis 6 jarojn; kaj nia alia frato, Vilĉo aĝis 4 jarojn.)

La rajdo amuzis por ĉiuj ni, sed kiam la patrino de Akti turnis la ĉirkaŭe angulo, Blejr elfalis dum ni rigardis.

Poste 2 aŭ 3 minutoj, la aŭto alvenis ĉe nia domo, kaj ĉiuj ni eliris el la aŭto.

"Kie estas Blejr?" mia patrino demandis.

"Ho, li falis ĉe la angulo," Vilĉo diris, kaj ni iris en la domon por glaciaĵo.

canto ii

The first time I ever tried the high dive, I was too scared to jump.

It was agonizing. The whole time we had been at the pool, I had been watching one kid after another climb the ladder, walk or even run the length of the board, and then dive in. Some of them had jumped. Some of them had cannonballed. A few actually had dived, arms stretched out to part the water before them. It looked like a lot of fun, and so I had decided to give it a shot.

It didn't feel as easy as it looked, though. For one thing, the top of the ladder seemed much higher off the ground than when I was on the ground. And the diving board didn't feel very safe once I was standing on it. I walked carefully out to the end of the board, and froze. There were kids down in the water, playing and splashing about, and having a grand old time, and I knew that it was perfectly safe just to jump off.

But I couldn't do it. Heart in my throat, I carefully turned around and walked back to the ladder, which I climbed back down to terra firma.

So I think I can understand the reaction Dante has at the start of Canto II. At this point, he is still in the dark wood, in sight of the holy mountain and not yet on his way down into the circles of hell. It's at this point that Dante has the only sensible reaction anyone can have at the mouth of hell: What am I thinking? I can't go down there!

When I stood at the end of the diving board, I'm fairly sure I tried to psych myself into making the jump. I'd been off regular diving boards plenty of times. I'd seen dozens of kids jump off the high-dive that day alone. (I had the same problem trying the zip line at an Afs camp in New Zealand in 1987.)

Dante does the same thing. Journeys into hell are a pretty common thing in literature, after all. Odysseus made such a trip in “The Odyssey”; Heracles went there at least twice; the Bible teaches that Jesus descended into hell to free all those who had died in faith; and so on. Dante calls to mind two other such stories, in an attempt to put his impending descent into perspective.

The first tale he mentions is Virgil's own “Aeneid.” In that poem, Aeneas, one of the surviving members of the royal family of Troy, visits hell and discovers that he is destined to be the ancestor of the Roman Empire, which will restore a golden age to the earth under the august leadership of its first emperor. (Coincidentally, I'm sure, Virgil wrote “The Aeneid” during the reign of Augustus Caesar.) The other tale Dante mentions, which I've never read, comes from a medieval account of a vision of the Apostle Paul descending into hell. (2 Corinthians 12 tells of Paul having a vision of heaven.)

What's interesting about these reminders is that, to Dante, they underscore his unworthiness of such an undertaking, which he is sure he will regret. He is neither a great Trojan lord, nor a hero of the faith, like Paul, and he is fairly sure he is going to regret such an undertaking once it has begun.

Perhaps it would be useful here to differentiate between Dante the character in the poem, and Dante Alighieri the poet. Dante the character is practically shaking with fear here, humbly considering himself unworthy of the task set before him. Dante Alighieri is using this to lay the foundation for declaring his worthiness to his readers.

And that justification comes swiftly from the mouth of Virgil, who as the premiere poet of ancient Rome naturally is going to make an impression on Dante. Virgil explains that he was in Limbo, the first circle of hell, where, as Alighieri explains in a later canto, virtuous pagans and unbaptized infants go when they die.

Virgil explains to Dante that he was sent to his side from Limbo by Beatrice, who came to him straight out of heaven to see him lead Dante away from the wild beasts that had been threatening him on the hillside. And not only Beatrice, but two other women from heaven, are calling for him. (Though I count three besides Beatrice: the Virgin Mary, Lucia and Rachel.)

Dante finds this heavenly encouragement more than enough, and he resolves anew to go into hell, with Virgil as his guide.

So what's at work here is that Alighieri, in presenting his Dante avatar as fearful and unnerved by the trip, essentially is casting himself as a humble sort of fellow who would never presume on his own to say any of what follows in the remaining cantos of his own poem. As a result, the journey he takes, the things he claims to see, and the political ramifications of what he finds there – such as political foes suffering the torments of the damned – acquire a gloss of greater credibility.

The closest I've ever come to hell was attending middle school for three years, but at the time, that high dive felt pretty close. I tried it again later that same day, and after some of the other kids in line teased me for wanting to chicken out a second time, I made the jump.

Unlike Dante, I had a blast.


Copyright © 2008 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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fighting back

The best weapon against a bully isn't your fist; it's your tongue.

I had an awful time with bullies growing up. I didn't get beat up during lunch; I got beat up in science class while the teacher was in the room, and twice in gym class when the teacher's back was turned. This was in addition to the nonphysical bullying that went on nonstop, day after day, week after week, and year after year from kids like Stacey Hummert and Sean Cole, down through Matt D'Ambrosio and Bill Girhiny.

When I fought back with my fists, it made it even worse.

My mother and my teachers gave me the same bad advice that every bullied kid gets -- don't stoop to their level, ignore them and they'll stop -- and it had the same efficacy for me that it had for every other kid who tries it. It didn't work at all. I had to suffer through it for years until I finally got away.

I still deal with the toxic environment of Penn-Trafford public schools thirty years later.

Looks kind of silly, doesn't he?

A couple years ago, when my oldest daughter started dealing with bullies at school, I remembered what my mother had told me, and I promptly shoved that advice aside. I told her that ignoring the bullies only will turn you into a wounded animal that they'll circle even more.

So I taught her how to disarm their barbs by getting everyone to laugh at the bully. It's absolutely humiliating to the brute, and if you do it really well, everyone remembers the joke long after they forget the insult. No one likes to be ridiculous, so the bullies in her class have learned to leave Evangeline alone.

Laughter works against other monsters too. Bin Laden once said that he would welcome martyrdom but fears being made ridiculous. You may recall that the U.S. Department of Defense made great strides against al Qaeda in Iraq with the release of a video that showed an overweight al Zawhiri fumbling with a gun, uncertain how to use or hold it.

Would Muqtada al-Sadr be a threat to the stability of Iraq if everyone was telling jokes about him?



Copyright © 2008 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Team sports may have other uses besides bullying

So maybe there is something nice to be said for team sports after all.

I've heard a lot through the years about how great sports are for kids, not just because the activity helps them stay fit, but because sports teach valuable lessons on teamwork, sportsmanship, and taking direction, and social skills as well. None of this particularly matched my own experiences in sports, which usually could be summarized as "survival of the fittest" or "culling the herd."

Still, however unpleasant my memories of baseball and soccer are, Evangeline seems to be having a good time with the recreation league softball team she's on here in Nova Bastille. We just had our fourth game of the season on Wednesday evening, and it's going well, even with the four straight losses we've had so far.

Here's what I've seen:

During the first game, the team started to connect during the second or third inning, with a few rudimentary cheers. They were pretty simple, like "Let's go, Maria, let's go!" or "MEL-O-DY! MEL-O-DY!" but they actually started cheering one another on. You could feel the sense of a group identity starting to set in, and you could see how it energized the girls at bat to hear their whole team cheering them on.

Last night, we really had team spirit going. Previously we've had a number of girls trying to wander off to sit with their parents when they weren't in the field, but on Wednesday, only one girl actually left the bench, and she came back right away when I asked her to.

They were there for their teammates, and they were into it. I started off a few silly chants, like "We are happy, we are merry / We've got a rhyming dictionary," but the rest of the time, the girls were gung-ho with cheers they had heard other teams use, and they cheered for everyone who went to bat, and for everyone who made it onto base.

They weren't just a collection of fourteen girls at a softball field, they were a team.

Two, I'm seeing actual teamwork happen. In earlier games, we'd have three girls running into the field to catch the ball, leaving their posts unmanned. Wednesday night, the girls were covering their spots, throwing the ball to one another, and completing some basic plays that require seeing yourself not as the star of the story, but as one piece of a larger machine. (There were one or two exceptions, but heck, most of them are only 7 years old.)

Three, I'm seeing greater skill. We had only three practices before the season started. That was maybe enough to explain to the girls how to throw the ball, how to catch, and how to swing the bat. (Not time enough for them actually to understand those skills, but time enough for them to be told.) Now they're catching the ball in the air, throwing it farther and better than ever before, and more of them are hitting the ball and getting on base.

Speaking as a father and as an assistant coach, I was so proud of Evangeline on Wednesday night that my shirt would have burst its buttons if it had had buttons to burst. She's been working on her hand-eye coordination in the back yard with a tetherball and racket she got last summer, and it's been paying off.

After two strikes, she hit the ball into the infield and made it all the way to first base. When the next two batters also got singles, she made it as far as third. She was disappointed not to have made it to home plate again, but this is remarkable improvement from just two weeks ago.

As she gets older, softball and other team sports will have just as much potential for ugliness that Boy Scouts had when I was younger, but right now Evangeline's not only learning the game, she's enjoying the social aspects of being part of a team, and I couldn't be happier for her.



Copyright © 2008 by David Learn. Used with permission.


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Gender hell for men? Expectations for us are pretty low

There's a debate right now on CHRefugee over gender expectations and who has it worse.

Not surprisingly, the women who have cared to weigh in are winning this argument, though there have been a few men who have tried to claim that it's just as bad for us. Spoiler; It's not. I hesitate to describe any of my experiences as gender hell, nor even as gender-driven. At best, there have been moments when I have run afoul of a parent's expectations on how I should dress, what I should study, or what career I should pick.

There was the parental shock when I decided at age 17 to have my ear pierced, but I think this generally went along with their disapproval of the way I prefer to dress.

My father almost always wears a dress shirt, slacks and shoes; I'm never entirely at ease unless I'm dressed comfortably, by which I mean jeans, sneakers and a nice nonbuttoned shirt. That's partly a generational thing, but mostly an area of social expectation. I started wearing an earring in 1987, when it was still linked with gay men. I also wasn't (and still am not) terribly interested in sports nor in competition in general. I don't know if my parents ever worried that I was gay, but I suppose they might have. If they did, they never said anything.

Same reaction to my long hair, whether it was in high school, at college, or after I returned from Haiti and up until I finally had it cut off for good a few years ago because of the cancer. It was more that I was going against their ideas of what was "proper" and was rebelling, rather than a fear that I was not being masculine enough.

And I think that continues to the present day. I'm living against their sense of proper gender roles to this day, being a stay-at-home father while Beautiful Wife works and brings home the bacon. My mom has said in the past that this isn't what she imagined I would do with my college degree, and my dad flat-out told me two weeks ago that he considers me to have wasted his money on my college education. He  also pretty much said that I'm proving to be a big disappointment to him by staying at home with the girls. (He also didn't approve of my major, English, and laughed out loud when he heard I was doing a senior honors thesis on Classic Star Trek and its religious themes.)

So I'd have to say that, as a guy, I've encountered some negative reactions from my parents in particular over gender issues. The hair was a sticking point for a long time, because men aren't supposed to have long hair, but that was largely tolerated because I was working as a newspaper editor, winning professional recognition and moving up the ladder somewhat. (I might have climbed farther if I were more professional, but there you have it.)

But while my parents have voiced anything from ambivalence to disappointment in my choice to be a stay-at-home dad, I can't say that's a reaction I've encountered much elsewhere. I did have one fellow from college presume to give me a lecture about my God-appointed duties to provide for my family, complete with the "Go seek godly counsel and pray about this so you can know what God would want" (i.e., go pray about it until you agree with me), but by and large people have been pretty accepting and open to this.

A number of men have told me that they wish they could do what I've done (or wish they had when their kids were younger), and a number of women have been impressed that I'm comfortable enough with myself to jump out of my career in the middle of the stream. One or two have given me the come-hither eyes, but that's another matter.

The only negative reaction I've had from women in general has been at places like preschool or on the playground, where my attempts to make conversation or to ask them if they would be interested in play dates sometimes have been seen as "predatory man hitting on me." But I've also found that after they get to know me, even if it takes a play date or two, they realize that no, I'm not awash in testosterone, I'm not angling to sleep with them, and in fact I have many women I count as friends.

So, gender hell? Not for me, thanks. I'm afraid I've gone no deeper than the First Circle. Let's call it "Gender Heck."

teens

I'm beginning to think that adolescence, for American teenagers, is childhood extended for too long.

American society for some reason views the teen years as seditious, immature and dangerous, something that parents should be happy just to survive. How did we get there, from what most cultures see as an arriving point into adulthood, where teens step forth into their own identities, lay the foundations for adulthood, and become fully active members in the community?

I didn't feel like anyone started listening to what I had to say until I was a senior in college, which was ridiculous. What did I have to say at 21 that I hadn't already been saying in some form when I was 20?

Our church youth group growing up at Saunders Station Presbyterian Church was pretty much into a nondescript sort of wholeness. It didn't have anything particularly spiritual about it, nor was it much fun. I briefly tried a youth group at a Pentecostal church in Brush Creek, and found that it was big on gross games, charismatic worship, and closely knit cliques. It wasn't much fun either.

Personally, I'm looking forward to when Evangeline becomes a teen five years from now. Maybe teens can be overconfident in their own perceptions and abilities, but one of the things I see most clearly is the passion that teens bring to life. They believe fervently in their causes, they can't stand hypocrisy, and they're not afraid to call B.S. when they see it.

Maybe instead of hiring youth pastors to try to act like teens' friends and playing dorky games, churches should hire youth pastors who will show teens the kind of faith that doesn't believe nodding your head in agreement shows radical obedience to God, but the rubber-meets-the-road sort that fights poverty by fixing up homes, running farmstands, and things like that.

words of hope and joy

God is as close as the person shivering next to us.
So why does he seem so distant?

Under the cold and distant stars we tell ourselves the lie that we are not alone, that there is someone with whom we can share this sad and lonely misery that we call life. We comfort ourselves with the delusion that there is a God who is watching, that he cares, that he knows our pain, bears our sorrows, and hears the cries we make in the dark when no one is around to listen. We feed ourselves and our children this Cinderella bullshit that a fairy godmother will lead us to true love, but we know better when we allow ourselves to. We tell ourselves these lies, and they give us the pretense of comfort, of meaning, and of hope, but deep in our hearts we know the truth that weighs heavily on us from the cradle to the grave.

And that truth is this: We are alone. Alone we suffer the cruel attentions of our peers in childhood, enduring their barbed taunts with each day as their words exact their bloody pound of flesh from our self-worth, our self-respect, and our sense of identity. Alone we suffer the ignominy of adolescence and adulthood as we are thrust, ill-prepared and unsuspecting into a pool of sharks that will tear us in a frenzy once they first scent blood.

And alone we suffer the bitter fruits of maturity, as those we discover the lies that our leaders and our parents have fed us over the years, as we learn the deceitfulness of heroism and honor, as we see the might of law corrupted by small men and women with dreams no bigger than their own conceit and interests that extend no further than their own hands, and as we find that there is no love in marriage, no hope in friendship, and nothing to look forward to each day except another day of going through the motions, being crushed by disappointment and disillusion, and watching the steel bars of our cages slowly descend and take shape around us.

We are alone, and all we have to look forward to is that one day, the misery we have seen under the sun will end for us in the kind and final mercy of death.

random memory

My first-grade teacher made me write with my left hand. It wasn't until partway through the year that my parents discovered I was writing with one hand at home and with the other at school, and intervened.

I have no idea why she did this. My older brother is a lefty; perhaps she thought that meant I should be one too.

The possibility also has occurred to me from time to time, especially when my stutter is especially bad, that maybe she actually succeeded: that I actually was left-handed, but she managed to convince me that I was right-handed.

Mrs. Hlavsa was a witch. (No offense to Wiccans, past or present.) All I remember clearly about this particular issue is that one night at dinner my father had me write something with my left hand, and then with my right hand. After that he asked me which hand I preferred to write with, and I chose my right hand. That could be because I was right-handed, or it could be because Mrs. Hlavsa had me convinced that was the hand I was "supposed" to write with.

I mean what I said, though: She has got to be the all-time worst teacher I've ever had. It took me until last year to admit, however begrudgingly, that I do owe her some modicum of gratitude for teaching me how to read.

Practicing the fine art of holiday torture

When I was growing up, my parents had a Christmas tree ornament that would chirp like a bird every five seconds. To whoever bought it, this must have been a mildly entertaining amusement. In the hands of myself and my brothers, it was an instrument of the keenest torture.

We would hide the ornament some place near the tree but maddeningly out of sight, plug it in and then take the dog out for a walk. By the time we returned, the entire house would have been turned upside-down in a futile attempt to find the ornament and stop the chirp-chirp-chirping before it drove everyone mad.

Remember how the steady drip of water is said to break the mind of even the strongest prisoner? Compared to Tweety, it's a dip in the kiddie pool. The tolling of the Edgar Allen Poe's bells, bells, bells that fills the city with fear? A light tinkling of brass.

This ornament was the surest way to drive anyone to the brink of madness, and we all used it to that end for many years. At last Tweety took a mysterious trip out of the house in the bottom of the wastebasket and was seen no more. For the first time in years, there was something resembling peace in the Learn household on Christmas Day.

In the aftermath, we all agreed on one important point: That was as bad as it got. There was no Christmas ornament imaginable that could top the bulb for pure irritation.

Fortunately, for those of us who revel in irritating one another, there is good news. The good people at research and development have not stopped producing new Christmas decorations. Whether it's inflatable Santas of nightmarish proportions who threaten to block out the sun, or a singing and dancing Grinch, the opportunities to irritate brothers, to annoy friends and to scar young children for life are better than ever.

Let's start with the inflatable colossus now seen in front yards across the state. There are those who, correctly believing a 900-foot blow-up ornament to be tacky, see no use for the thing. The problem here is not with a snowman big enough to qualify for its own ZIP code, it is a lack of imagination.

Gemmy, which markets the inflatable mammoths, sells no fewer than 47 of them on its Web site. In addition to the Santa and snowman monoliths, the collection features other holiday stalwarts like Scooby Doo and SpongeBob SquarePants. As a special literary treat, the assortment also includes something that once might have been a reindeer before it stumbled upon the secret isle of Dr. Moreau.

A smaller one nicely blocks all view of the street from your front windows. Plant one of the larger models out front, and you'll have complete privacy and may not be able to see the sun. Pesky neighbors, uninvited relatives and bill collectors won't be able to find your house. Best of all, you'll be providing the perfect cover for the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man if he ever comes to town.

For maximum scare effect, set up some lighting behind the beastie — this works especially well with the unfortunate reindeer — and wait until dark. Now as little Timmy comes over to see if your son can play, turn the lights on, give the goliath a push and make the appropriate growl from deep in your throat. Watch as little Timmy jumps into the air and runs around the front yard three times before conking out under the oak tree. This is the life.

True, you can still get fairly traditional Christmas decorations like a light-up snowman, but why would you want to? They're not nearly as much fun.

From time to time, despite your best interventions, someone will make it inside the house. Your children, for example. For maximum damage, and to give them something interesting to tell their therapists in 30 years, it's important to go for the big guns.

First, get the kids as they come in the door with a 5-foot Dancing Grinch. There's no better way to keep the Christmas spirit than to have the Grinch twisting away and crooning the words to his theme song. Better yet, flank the door with the Grinch and his partner in crime, a 5-foot bear who sings your favorite Christmas jingles from hell, including "Winter Wonderland," "Up on the Rooftop" and "It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year."

Next fill the house liberally with more musical toys. For $13, you can get a Holiday Time Sing and Dance Santa who joyfully croons, "I'm Santa Claus" to the tune of "The Wanderer" like a woebegotten Deion Sanders. Other marvels include a singing dog who howls his way through "O Christmas Tree" and "Deck the Halls," and a Coca-Cola polar bear who wails on the saxophone in a way to make even the staunchest Republican yearn for the days of President Clinton's inaugural performance.

Don't worry — even if they play the same song, they're guaranteed to play it at slightly different pitches and slightly different speeds.

Even though everyone knows what will happen, no one can resist the siren call of the buttons that activate the singing. If you're really good with eBay, you might be able to dig up one of the motion-activated talking Christmas trees from the early 1990s. In no time at all, you'll be creating Christmas memories that will last a lifetime.

If you're lucky, you might even survive the experience.

school memories

When I was in first grade, they started me out in the advanced reading group, probably because my older brothers had tested as gifted. Two weeks or so into the year, without being told, I was bumped down into a slower group, and apparently the teacher actually told my mother that she would have to accept that I would never be as smart as my older brothers. She and one of the other teachers/vice principals or something actually tried to tell my mother that I was at least semi-retarded. (It actually turns out that I had the highest IQ of the four of us.)

In all honesty, I can say that the only thing I'm grateful to Mrs. Hlavsa for is that she did teach me how to read. The rest of first grade was a nightmare where I would do anything to get out of class. I peed my pants so regularly that it was almost a drill; I lied and pretended to be sick on at least one occasion so I could leave school.

I guess I have to say I'm disappointed my parents never pushed to get me out of that woman's class, but to their credit they did make it absolutely clear that my younger brother was not to be put in her class under any circumstances two years later, even though that would have been the district's normal policy. (I think it had something to do with where children lived.) The only nice thing I can say about Mrs. Hlavsa is that she did teach me to read. She made me a nervous wreck and insisted I write with my left hand -- I'm right-handed -- so that to this day I still have a bad stammer when I get nervous or excited, but at least she taught me to read.

My big break came in second grade, when I got a decent teacher, and then was IQ tested, and then in third grade when Mrs. Cromer let us go at our own pace, as I mentioned earlier.

Something good about schools, to lighten the tone: In fourth grade, our teachers made an arrangement that involved rotating us to different classrooms for math, science and English. My math teacher was Mr. Ernett, a man who was generally good with students and didn't tolerate attitude or misbehavior.

One day as recess ended, Mr. Ernett saw me punching the boy in line in front of me, and pulled us both out. Darren Shumaker, who I had been hitting, claimed to have no idea why I punched him. When I explained that Darren had been picking on me nonstop all year, Mr. Ernett proceeded to chew him out for what seemed to me to be ages. His entire lecture to me was, "Don't ever do that again," followed by a stern warning to Darren that if he ever picked me again, Mr. Ernett was going to make him wish he had never been born.

That guy remains my favorite teacher to this day.

being labeled gifted

My teachers in elementary school rarely had any idea how to handle students who were advanced. My third grade teacher actually let us advance at our own pace. By the end of the year, I was on a college reading level.

Then, I hit fourth grade and was required to stay on reading level. As a result I got so bored that my grades in reading started to slip and I was placed in an intermediate-level reading class. It wasn't until seventh grade that I had a teacher who realized that I was bored silly from being held to below my reading level, and I was moved up again.

I dunno. I've never been wild about most forms of entertainment that my peers embrace. I'm generally clueless about what's hot in terms of TV, and don't get much out of the popular stars and movies. I'm much happier reading books -- including well-written comic books -- than I am watching TV. Socially I'm a lot better adjusted than I was as a child, which is good, but I still feel out of place with most groups of people.

You know, this sort of reminiscence is convincing me more than ever that I want to keep Evangeline out of public school. She's only 4 years old, but she's already academically ready for first grade. She can write her own name and Rachel's, she's incredibly artistic, and if we applied her to it, she could probably learn to read by the end of the year.

Naturally the public school won't even let her attend kindergarten this fall, since her birthday is Oct. 30, two weeks after their cut-off date.

School easily can end up being a disaster for her

Awaiting the advent of imaginary friends

Imaginary friends are a staple of childhood and are a good indicator of a healthy imagination. I had a few, as I recall.

My younger brother Ward even had an imaginary horse he called Sir Galahad.

I have a daughter who is about 16 months old and just learning to speak in earnest. Her imaginary friends will be welcome in our house any time, even if one of them is named Beezly. I absolutely refuse to disprove his existence, given Beezly’s track record.

I’d be a bit surprised but not alarmed if my daughter one day has an imaginary friend named Beezly. Imaginary friends are just that — imaginary, and only someone a few french fries short of the whole Happy Meal is going automatically to assume that an imaginary friend must be a spirit.

The holiday traditions we make and teasure

With the holiday season nearly upon us and my daughter’s first birthday now in the recent past, I find myself wondering about the holiday traditions my wife and I will be able to create for her.

Family traditions, after all, are what make some holidays stand out, and others, well, not stand out. They’re why we will make a big deal out of Christmas next month but will notice Presidents Day only if we don’t have anyone in the White House by that time next year, which given the carnival in Florida lately doesn’t seem like such a bad idea.

I find myself wondering what sort of traditions Evangeline will associate with the holidays. Will she grow up with memories of a Christmas tree left up until July? Or will she remember tearing the Christmas wrapping paper from her presents in a disgraceful display of self-indulgence before breakfast, only to realize too late that she’s unwrapped her little brother’s presents and hers are still under the tree?

Christmas is still a little while off, but with Thanksgiving only two days away, I find myself thinking more and more about how my family celebrated Thanksgiving when I was a child.

Thanksgiving always began around 10 a.m. with a bowl of Cheerios and a televised broadcast of the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City. After about 23 seconds of nonstop excitement listening to someone talk about the Spider-man float and get her facts wrong, I would tear myself away from the television and join my three brothers at looking for something to do until dinner at 6 p.m.

Einstein once theorized that time slows the faster you go. If that’s the case, my brothers and I must have been traveling at something dangerously close to light speed the entire day. The eight hours between breakfast and utter gluttony were the slowest we ever knew.

Part of the problem was the lack of anything structured to do. The TV schedule consisted mainly of annual holiday specials, and it didn’t take a genius to realize that if George Bailey’s friends had bailed him out for the past six years, they probably would rescue the old deadbeat this year too.

Our chief escape from monotony was to take our dog, a half-Cocker spaniel, half-poodle mix named Fonzi, out for a walk. At first, Fonzi shared in our excitement, just as relieved as we were to get out of the house and do something, and he would jump for joy as we reached for his leash.

But as the day wore on, Fonzi’s enthusiasm would ebb, and by the 4 p.m. "Intergalactic Thanksgiving" cartoon, the poor dog had had enough. One of us would reach for his leash, and Fonzi would jump, and run for cover under the living room sofa, where he would whimper and lick his paw pads.

The ennui was even worse when we visited a relative for Thanksgiving, especially if we had to wear the unbearably stiff dress clothes usually reserved for making us uncomfortable during church Sunday morning.

(We mostly endured those visits, but we actually enjoyed ourselves one year when Ward missed the warning that the punch bowl had been spiked and was only for adults.)

I think Fonzi secretly was relieved to have the house to himself for the day those years, and when we came back home, the hunted expression usually was gone from his eyes .

But eventually, whether at a relative’s house or our own, the waiting would end. Amid building excitement, the turkey would emerge from the oven, cooked to a golden-brown perfection and filled with steaming-hot stuffing the Society of Worry-Warts Who Want to Ruin Your Day now tells us it should have given us all salmonella poisoning.

And then, right on cue, my father would get off the sofa in the family room, walk through the kitchen to pick up the bird, and carry it to the dining room table with the ceremony of someone who has slaved over a hot stove all day to make a perfect meal. My mother, unnoticed, slumped into her chair, exhausted.

The seating arrangements also were fixed. My father sat at the head of the table, where he would put the food on plates and serve it to us. I sat at my father’s right hand, within easy swatting distance, and to my right sat my brother Brian.

At my father’s left, also within swatting distance, sat my younger brother, Ward, sandwiched between our two parents since that was the only way they had found to control him.

My brother Herb, two years older than I, sat at the end of the table opposite our father. Herb, my parents had long since discovered, was far past the point of being controllable, and sat there so that my father couldn’t strangle him during dinner.

We always ate Thanksgiving dinner by candlelight, a tradition that made the holiday all the more magical, particularly since no one could tell when we slipped pieces of yams under the table to Fonzi, who had emerged from the sofa once he was sure this wasn’t another ruse to get him to go on a walk.

In truth, I’m not sure why we ate by candlelight. Part of it could be that every time someone stood up at the table, they would bump the chandelier with their heads and as a result we never had more than half the lights in it working at any given time.

I suspect the chief reason is that in the dark, my parents could pretend they didn’t see us hit each other and could even get in a swat or two of their own and feign innocence.

But it was during dinner that the biggest tradition came. This was a tradition so important that we observed it every holiday without fail. Someone, some time, had to spill a glass of milk.

Herb and Ward usually were exempt from spilling anything since they aren’t big milk drinkers and Thanksgiving dinner was one of the few meals we were allowed to have soft drinks, and I did my best to avoid making a mess. I’ll let you figure out for yourself who usually did the honors, and we’ll leave it that.

Suffice it to say that the tradition of the spilled milk is a duty so sacred that last Thanksgiving, I excused myself from the table to call my brothers in Vermont, Indiana and Maryland to let them know the tradition had been upheld and they could eat their meals free of obligation.

And then, as fast as it had begun, it was over. The lights came up, revealing lots of fresh bruises and we would discover that Fonzi didn’t like yams any more than we did. Soon the table was cleared, the milk was cleaned up, and it was time for dessert.

And so it would go year after year. And so here I am, wondering what traditions Natasha and I will be able to create for our family so they can treasure these special days as they grow older.

And more than that, I’m wondering how we’ll survive the process.

Living with the curse of the family garden

Recently I have come to feel the full weight of an ancient curse God once levied upon humanity.

It's worse than the curse of Tutankhamen, worse than the mummy's curse that legend credits with the fate of the Titanic. This one's a real doozy: Children are destined to do the same thing their parents did.

Now you should understand that at my parents' home in Saunders Station, Pa., my father has a huge garden, easily 40 feet wide and 25 feet deep if it's an inch. Dad loves that garden, and spends several hours in it every weekend, pulling weeds, watering the plants and generally avoiding any housecleaning.

One summer in the mid-1980s, dad planted three rows of Swiss chard. For the entire summer those bitter leaves showed up in everything we ate. We had Swiss chard salad, Swiss chard sandwiches, Swiss chard casserole, Swiss chard on our hamburgers, Swiss chard with our cereal, and Swiss chard in our pancakes.

Dinner became a screaming match as the four of us would shout in unison, "No! Not Swiss chard again!" and Dad would say, "It's good for you; have a no-thank-you helping." (No-thank-you helpings were my parents' way of making us eat things they knew we hated. I once tried to outsmart Dad by asking for a thank-you helping, and regretted it immediately. To this day, I insist on serving myself lest I make the mistake again.)

Relief finally came that summer when we offered to help Dad weed the garden. First we weeded out the actual offender, followed shortly afterward by anything that looked remotely like it. Many innocent plants were martyred for the great cause before we felt safe.

"Carrots?"

"Dunno. Could be related. Rip 'em out."

"Tomatoes?"

"Don't take any chances."

Dad still plants the stuff, but only half a row, and he never serves it to our mother or to us when we visit. He's probably afraid that if he tries, we'll soak his garden in gasoline and burn the whole thing down.

Now one of the other things I should note about my father's garden is that it's made entirely of red clay. Red clay, to the horticulturally challenged, is really bad for growing things. It has virtually none of the nutrients plants need to grow up healthy.

Dad's solution was to conscript my two older brothers, and later my younger brother and myself, to dig a compost pit. Into that pit went pulled weeds; old litter from our menagerie of rabbits, hamsters, guinea pigs and gerbils (they themselves eventually were composted separately in small cardboard boxes buried throughout the back yard); raked leaves; bad produce and other organic waste.

The result of 20 years of composting is that Dad's garden now rises noticeably above the surrounding yard. This is handy in the spring, when rain turns the yard into a swamp, but it makes life difficult for the local topographers, who have to update their maps every couple years to show the steady increase in elevation.

The irony is this: Even with all the composted leaves, egg shells, potato peels and God knows what else, Dad's garden is still made of clay. It's almost black now, and he gets better produce than some farmers -- but it's still clay, as he found last summer when the sun dried it up and nearly killed the entire garden.

Despite my childhood travails in Dad's garden, I was thrilled to discover when Natasha and I moved into our new house that the previous owners had planted a garden in the back yard themselves. There are a few things in there I could do without -- like the brussels sprouts -- but there also are tomatoes, onions and a few herbs I'd never heard of.

As I was saying, the curse is coming to fulfillment and I am following in old dad's footsteps, albeit without the benefit of forced labor.

This past weekend I dug my very own compost pit. It's not as big as the pits we dug for dad since our yard is smaller and since he's not here to make me dig it any deeper, but it should be big enough.

"It looks like you're digging a grave," Natasha said as she stood over me in the hole.

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "Hey, could you do me a favor and lie down in this for a minute? I want to see if it's long enough."

She muttered something inarticulate and walked away.

I was feeling proud of myself for having done something so useful, so I called my younger brother Ward, who said I'd have been better off with some above-ground palettes. Such a set-up helps aerate the compost, encouraging actual decay instead of just putrefaction.

"You only dug one because dad had them when we were kids," he said. To his credit, Ward not only was right, but also tried to share my pride. "Well, how big is it?" he asked.

"Probably about 5 feet long, about 2½ feet deep and about as wide," said I.

"That's it?" he said, and started laughing like a howler monkey. "I thought you dug a big hole or something, the way you were talking about how long it took you!"

I thought of getting even somehow, but it's all right. Ward is two years younger than me, and I figure it's just a matter of time before the Curse of the Garden catches up with him. And when that happens, I'll be ready to help him out. You see, I know where I can some seeds for Swiss chard ...