If you read right-leaning blogs, you're most likely aware of parents' complaints concerning the deranged classroom rants of commie school teachers like the "Geography" instructor Jay Bennish in Colorado.
Pretty & I send BENRY to a Catholic school, but it's for reasons other than the supposed leftie indoctrination the public schools offer. In fact, as a product of the very school district in which we currently reside, I'm convinced that my boys would do wonderfully in this system and will eventually attend high school where I did. (As long as the district stops herding kids into Special Ed programs to secure additional funding, but that's a subject for another post.)
I find it interesting that the primary segments of productive society in which one finds bona fide moonbats are Education and Law (and in a particular personal instance, Educational Law). I honestly don't know why it is, but it is very rare that I run across a Production Manager, a Sales Rep, a dock worker or heaven forbid a small business owner who has adopted the strident "corporate imperialist Bushitler Haliburton Rove cabal" mindset. They could, of course, keep their beliefs to themselves, but I visit hundreds of people a year on sales calls and have yet to hear Air America on a single radio.
But I digress. What motivated me to post today was learning that my 7th grade Social Studies teacher, Roger Cuthbertson, was recently arrested while protesting at a fundraiser featuring Dick Cheney. The event was held at a lakeside estate - the protesters were on a pontoon in the bay, shouting anti-Cheney slogans. Mr. Cuthbertson then boarded a smaller boat with his hippie friend and (according to the Star-Tribune):
"...tried to paddle the raft to shore so they could speak with Cheney. A sheriff's boat intercepted the men, but not before Cuthbertson jumped into the bay and tried to swim toward the reception."
Hilarious. Sneak a peek at this photo of Mr. Cuthbertson (he's the bearded guy in the blue jacket), cropped from another Strib article about a weekly peacenik party held outside a prominent local defense contractor. I remember him as a disheveled, long-haired dude who wore plaid shirts and his Levi's well below his hips long before "jailing" was in. In his class, I recall listening to Garrison Keilor, performing a mock trial and watching him furiously scrawl a detailed chalkboard sketch of how the atomic bomb worked. Nothing unreasonable.
Who knows? He may have thrown hysterical tantrums about Pershing missiles in Europe and "Evil Empire" speeches... I just don't remember them. But if he did, his rhetoric certainly didn't affect me as he'd hope it would.
My point (if I have one): Schools should certainly do their best to evenly portray all sides of any issue, but maybe we should all lighten up a bit. Kids will eventually find their own ways in the world, regardless the crap any strangers try to fill their heads with.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
A Meek Return
Yes, it's been awhile. Family events, a funeral and a reunion, have kept me away.
My grandmother passed on last month. She was 95. Growing up, I always looked forward to the end of my long baseball season when my family would pack up and drive to western Montana, where we would spend weeks with my grandparents splashing in a cold mountain lake, fishing mountain rivers and generally enjoying a taste of Mountain Life.
I remember the giant zucchinis she grew in her garden, picking raspberries at the house and huckleberries in Glacier Park, long, slow walks through pine forests with her pointing out Indian Paintbrush and Oregon Berries, endlessly jumping off rocks and docks into that aquamarine lake under her watchful eye, browned butter (it's the Polish way, she would say) poured over fresh green beans and that huckleberry pie which no earthly words could describe.
But what I will take to my grave is the way she always, regardless of how badly I felt I was screwing up my life at any given time, made me feel like the most important person in the world. Without fail.
I miss you, Grandma.
My grandmother passed on last month. She was 95. Growing up, I always looked forward to the end of my long baseball season when my family would pack up and drive to western Montana, where we would spend weeks with my grandparents splashing in a cold mountain lake, fishing mountain rivers and generally enjoying a taste of Mountain Life.
I remember the giant zucchinis she grew in her garden, picking raspberries at the house and huckleberries in Glacier Park, long, slow walks through pine forests with her pointing out Indian Paintbrush and Oregon Berries, endlessly jumping off rocks and docks into that aquamarine lake under her watchful eye, browned butter (it's the Polish way, she would say) poured over fresh green beans and that huckleberry pie which no earthly words could describe.
But what I will take to my grave is the way she always, regardless of how badly I felt I was screwing up my life at any given time, made me feel like the most important person in the world. Without fail.
I miss you, Grandma.
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