Back in Time
I’ve had some interesting job experiences along the road
to becoming a better educator (and beyond).
It may not be as cool as a DeLorean accelerating to 88 miles per hour,
but if you continue to read below, you will go back in time with me.
Of course, if you want it to make more sense, start at the bottom, and work your way back up.
to becoming a better educator (and beyond).
It may not be as cool as a DeLorean accelerating to 88 miles per hour,
but if you continue to read below, you will go back in time with me.
Of course, if you want it to make more sense, start at the bottom, and work your way back up.
30. Still a Dreamer
All those years ago. 1986-1989. Working at the Wilds (See 6-10 below.) woke a passion to create new things. Had the Wilds family been successful, I could have an executive position in a theme park today. I was there practically from the beginning, and things were happening. But with all the bankruptcies and failing banks of the 80s, it wasn't to be. Oddly, I still have occasional dreams about going back, dreams of seeing the property rejuvenated. Perhaps those dreams are part of what still drives me, today, to pursue creative ways to express myself. More than that, my dreams often manifest themselves in wildly ambitious pursuits. Perhaps one day...
29. Bible Classes
I didn't think I would like teaching an adult Bible class as much as I do. Preaching is different. With preaching, generally speaking, the congregants don't talk back. No one has difficult questions for a lecturer who doesn't pause his presentation. But in teaching a class, there is always the chance that somebody will try to stump the teacher. It hasn't happened yet, but it always could.
I'm not the kind of Bible teacher who claims or portrays himself as knowing it all; I will happily tell anyone that I only know a bit. The adult Bible classes that I teach are usually a little more lively with discussion. Plus, since retiring from teaching public school, I've brought some of my teaching methods into the church. I use many of the same techniques with the adults as I did with 10-year-olds. Strangely enough, they seem to be just as effective. So far, I have gotten a good response about how engaging the classes are.
I'm not the kind of Bible teacher who claims or portrays himself as knowing it all; I will happily tell anyone that I only know a bit. The adult Bible classes that I teach are usually a little more lively with discussion. Plus, since retiring from teaching public school, I've brought some of my teaching methods into the church. I use many of the same techniques with the adults as I did with 10-year-olds. Strangely enough, they seem to be just as effective. So far, I have gotten a good response about how engaging the classes are.
28: Back to College
No, I wasn't looking to return to a degree program of my own, but in the fall semester of 2022, I started doing work for Pittsburg State University in Southeast Kansas - supervising student teachers in area schools. I am now able to stay in classrooms and effectively help in the development of future educators. PSU has the best teacher education program in our area, and I am proud to show anyone my ID card which displays the word faculty.
27: Retirement
In May of 2022, I spent my last days in the regular classroom. Since that time, I have spent time as a master teacher for the Gilder Lehrman Institute of American History in New York City. My efforts for the institute include teaching an online History Camp for students in grades three through five, followed by leading virtual, pedagogical lessons with teachers across the country, even working with a two-time Pulitzer Prize recipient.
During the summer of 2022, the camp focused on six of the United States National Parks. The six-week camp was something new for this old dog, and the prep work kept me busy in the days following retirement.
Speaking of the days following retirement, I was also chosen as one of 50 national honorees in Disney's 50 Teacher Celebration, held at Disney World in Florida. The event included special programming like designing a theme park, grand marshalling the fantasy parade at the Magic Kingdom, an after-hours, first-day ride on Guardians of the Galaxy: Cosmic Rewind with the Imagineer who designed it, and much more.
I was soon recruited by the Lincoln Presidential Foundation to write a lesson series about events leading up to the Civil War. My lessons focused on the Dred Scott Decision.
Gilder Lehrman contacted me again, this time to assist in the selection process for the 2022 Missouri History Teacher of the Year. As the 2021 recipient of the honor, this was a privilege that I really enjoyed, and it was one more way to stay busy during the summer after retirement.
One more teacher institute - this time to Colonial Williamsburg, Yorktown, and Jamestown, Virginia - awaited my participation, as well.
I was called upon once again by the Gilder Lehrman Institute, this time to collaborate with a two-time Pulitzer Prize recipient. Alan Taylor would record lectures, followed up by my interviewing him and fielding questions from virtual participants from across the country. After that, I presented pedagogy - how to teach the scholar's subject.
Needless to say, with such a plethora of activity, I didn't feel retired at all.
During the summer of 2022, the camp focused on six of the United States National Parks. The six-week camp was something new for this old dog, and the prep work kept me busy in the days following retirement.
Speaking of the days following retirement, I was also chosen as one of 50 national honorees in Disney's 50 Teacher Celebration, held at Disney World in Florida. The event included special programming like designing a theme park, grand marshalling the fantasy parade at the Magic Kingdom, an after-hours, first-day ride on Guardians of the Galaxy: Cosmic Rewind with the Imagineer who designed it, and much more.
I was soon recruited by the Lincoln Presidential Foundation to write a lesson series about events leading up to the Civil War. My lessons focused on the Dred Scott Decision.
Gilder Lehrman contacted me again, this time to assist in the selection process for the 2022 Missouri History Teacher of the Year. As the 2021 recipient of the honor, this was a privilege that I really enjoyed, and it was one more way to stay busy during the summer after retirement.
One more teacher institute - this time to Colonial Williamsburg, Yorktown, and Jamestown, Virginia - awaited my participation, as well.
I was called upon once again by the Gilder Lehrman Institute, this time to collaborate with a two-time Pulitzer Prize recipient. Alan Taylor would record lectures, followed up by my interviewing him and fielding questions from virtual participants from across the country. After that, I presented pedagogy - how to teach the scholar's subject.
Needless to say, with such a plethora of activity, I didn't feel retired at all.
26: Author
I’ve enjoyed writing since elementary school. I’ve always been intrigued with the possibility of creating something brand new with words. It seems impossible that all the possible strings of words haven’t been used by now, but books by the thousands are being published every year.
I love writing creatively, and have written four full novels for children, including one based on the 2011 Joplin tornado. I’ve also now created a book for teachers. I also offer my services as a visiting author to schools.
I love writing creatively, and have written four full novels for children, including one based on the 2011 Joplin tornado. I’ve also now created a book for teachers. I also offer my services as a visiting author to schools.
Writing is still a dream that I would like to pursue. Some people find it hard to believe that I sitting at the computer day after day, composing the lines for this website, adding to stories I have in the works, writing sermons, and creating new lessons for the class. These things are not work for me (OK, sometimes it feels like work.); they are recreation. Writing is a way for me to unwind.
I would like to spend some warm spring days at Silver Dollar City and other such locations, with my laptop and my imagination, transporting myself to other lands and other times with my writing. It’s not really an official job, but it could be, and it already is for some.
I would like to spend some warm spring days at Silver Dollar City and other such locations, with my laptop and my imagination, transporting myself to other lands and other times with my writing. It’s not really an official job, but it could be, and it already is for some.
25: Public Speaking
Click to Book Mr. H
I remember being in the sixth grade in a small school district in Oklahoma City. For a field trip, the sixth graders, who were in the elementary schools, visited the junior high. That was the first time I knew there were speech classes – not for correcting speech impediments, but for learning the art of delivering public addresses. I was excited about the possibility, but the family moved to a more rural school, and I had to wait until my sophomore year to take my first speech class. It became a highlight of my high school experience, and still provides me with fond memories.
I continued to take all the speech and drama classes I could while in college, even performing as a really great character in a community theater play. And when I returned to get my second degree, I earned a scholarship from an academic fraternity with the promise that I would use public speaking in my future career.
But I still do not know what attracted me to being in front of an audience.
As I was growing up, my dad preached for congregations that were without their own paid preachers. My family would travel with him from time to time to these “gigs”. Maybe this was another thing that sparked my interest in preaching. It would be a way to use my talent and do some good at the same time.
Of course I wasn’t very good at it the first time I tried, and I still feel like I need to improve. After all, there is always room for improvement. At any rate, I enjoy it. I don’t think I want to do it as a full-time job, though. To do all the hospital visits, preach at funerals and weddings, and take the knocks from folks who have a beef with something I may say would be difficult for me.
It may even be more difficult to be an elder – be responsible for the souls of a church. If one were to research, he would learn that pastor is another word for elder; it is not synonymous with preacher, as so many think. I do not call myself pastor or reverend or father; I only want to be referred to as what I am and what I do. I am a teacher. I am a preacher. But first and most importantly for me, I am a Christian.
I continued to take all the speech and drama classes I could while in college, even performing as a really great character in a community theater play. And when I returned to get my second degree, I earned a scholarship from an academic fraternity with the promise that I would use public speaking in my future career.
But I still do not know what attracted me to being in front of an audience.
As I was growing up, my dad preached for congregations that were without their own paid preachers. My family would travel with him from time to time to these “gigs”. Maybe this was another thing that sparked my interest in preaching. It would be a way to use my talent and do some good at the same time.
Of course I wasn’t very good at it the first time I tried, and I still feel like I need to improve. After all, there is always room for improvement. At any rate, I enjoy it. I don’t think I want to do it as a full-time job, though. To do all the hospital visits, preach at funerals and weddings, and take the knocks from folks who have a beef with something I may say would be difficult for me.
It may even be more difficult to be an elder – be responsible for the souls of a church. If one were to research, he would learn that pastor is another word for elder; it is not synonymous with preacher, as so many think. I do not call myself pastor or reverend or father; I only want to be referred to as what I am and what I do. I am a teacher. I am a preacher. But first and most importantly for me, I am a Christian.
24. Preaching
Nowadays, my dream to preach has grown to be a regular part of my life. I started filling in for local preachers in the churches of Christ several years ago, substituting in Kansas, Oklahoma, and, Missouri. When a church is without a preacher or when a preacher takes a vacation or attends a lectureship away from home, I get called in to present the sermon(s) for a Sunday.
Preaching allows me to write persuasively. It draws on my strengths and the things I like to do. First, I enjoy putting words together in such a way that, hopefully, keeps people’s attention and draws them into the Word of God – while at the same time not drawing too much attention to my own words, but to the Scripture. Writing a sermon is not like creatively writing where I get to make things up; the points made in my sermons must be reinforced with Bible verses, and must not focus on my own opinion. That presents parameters that challenge my writing. I enjoy that.
Secondly, I enjoy public speaking. While I know I’m not the most approachable man on the planet, I can stand before a crowd with virtually no nervousness or fear. While I don’t always carry on the most amiable conversations with individuals, I can present information over a microphone and loudspeaker.
Of course, not every lesson is a rousing success. There are days with my tongue does not keep up with its words, days that I stutter through in spite of the preparation and practice time that I put into it. There are times that my lessons are not as organized as I would like them to be. There are moments when the audience drifts or distracts me to the point that I lose my place and have to plot a way back on track. But for the most part, I feel like I can craft and deliver a pretty good 30-minute speech for the church.
I write about preaching here because I do get paid for the preparation and delivery of the lessons. A sermon takes hours to prepare, yet only 30 minutes to deliver. Researching for accurate comments and accurately tying Bible passages into the lesson (in their context) is an important part of the job. It keeps me fresh and on my toes in my faith.
Preaching allows me to write persuasively. It draws on my strengths and the things I like to do. First, I enjoy putting words together in such a way that, hopefully, keeps people’s attention and draws them into the Word of God – while at the same time not drawing too much attention to my own words, but to the Scripture. Writing a sermon is not like creatively writing where I get to make things up; the points made in my sermons must be reinforced with Bible verses, and must not focus on my own opinion. That presents parameters that challenge my writing. I enjoy that.
Secondly, I enjoy public speaking. While I know I’m not the most approachable man on the planet, I can stand before a crowd with virtually no nervousness or fear. While I don’t always carry on the most amiable conversations with individuals, I can present information over a microphone and loudspeaker.
Of course, not every lesson is a rousing success. There are days with my tongue does not keep up with its words, days that I stutter through in spite of the preparation and practice time that I put into it. There are times that my lessons are not as organized as I would like them to be. There are moments when the audience drifts or distracts me to the point that I lose my place and have to plot a way back on track. But for the most part, I feel like I can craft and deliver a pretty good 30-minute speech for the church.
I write about preaching here because I do get paid for the preparation and delivery of the lessons. A sermon takes hours to prepare, yet only 30 minutes to deliver. Researching for accurate comments and accurately tying Bible passages into the lesson (in their context) is an important part of the job. It keeps me fresh and on my toes in my faith.
23. Golden Arches
There came a time in my life, before we had children but after moving to Joplin, that I was pursuing my Master's degree at Pittsburg State University. During one summer, to fill my time and make some spending money, I also pursued an adventure; I decided to get a part time, temporary job at McDonald's. Working the first window of the drive-through was a blast.
A few years ago, while I was taking Master’s classes in Carthage through PSU, I decided to have some fun. I’d never worked in fast food, and I wanted a summer job that didn’t have to do with education, so I got a part time job at McDonald’s where I worked the drive-through most of the time. I decided to have fun with the job (which, by the way, was quite draining). As the drive-through line inevitably become congested from time to time, people at the ordering speaker were often offered a song for their wait. They hadn’t expected “dinner and a show” but it gave them something to pass the time (whether the singing was actually any good or not).
When I worked at the front counter, there would be down time. Rather than sit and talk to co-workers, I took it upon myself to clean the fly- and grease- marks off the menu board. No one else would have even noticed they were there, but once I started cleaning them, the teenagers working with me had something extra to think about: were they doing their best, and could they be proud of the work they were doing? It was a little job, out of the norm, and I tried to have as much fun with it as possible.
Plus, my effort was noticed. Employees at McDonald’s, as you might expect, come and go daily – some don’t even finish one shift – but when I left at the end of summer to get my classroom ready for the fall semester, the managers and employees actually gave me a party. I had only been there for about six weeks, but they even broke out a Ronald McDonald cake from the freezer. It felt good to be recognized in such a fitting way, and I know it was because of what my dad always instilled in his boys.
Realistically, the McDonald's job was not one I really cared about - in fact, I really had nothing to lose - but I put everything into it. And it did made a difference. When I left the position at the end of the summer, the managers even broke out a cake, and they honored me with a grand send-off (and I know they don't do that for everyone).
A few years ago, while I was taking Master’s classes in Carthage through PSU, I decided to have some fun. I’d never worked in fast food, and I wanted a summer job that didn’t have to do with education, so I got a part time job at McDonald’s where I worked the drive-through most of the time. I decided to have fun with the job (which, by the way, was quite draining). As the drive-through line inevitably become congested from time to time, people at the ordering speaker were often offered a song for their wait. They hadn’t expected “dinner and a show” but it gave them something to pass the time (whether the singing was actually any good or not).
When I worked at the front counter, there would be down time. Rather than sit and talk to co-workers, I took it upon myself to clean the fly- and grease- marks off the menu board. No one else would have even noticed they were there, but once I started cleaning them, the teenagers working with me had something extra to think about: were they doing their best, and could they be proud of the work they were doing? It was a little job, out of the norm, and I tried to have as much fun with it as possible.
Plus, my effort was noticed. Employees at McDonald’s, as you might expect, come and go daily – some don’t even finish one shift – but when I left at the end of summer to get my classroom ready for the fall semester, the managers and employees actually gave me a party. I had only been there for about six weeks, but they even broke out a Ronald McDonald cake from the freezer. It felt good to be recognized in such a fitting way, and I know it was because of what my dad always instilled in his boys.
Realistically, the McDonald's job was not one I really cared about - in fact, I really had nothing to lose - but I put everything into it. And it did made a difference. When I left the position at the end of the summer, the managers even broke out a cake, and they honored me with a grand send-off (and I know they don't do that for everyone).
22. When I Grow Up...
I have some papers from when I was little – in kindergarten or first grade – and yes, we had paper way back then. The paper is yellow now from age, but I suppose that someday it will be in a very important display in the Mr. Hoggatt Memorial Museum, or in the foyer of Hoggatt Elementary School, or some other such humble venue.
The papers constitute an autobiography of my life, complete with some very realistic sketches of my family, my house, my pets, etc., but one page catches my eye; it is the page that shows what I wanted to be when I grew up. The crayoned picture is one of myself as a grown man, standing behind a lectern, giving an audience “what-for” as a preacher. Truth be told, I always said I wanted to be a missionary to some exotic land, but knew only enough to draw a preacher.
I remember people saying that kids usually change their mind about what they aspired to be, but I also remember being determined – even at that early age – to be a man of my word. If I said I was going to be a preacher, how dare anyone tell me I wouldn’t!
Of course, I became a few things – a journalist, a fish farmer, an educator – but not a preacher, much less a missionary. Until just a few years ago. When we moved to Joplin, an opportunity arose in the church for me to accompany others on a mission trip to Honduras. It was a profound trip in many ways, and even spawned a return trip a couple of years later, but it wasn’t until after I came home that I realized I had followed through on my primary school aspiration to be a missionary.
Now when I look at that little autobiography I can chuckle at the crayon drawings of my dogs and my house. But I no longer laugh at the page that says, “When I Grow Up…”
The papers constitute an autobiography of my life, complete with some very realistic sketches of my family, my house, my pets, etc., but one page catches my eye; it is the page that shows what I wanted to be when I grew up. The crayoned picture is one of myself as a grown man, standing behind a lectern, giving an audience “what-for” as a preacher. Truth be told, I always said I wanted to be a missionary to some exotic land, but knew only enough to draw a preacher.
I remember people saying that kids usually change their mind about what they aspired to be, but I also remember being determined – even at that early age – to be a man of my word. If I said I was going to be a preacher, how dare anyone tell me I wouldn’t!
Of course, I became a few things – a journalist, a fish farmer, an educator – but not a preacher, much less a missionary. Until just a few years ago. When we moved to Joplin, an opportunity arose in the church for me to accompany others on a mission trip to Honduras. It was a profound trip in many ways, and even spawned a return trip a couple of years later, but it wasn’t until after I came home that I realized I had followed through on my primary school aspiration to be a missionary.
Now when I look at that little autobiography I can chuckle at the crayon drawings of my dogs and my house. But I no longer laugh at the page that says, “When I Grow Up…”
21. Fish Need Oxygen
Another tale from the Wilds side: We made our money from people catching fish. A rule of fishing at the Wilds is that patrons had to keep everything they caught – and we all but guaranteed they would catch. From time to time we caught people trying to sneak through the fence with stringers full of our fish – hundreds of dollars worth – and claiming they didn’t know they had to pay (Then why were they sneaking through the fence?!).
I would call the supplier in Mississippi, often weekly, to restock our pond and lake. I would order a thousand pounds of live catfish at a time, and the truck would come, drop a channel from the tank on the back into the pond, and slide the critters down the channel. These fish would average two pounds an ideal size for eating.
Well, sometimes that meant the half-acre pond was overstocked, and the fish had to compete for oxygen in a small space. Lynn’s plan to correct the matter was to, essentially, turn the pond into a giant aquarium; we would pump air into the pond through a homemade bubble system.
He and I drained the pond and donned some waders to install the system. We trudged through the mud and stinky fish waste into the pond, dragging big sections of PVC, creating a network of perforated pipe through which our air would be pumped. This was a dirty job Mike Rowe would love: The knee-deep mud was sucking at us with every attempted step, causing us to exert tremendous effort.
When finished, the pond was refilled with water from the lake, our system was activated, and the pond was restocked with live catfish. Bubbles surfacing on the water caused fishermen some concern at first as they wondered what kind of “hot springs” we had. Why was the water “boiling”? And why did it bubble in the shape of a “W”? The W was a byproduct of our plan (standing for the Wilds, right? Anyway the bubbles helped to oxygenate the water for the fish, and we were able to save many lives through the effort.
I would call the supplier in Mississippi, often weekly, to restock our pond and lake. I would order a thousand pounds of live catfish at a time, and the truck would come, drop a channel from the tank on the back into the pond, and slide the critters down the channel. These fish would average two pounds an ideal size for eating.
Well, sometimes that meant the half-acre pond was overstocked, and the fish had to compete for oxygen in a small space. Lynn’s plan to correct the matter was to, essentially, turn the pond into a giant aquarium; we would pump air into the pond through a homemade bubble system.
He and I drained the pond and donned some waders to install the system. We trudged through the mud and stinky fish waste into the pond, dragging big sections of PVC, creating a network of perforated pipe through which our air would be pumped. This was a dirty job Mike Rowe would love: The knee-deep mud was sucking at us with every attempted step, causing us to exert tremendous effort.
When finished, the pond was refilled with water from the lake, our system was activated, and the pond was restocked with live catfish. Bubbles surfacing on the water caused fishermen some concern at first as they wondered what kind of “hot springs” we had. Why was the water “boiling”? And why did it bubble in the shape of a “W”? The W was a byproduct of our plan (standing for the Wilds, right? Anyway the bubbles helped to oxygenate the water for the fish, and we were able to save many lives through the effort.
20. Hailstorm
There was a sudden rainstorm at the Wilds, which in turn quickly developed into a cold hailstorm, with ice the size of golf balls pelting downward. People got to the bait house fast with their rods and reels and were waiting out the storm, watching the ground turn white with the stuff.
I assumed David collected all the horseback riders into the barn, but realized all the paddleboats were not at the docks. Two were missing. I was able to locate one on a nearby shore where the riders had abandoned it and joined the folks in the bait house, but the second boat was no where to be seen. With the high winds, the hammering hail, and the torrential rain, I knew this was not a good situation.
I donned one of Lynn’s thick army surplus coats and headed toward the 10-acre lake. Once at the dock, I could see the second boat, slammed up against the earthen dam at the opposite end of the water – but no one was near it. With the coat over my head to protect from the skull-cracking pellets, I ran along the shore, across the bridge, through the brush, to get to the dam. Approaching it, I spotted the man and woman from the paddleboat, crouching atop the dam. Judging from their demeanor and posture, I could tell they were frightened and cold.
I, too, was frightened. In my mind, these people were my responsibility, and as silly as it sounds, I actually thought, “No one dies on my watch!” What if one was injured? What if the dam suddenly washed out? What if…? Well anyway, I headed for the dam, not even hesitating to risk my own life to save theirs. I had to cross a six-foot barbed fence with the strands too close to climb through. To do this, I removed the army coat (By now the hail was subsiding to the thick rain.) and threw it over the top strand of barbs. Climbing the fence with the coat in place, I didn’t have to worry about avoiding the barbs. I recovered the coat and climbed the incline to the top of the dam.
I didn’t think those people would be able to go back down the slick mud I had just climbed, let alone climb the fence as I just had, so I made the decision to take the “long way home”, opting instead to go forward across the dam and into the other pasture. We still had to cross a fence and ended up sliding in even more mud along the rail bed that had been prepared for a train the Wilds had purchased. This turned out to be a real pain as we slid along the treacherous route, finally coming through the gate into the barn area.
David was there with all his horseback riders, and of course he wondered why we were there. I don’t think he ever understood what we had just been through.
I assumed David collected all the horseback riders into the barn, but realized all the paddleboats were not at the docks. Two were missing. I was able to locate one on a nearby shore where the riders had abandoned it and joined the folks in the bait house, but the second boat was no where to be seen. With the high winds, the hammering hail, and the torrential rain, I knew this was not a good situation.
I donned one of Lynn’s thick army surplus coats and headed toward the 10-acre lake. Once at the dock, I could see the second boat, slammed up against the earthen dam at the opposite end of the water – but no one was near it. With the coat over my head to protect from the skull-cracking pellets, I ran along the shore, across the bridge, through the brush, to get to the dam. Approaching it, I spotted the man and woman from the paddleboat, crouching atop the dam. Judging from their demeanor and posture, I could tell they were frightened and cold.
I, too, was frightened. In my mind, these people were my responsibility, and as silly as it sounds, I actually thought, “No one dies on my watch!” What if one was injured? What if the dam suddenly washed out? What if…? Well anyway, I headed for the dam, not even hesitating to risk my own life to save theirs. I had to cross a six-foot barbed fence with the strands too close to climb through. To do this, I removed the army coat (By now the hail was subsiding to the thick rain.) and threw it over the top strand of barbs. Climbing the fence with the coat in place, I didn’t have to worry about avoiding the barbs. I recovered the coat and climbed the incline to the top of the dam.
I didn’t think those people would be able to go back down the slick mud I had just climbed, let alone climb the fence as I just had, so I made the decision to take the “long way home”, opting instead to go forward across the dam and into the other pasture. We still had to cross a fence and ended up sliding in even more mud along the rail bed that had been prepared for a train the Wilds had purchased. This turned out to be a real pain as we slid along the treacherous route, finally coming through the gate into the barn area.
David was there with all his horseback riders, and of course he wondered why we were there. I don’t think he ever understood what we had just been through.
19. State Fair
We took The Wilds on the road, every year, to advertise at the Oklahoma State Fair. The idea was to entice visitors with buffalo burgers and get them to talking about The Wilds. We would show them a slide show and give them some advertising brochures.
My idea for boosting the profits brought in by the burgers was to bring in the delectable cheese cake from our restaurant. When we did that, the kitchen could scarcely keep up with the demand. Being a half-hour away from the restaurant made this task increasingly difficult, but we did what we could, serving up a tall square of cheesecake smothered with a liberal dollop of strawberries. It was the best deal at the fair.
I was experimenting with contact lenses at the time, and we were in the throes of allergy season. One evening (10pm), I closed our booth, gathered the money in a plain plastic bag (often in the thousands of dollars), and walked down the middle of the midway where, by that time, people were staggering drunk and rowdy. Already nervous about carrying so much cash, one of my contacts threw itself from my eye onto the blacktop pavement below. I hit my knees to try to find it while, at the same time, trying to keep people from stepping in the general area. Luckily, I found the errant lens.
When leaving at that time of night, the party crowd was in full swing. On more than one occasion, I passed a crowd of spectators watching a fist fight between two drunken visitors to the fair. Several times, I found myself in view of people who decided not to search out a private restroom stall, but to use the parking lot instead. While the days were enjoyable, slicing hundreds of onions for the buffalo burgers, pleasing folks with our large portions of cheesecake, and talking to people about a place dear to my heart, the nights could be frightening and disparaging.
Still, the state fair is emblazoned in my memory as a part of the Wilds experience.
My idea for boosting the profits brought in by the burgers was to bring in the delectable cheese cake from our restaurant. When we did that, the kitchen could scarcely keep up with the demand. Being a half-hour away from the restaurant made this task increasingly difficult, but we did what we could, serving up a tall square of cheesecake smothered with a liberal dollop of strawberries. It was the best deal at the fair.
I was experimenting with contact lenses at the time, and we were in the throes of allergy season. One evening (10pm), I closed our booth, gathered the money in a plain plastic bag (often in the thousands of dollars), and walked down the middle of the midway where, by that time, people were staggering drunk and rowdy. Already nervous about carrying so much cash, one of my contacts threw itself from my eye onto the blacktop pavement below. I hit my knees to try to find it while, at the same time, trying to keep people from stepping in the general area. Luckily, I found the errant lens.
When leaving at that time of night, the party crowd was in full swing. On more than one occasion, I passed a crowd of spectators watching a fist fight between two drunken visitors to the fair. Several times, I found myself in view of people who decided not to search out a private restroom stall, but to use the parking lot instead. While the days were enjoyable, slicing hundreds of onions for the buffalo burgers, pleasing folks with our large portions of cheesecake, and talking to people about a place dear to my heart, the nights could be frightening and disparaging.
Still, the state fair is emblazoned in my memory as a part of the Wilds experience.
18. Two Amazing Bosses
Lynn and David Wilds were amazing. I worked closely with Lynn, so I’ll save my comments about him for last.
While David and I were driving around the lake one day, he calculated in his head the weight (in pounds) of the water in the lake. I remember him using the acreage of the water, figuring the deepest part of the lake, how much slope there was to each deep section, and then using some kind of formula to turn the mass of liquid into pounds. Again, he did this all in his head, and I have no doubt he was pretty close to correct.
I also remember him backing me up one time in the rebuking of an employee for his language. I respected him for it, and I think he respected me at the same time. I was being coy in my method, but David was able to be more direct, getting the point across much faster and with more authority (since he was an owner of the whole operation).
Lynn was smaller and pretty spry. I admired Lynn for his work ethic. As a boss, Lynn was not afraid to lead by example, usually outworking anyone on staff. He also was not afraid to get dirty. I watched him unclog the grease trap at the restaurant with his bare hands, and remember helping him muck the stalls in the barn. And of course, he could skin a catfish alongside the best of us.
Speaking of dirty jobs, he and I drained the half-acre pond once in order to add an aeration system to it. We wanted to put some perforated PVC pipe in the pond and attach it to an air pump in order to deliver more oxygen to the fish. With virtually no vegetation in the pond, fishermen never snagged moss or trees in the pond, but the fish had to be fed regularly. Also, no vegetation meant the fish needed a source of oxygen that plants would normally provide.
Enter: the two of us. With the sun beating down on it the exposed mud and fish poo, the pond smelled something awful. Donning our wading boots and old clothes, we stepped into the pond. I was surprised when I sank in the muddy substance past my knees. In order to maneuver in the pond, we had to balance on one foot while lifting the other leg completely out of the mud and repositioning it, sinking it once again up past the knee. This, I don’t mind telling you, was difficult, and we both had our times of losing our balance and ending up on our backs or face forward in the mud (Of course, I’m just calling it mud here, but we all knew, with a smell like that, this was so much more than mud.).
The thing that impressed me the most was that Lynn was there with me. I happily did this hapless job because of the camaraderie we had. It was the payment that I gladly paid for being able to do the parts of the job I enjoyed. Lynn wasn’t wary of climbing through that stuff, and because of that I wasn’t either. He could just as easily have delegated this job to some of the grunts on the payroll, and he could just as easily have barked orders from the shore, but that wasn’t his leadership style. Lynn remains one of my greatest mentors (and yes, the aeration system worked, though fishermen often wondered why the surface of the pond bubbled).
Years after we had gone our separate ways, I saw Lynn once again. At my wedding. It meant so much to me that he was there. This was one boss everyone should have and appreciate.
While David and I were driving around the lake one day, he calculated in his head the weight (in pounds) of the water in the lake. I remember him using the acreage of the water, figuring the deepest part of the lake, how much slope there was to each deep section, and then using some kind of formula to turn the mass of liquid into pounds. Again, he did this all in his head, and I have no doubt he was pretty close to correct.
I also remember him backing me up one time in the rebuking of an employee for his language. I respected him for it, and I think he respected me at the same time. I was being coy in my method, but David was able to be more direct, getting the point across much faster and with more authority (since he was an owner of the whole operation).
Lynn was smaller and pretty spry. I admired Lynn for his work ethic. As a boss, Lynn was not afraid to lead by example, usually outworking anyone on staff. He also was not afraid to get dirty. I watched him unclog the grease trap at the restaurant with his bare hands, and remember helping him muck the stalls in the barn. And of course, he could skin a catfish alongside the best of us.
Speaking of dirty jobs, he and I drained the half-acre pond once in order to add an aeration system to it. We wanted to put some perforated PVC pipe in the pond and attach it to an air pump in order to deliver more oxygen to the fish. With virtually no vegetation in the pond, fishermen never snagged moss or trees in the pond, but the fish had to be fed regularly. Also, no vegetation meant the fish needed a source of oxygen that plants would normally provide.
Enter: the two of us. With the sun beating down on it the exposed mud and fish poo, the pond smelled something awful. Donning our wading boots and old clothes, we stepped into the pond. I was surprised when I sank in the muddy substance past my knees. In order to maneuver in the pond, we had to balance on one foot while lifting the other leg completely out of the mud and repositioning it, sinking it once again up past the knee. This, I don’t mind telling you, was difficult, and we both had our times of losing our balance and ending up on our backs or face forward in the mud (Of course, I’m just calling it mud here, but we all knew, with a smell like that, this was so much more than mud.).
The thing that impressed me the most was that Lynn was there with me. I happily did this hapless job because of the camaraderie we had. It was the payment that I gladly paid for being able to do the parts of the job I enjoyed. Lynn wasn’t wary of climbing through that stuff, and because of that I wasn’t either. He could just as easily have delegated this job to some of the grunts on the payroll, and he could just as easily have barked orders from the shore, but that wasn’t his leadership style. Lynn remains one of my greatest mentors (and yes, the aeration system worked, though fishermen often wondered why the surface of the pond bubbled).
Years after we had gone our separate ways, I saw Lynn once again. At my wedding. It meant so much to me that he was there. This was one boss everyone should have and appreciate.
17. Out of My Element
Many of the jobs I’ve written about have taken me out of my element. Luckily, I have been fortunate to have been allowed to put my personal spin on most of them, and that made them bearable. Most people would look at me now and they wouldn’t believe that I have herded buffalo, skinned 700 pound of catfish, wrestled a lion, moved hay, drove a tractor, or moved heavy furniture, but it’s all true. Hey, my family still doesn’t believe I teach elementary students, but we all know that one’s true, too.
I have to go back to The Wilds again since it holds such a prominent place in my memory and, frankly, in my heart. One of the things I mentioned in a previous writing was the beat-up Ford truck we drove around for the hardest chores in the place. We called her Old Blue, and even she is a fond memory and took me out of my element on more than one occasion.
It was great to have a reliable vehicle that no one cared about getting scratched – and boy did we scratch it. I think I already mentioned that I had all four wheels off the ground at least once or twice during my tenure at The Wilds.
The funniest thing about Old Blue, though, was that it was being held together by bailing wire. Duct tape wasn’t quite as popular back then, and of course, when you’re on a farm, you use what you have lying about. To look at the engine was to look at a tangle of bailing wire, and yet that truck would start every time.
It was also funny that more pieces of the truck would be missing almost every time I got in it. One time it would be the cigarette lighter. The next it was the gear shift knob. One day the glove compartment was missing its door. The next day a visor would be gone.
The most dramatic missing piece was part of the driver’s seat. To be honest, it wasn’t missing – it had been eaten by coyotes (I kid you not.). It sure made for an uncomfortable ride from then on, though, just sitting on the springs.
And yes, that truck took me out of my element. It was the manner by which we hauled away fish guts (heavy and stinky); it was the manner by which we herded the buffalo (yee haw); and it was one way we redistributed heavy picnic tables for each weekend (depending on the size of each visiting group).
It’s healthy to get out of your element, but it’s certainly nice to have the freedom to bring those elements into your comfort zone, as well.
I have to go back to The Wilds again since it holds such a prominent place in my memory and, frankly, in my heart. One of the things I mentioned in a previous writing was the beat-up Ford truck we drove around for the hardest chores in the place. We called her Old Blue, and even she is a fond memory and took me out of my element on more than one occasion.
It was great to have a reliable vehicle that no one cared about getting scratched – and boy did we scratch it. I think I already mentioned that I had all four wheels off the ground at least once or twice during my tenure at The Wilds.
The funniest thing about Old Blue, though, was that it was being held together by bailing wire. Duct tape wasn’t quite as popular back then, and of course, when you’re on a farm, you use what you have lying about. To look at the engine was to look at a tangle of bailing wire, and yet that truck would start every time.
It was also funny that more pieces of the truck would be missing almost every time I got in it. One time it would be the cigarette lighter. The next it was the gear shift knob. One day the glove compartment was missing its door. The next day a visor would be gone.
The most dramatic missing piece was part of the driver’s seat. To be honest, it wasn’t missing – it had been eaten by coyotes (I kid you not.). It sure made for an uncomfortable ride from then on, though, just sitting on the springs.
And yes, that truck took me out of my element. It was the manner by which we hauled away fish guts (heavy and stinky); it was the manner by which we herded the buffalo (yee haw); and it was one way we redistributed heavy picnic tables for each weekend (depending on the size of each visiting group).
It’s healthy to get out of your element, but it’s certainly nice to have the freedom to bring those elements into your comfort zone, as well.
16. Air Force Internship
For two summers, I applied for and got an internship with an environmental company contracted with the United States Air Force. Our office was kind of the public relations office of the organization. We produced videos for briefings, wrote and published fact papers, wrote articles for the base newspaper, and guided tours.
One of my duties was to guide the tours around base. Our tours were specifically designed to take people to all the environmental experiments and initiatives around the base. We would often find ourselves at our nature trails and ponds, our wind energy experiments, the superfund clean-up project of our polluted aquifer, and the sewage plant. It was a great challenge to be able to talk to high school students in one tour, graduate students in the next, and visiting officers in the next. We often took the tours in one of our experimental, alternative-energy vehicles. I had the opportunity to drive solar, electric, and compressed natural gas vehicles.
In our office, I had quite a bit of free time. Rather than go to sleep and drool on something important, I decided to start some projects of my own. For one, I simply designed some letterheads for the office. Since we were a special section on base, I felt like I could take some liberties and have some fun with the design, so instead of putting a jet with the base logo, I made it a paper airplane. I think the office is still using the same letterhead even today.
I also designed a children’s activity book with several pages to explain the environmental initiatives at Tinker Air Force Base. It was a fun project for me and provided me with an experience in making difficult concepts understandable for elementary aged kids. The internship was designed for high school science teachers, so I was privileged to have the opportunity as an elementary teacher instead. I attempted to design my own experience, unique enough to allow me to create elementary projects.
One of my duties was to guide the tours around base. Our tours were specifically designed to take people to all the environmental experiments and initiatives around the base. We would often find ourselves at our nature trails and ponds, our wind energy experiments, the superfund clean-up project of our polluted aquifer, and the sewage plant. It was a great challenge to be able to talk to high school students in one tour, graduate students in the next, and visiting officers in the next. We often took the tours in one of our experimental, alternative-energy vehicles. I had the opportunity to drive solar, electric, and compressed natural gas vehicles.
In our office, I had quite a bit of free time. Rather than go to sleep and drool on something important, I decided to start some projects of my own. For one, I simply designed some letterheads for the office. Since we were a special section on base, I felt like I could take some liberties and have some fun with the design, so instead of putting a jet with the base logo, I made it a paper airplane. I think the office is still using the same letterhead even today.
I also designed a children’s activity book with several pages to explain the environmental initiatives at Tinker Air Force Base. It was a fun project for me and provided me with an experience in making difficult concepts understandable for elementary aged kids. The internship was designed for high school science teachers, so I was privileged to have the opportunity as an elementary teacher instead. I attempted to design my own experience, unique enough to allow me to create elementary projects.
15. Furniture Warehouse
There was an advertisement in the Help Wanted section of the Daily Oklahoman for furniture buyer. The ad was posted by the largest furniture store in Oklahoma City. After failing to get into my field of expertise, I decided to go out on a limb and interview for this position, thinking that, if nothing else, maybe I could get some paid travel experience with this job. And, in a way, wheeling and dealing actually did require skills in communication.
The interviewer said he liked me and he wanted to hire me, but said he had no buyer positions currently available (strange since it was in the newspaper, but I was young and too naive to realize what was happening). He said he would start me in a different position and move me up when the position became available. Soon I would be selling on the floor or buying from wholesalers across our great nation!
He put me on the second floor of a huge warehouse attached to the sales galleries. And I did some heavy lifting (I know how hard that is to believe.). When a customer purchased a china cabinet, dresser, couch, etc., a call would come on a loudspeaker, and I was suppose to locate the item (amidst thousands of boxes) and tote it to a conveyor belt to the ground floor to be picked up. No forklifts and no air conditioning!
After the first day, I was trying to think of something – anything else – to do with my life.
The guys I worked with made my experience even worse with their constant profanities and talk about their explicit encounters with various women. Some even had hiding places – little forts, if you will – amidst the boxes of the warehouse. They would duck into these places in order to do drugs. And all of us had been promised advancement into more prestigious jobs on the sales floor or as buyers! Now I knew what kind of people I was working with, but I also found out what kind of people I was working for.
After one week, on my drive home, I recalled that I had been good with the school groups that visited The Wilds. I planned the educational program at The Wilds and had truly connected with the elementary students there. I wondered what I needed to do to acquire an elementary teaching certificate. I decided to look into it.
After one month, I quit the furniture warehouse. And I never looked back!
The interviewer said he liked me and he wanted to hire me, but said he had no buyer positions currently available (strange since it was in the newspaper, but I was young and too naive to realize what was happening). He said he would start me in a different position and move me up when the position became available. Soon I would be selling on the floor or buying from wholesalers across our great nation!
He put me on the second floor of a huge warehouse attached to the sales galleries. And I did some heavy lifting (I know how hard that is to believe.). When a customer purchased a china cabinet, dresser, couch, etc., a call would come on a loudspeaker, and I was suppose to locate the item (amidst thousands of boxes) and tote it to a conveyor belt to the ground floor to be picked up. No forklifts and no air conditioning!
After the first day, I was trying to think of something – anything else – to do with my life.
The guys I worked with made my experience even worse with their constant profanities and talk about their explicit encounters with various women. Some even had hiding places – little forts, if you will – amidst the boxes of the warehouse. They would duck into these places in order to do drugs. And all of us had been promised advancement into more prestigious jobs on the sales floor or as buyers! Now I knew what kind of people I was working with, but I also found out what kind of people I was working for.
After one week, on my drive home, I recalled that I had been good with the school groups that visited The Wilds. I planned the educational program at The Wilds and had truly connected with the elementary students there. I wondered what I needed to do to acquire an elementary teaching certificate. I decided to look into it.
After one month, I quit the furniture warehouse. And I never looked back!
14. Fleeting Titles
It wasn’t long before I became the manager of the outdoor section at The Wilds. I was responsible for making schedules, balancing the cash, ordering the fish and other inventory, arranging for advertising, organizing special events, and doing all the other things I had already done. It made for some great long hours (many times 12 or 14), mostly during the summer months.
After a while I developed a program for schools and daycares. Groups could schedule visits to The Wilds, and I would take them on educational tours. This program was amazingly successful, and The Wilds became a popular field trip destination. Kids could gather eggs and pet the farm animals, play old time games, visit our wild animal collection and the grist mill, take a nature hike, have a hot dog or sack lunch, and take a hayride through the buffalo pasture, all for a pretty reasonable fee. The program and tour was my creation.
Unfortunately, however, my two titles – Park Manager and Education Director – were short lived. This was in the 1980s and banks across the nation were failing. Loans were being called in, and The Wilds was stuck in a tight spot. In all the dreaming of what the place could become, the Wilds family had purchased a full-size train – engine, cars, and all the amenities – and was ready to lay track, when the bank called their loan. The money to pay the loan simply wasn’t there or even expected to be available for several years, so the company had to make some difficult and heart-breaking decisions. This was a dark spot on a bright dream.
After struggling along with a company in which I would have advanced quickly, I finally came to the decision that I had to make something else happen for my life. I had to find another job – preferably something that would allow me to use my Communications degree – and it wasn’t teaching.
After a while I developed a program for schools and daycares. Groups could schedule visits to The Wilds, and I would take them on educational tours. This program was amazingly successful, and The Wilds became a popular field trip destination. Kids could gather eggs and pet the farm animals, play old time games, visit our wild animal collection and the grist mill, take a nature hike, have a hot dog or sack lunch, and take a hayride through the buffalo pasture, all for a pretty reasonable fee. The program and tour was my creation.
Unfortunately, however, my two titles – Park Manager and Education Director – were short lived. This was in the 1980s and banks across the nation were failing. Loans were being called in, and The Wilds was stuck in a tight spot. In all the dreaming of what the place could become, the Wilds family had purchased a full-size train – engine, cars, and all the amenities – and was ready to lay track, when the bank called their loan. The money to pay the loan simply wasn’t there or even expected to be available for several years, so the company had to make some difficult and heart-breaking decisions. This was a dark spot on a bright dream.
After struggling along with a company in which I would have advanced quickly, I finally came to the decision that I had to make something else happen for my life. I had to find another job – preferably something that would allow me to use my Communications degree – and it wasn’t teaching.
13. Sheila
It’s not often I write about a special female in my life, but Sheila is different and deserves a brief mention here since I met her at The Wilds. We didn’t know each other for long, but Sheila is unforgettable. She was a blond, and though she had a ravenous appetite, she always maintained a sleek, beautiful figure. Sheila was gentle, but also enjoyed wrestling. She stood taller than my height, but only when we danced. She loved the lake and often went skinny dipping during off-hours when we were closed.
Sheila was a full-grown, African lion. A soldier was being shipped to Iraq to push back Saddam’s military machine in the late 1980s, and his “pet” lion needed caring for. Since The Wilds already had the licensing necessary for keeping “wild” animals and the facility and ability to feed Sheila, we took on the temporary task. I didn’t like the idea. Our animals were native animals from the American West, and an African lion had no place upsetting our theme. Nevertheless, I was not the boss.
Of course, I fell in love with this magnificent creature and often found myself petting her through her pen. Watching her rip the meat off bones gave me a respect for her sharp teeth and claws, but when not eating, Sheila was about the most gentle “pet” I’ve ever encountered. She would take real care to avoid hurting any of us who “handled” her, although watching her on a rope-”leash” with Steve Wilds was a hilarious scene.
Steve was probably around 70 years old at the time. And gutsy. One afternoon I watched him hook the leash onto Sheila’s collar and take her out of her pen. Sheila loved the freedom to stretch her legs and get some exercise. Down by the lake shore, she took well to the water, frolicking and splashing. She began to sprint through the water a little too quickly for Steve, and soon he was down. Splash! Soon he was being dragged through the water like a skier who lost his skis. To his credit, he never let go of that rope though, and was laughing when he returned her to her cage. I believe he could have let her off the leash and she would have played and returned to her pen when we called her.
One afternoon (I don’t know what possessed me.), I allowed Sheila to stand up on her hind legs and put her front paws on my shoulders. This was one heavy cat, and she stood a good foot above me. We danced for a little while like that and wrestled around a bit, until I realized my arm was in her mouth. Up to the elbow. I remember consciously thinking, “Hmm. It’s probably not a good idea to have my hand in a lion’s mouth. Perhaps I should remove it.” Yes, I actually thought those words before taking my hand out of the lion’s mouth. Believe it or not. (I wish I had pictures to prove it.)
Sheila really wasn’t a part of any of my jobs, but she is a memory associated with my time at The Wilds. She just serves as a reminder that some books can’t be judged by their covers or even by their first chapters. Our students are like that, as well. Sometimes the images they project at Open House, when they come in with their parents, are not who they are going to be in our classes. Like with Sheila, we might be expecting a lion, only to get a kitty cat instead.
Sheila was a full-grown, African lion. A soldier was being shipped to Iraq to push back Saddam’s military machine in the late 1980s, and his “pet” lion needed caring for. Since The Wilds already had the licensing necessary for keeping “wild” animals and the facility and ability to feed Sheila, we took on the temporary task. I didn’t like the idea. Our animals were native animals from the American West, and an African lion had no place upsetting our theme. Nevertheless, I was not the boss.
Of course, I fell in love with this magnificent creature and often found myself petting her through her pen. Watching her rip the meat off bones gave me a respect for her sharp teeth and claws, but when not eating, Sheila was about the most gentle “pet” I’ve ever encountered. She would take real care to avoid hurting any of us who “handled” her, although watching her on a rope-”leash” with Steve Wilds was a hilarious scene.
Steve was probably around 70 years old at the time. And gutsy. One afternoon I watched him hook the leash onto Sheila’s collar and take her out of her pen. Sheila loved the freedom to stretch her legs and get some exercise. Down by the lake shore, she took well to the water, frolicking and splashing. She began to sprint through the water a little too quickly for Steve, and soon he was down. Splash! Soon he was being dragged through the water like a skier who lost his skis. To his credit, he never let go of that rope though, and was laughing when he returned her to her cage. I believe he could have let her off the leash and she would have played and returned to her pen when we called her.
One afternoon (I don’t know what possessed me.), I allowed Sheila to stand up on her hind legs and put her front paws on my shoulders. This was one heavy cat, and she stood a good foot above me. We danced for a little while like that and wrestled around a bit, until I realized my arm was in her mouth. Up to the elbow. I remember consciously thinking, “Hmm. It’s probably not a good idea to have my hand in a lion’s mouth. Perhaps I should remove it.” Yes, I actually thought those words before taking my hand out of the lion’s mouth. Believe it or not. (I wish I had pictures to prove it.)
Sheila really wasn’t a part of any of my jobs, but she is a memory associated with my time at The Wilds. She just serves as a reminder that some books can’t be judged by their covers or even by their first chapters. Our students are like that, as well. Sometimes the images they project at Open House, when they come in with their parents, are not who they are going to be in our classes. Like with Sheila, we might be expecting a lion, only to get a kitty cat instead.
12. Hayrides
I couldn’t always find the buffalo herd when pulling a hayride, but I certainly tried. At times I would meander all over one of the pastures looking for them. We had roughly 40 head and they usually had six or eight calves every spring, so you would think they would be easy to find.
I really enjoyed driving our tractor-pulled hay wagon through the herd though, sometimes stopping smack in the middle of them, jumping down from my seat, and telling the riders about the herd and answering questions. This would likely be the closest most people would get to one of these creatures.
We also had a buffalo wallow on the property from historic times in the past. Our wallow wasn’t on the usual path of a hayride, though, so it was seldom seen by the public. They certainly wouldn’t know what they were looking at unless we told them, though, as it just looked like an indention in the side of a shallow hill. The wallow was a place where ancient herds would stop and lie down for a while, throwing sand around and trying to stay cool. At times, according to Lynn, our herd would still use the wallow, although I never saw this.
It occurs to me that students are like those people. They often don’t know what they are looking at until we go through some steps with them. Hopefully then their path is illuminated by knowledge and developed processes to the point that they can survive without us.
One of the fun things I got to do was herd the buffalo using a variety of methods. First, as you know, I drove Old Blue. This became frightening on one occasion when I actually jumped the truck off the ground a few inches, scaring myself to death (or at least close to it). Another way to herd was by three-wheeler. Our ground was terraced pretty well in order to control drainage, and the three-wheeler, too, can off the ground several times. Lastly, I discovered I could herd the critters on foot as long as I had a place to retreat to if necessary. I never had to retreat, however, and always kept the animals at a pretty good distance.
I really enjoyed driving our tractor-pulled hay wagon through the herd though, sometimes stopping smack in the middle of them, jumping down from my seat, and telling the riders about the herd and answering questions. This would likely be the closest most people would get to one of these creatures.
We also had a buffalo wallow on the property from historic times in the past. Our wallow wasn’t on the usual path of a hayride, though, so it was seldom seen by the public. They certainly wouldn’t know what they were looking at unless we told them, though, as it just looked like an indention in the side of a shallow hill. The wallow was a place where ancient herds would stop and lie down for a while, throwing sand around and trying to stay cool. At times, according to Lynn, our herd would still use the wallow, although I never saw this.
It occurs to me that students are like those people. They often don’t know what they are looking at until we go through some steps with them. Hopefully then their path is illuminated by knowledge and developed processes to the point that they can survive without us.
One of the fun things I got to do was herd the buffalo using a variety of methods. First, as you know, I drove Old Blue. This became frightening on one occasion when I actually jumped the truck off the ground a few inches, scaring myself to death (or at least close to it). Another way to herd was by three-wheeler. Our ground was terraced pretty well in order to control drainage, and the three-wheeler, too, can off the ground several times. Lastly, I discovered I could herd the critters on foot as long as I had a place to retreat to if necessary. I never had to retreat, however, and always kept the animals at a pretty good distance.
11. Buffalo
Any mention of my job at The Wilds must include some thoughts about the buffalo, or to be more accurate, the American bison.
One morning, I arrived to open the baithouse and entry gate. When I parked and got out of my car, I heard a regular, repetitive, low growling-grunting sound coming from the direction lake. Looking in that direction, I saw something that would have made a beautiful post card or one of those inspirational posters. The lake had a terrific low fog lying around it, and spread across it were some dark mounds – the source of the sounds I was hearing. Upon closer inspection, I realized the mounds were the heads and humps of our herd of buffalo swimming across the lake. Steam rose from their thick nostrils as they breathed. Simply put, it was a distinctly American scene. I will never forget it.
After my awe, I had to admit to myself that these critters didn’t belong there. Normally I would have started my day by scouring the property for garbage before opening for the public. On this day, I needed to get the buffalo into an area that wouldn’t soon be host to the general public.
The buffalo had a habit of getting out of their pasture (which was huge) and getting into the public areas. Before I was employed at The Wilds, the buffalo had crossed four counties, busting through fences and eating through barns on the way. On one occasion, they visited the restaurant, and one of them placed its head against one of the large windows. Thankfully, the glass cracked but did not break. I’m sure the diners that evening got a pretty good show.
One busy weekend, we were loaded with hundreds of guests when I spotted the buffalo moving behind the grist mill. I quickly went into action, knowing they were about to swim the lake and come face-to-face with some unsuspecting (and possibly litigious) fishermen. Hopping in Old Blue (our clunker Ford pickup, which I must write about in the future) and headed through the crowds, across the covered bridge, through the corral, and onto the other side of the lake. I had to try to warn the people that they needed to evacuate, and then I would try to keep the people away from the buffalo.
I’m not sure what happened, but the animals were spooked into a different direction and instead of swimming the lake, they stormed across the covered bridge (giving some more people stories to write home about) and into the pasture where I was with Old Blue. I was sweating in so many different ways until some other employees arrived to take over.
Another day, I was talking to Lynn Wilds about the possibility of building a giant Ewok-like tree house in one of our forested areas. When we entered the forest, we noticed a young buffalo calf looking at us with its dark eyes. We froze in our tracks, and Lynn asked, “Where’s Mama?” It didn’t take long for Mama to answer him. And we were in the middle, between Mama and baby! Lynn told me to run, but not too fast, to get out of the way. We trotted backward as Mama kicked up dirt and blew fire out of her nose (OK, so there was no actual fire, but you get the idea.). She took a couple of galloping steps toward us, but stopped when we were out of her way and she could get to her calf. The funny thing was, the herd was supposed to be in the other pasture. Oh well. And we never talked about the tree house idea again.
Sometimes I feel like things are going like that in my classroom. My plans can change on the head of a dime. Kids can be distracted and have to be redirected. And at the end of the day, I often feel as if I’ve been trampled in a stampede. Plans don’t always work as planned, but we often end up with a good story to tell.
One morning, I arrived to open the baithouse and entry gate. When I parked and got out of my car, I heard a regular, repetitive, low growling-grunting sound coming from the direction lake. Looking in that direction, I saw something that would have made a beautiful post card or one of those inspirational posters. The lake had a terrific low fog lying around it, and spread across it were some dark mounds – the source of the sounds I was hearing. Upon closer inspection, I realized the mounds were the heads and humps of our herd of buffalo swimming across the lake. Steam rose from their thick nostrils as they breathed. Simply put, it was a distinctly American scene. I will never forget it.
After my awe, I had to admit to myself that these critters didn’t belong there. Normally I would have started my day by scouring the property for garbage before opening for the public. On this day, I needed to get the buffalo into an area that wouldn’t soon be host to the general public.
The buffalo had a habit of getting out of their pasture (which was huge) and getting into the public areas. Before I was employed at The Wilds, the buffalo had crossed four counties, busting through fences and eating through barns on the way. On one occasion, they visited the restaurant, and one of them placed its head against one of the large windows. Thankfully, the glass cracked but did not break. I’m sure the diners that evening got a pretty good show.
One busy weekend, we were loaded with hundreds of guests when I spotted the buffalo moving behind the grist mill. I quickly went into action, knowing they were about to swim the lake and come face-to-face with some unsuspecting (and possibly litigious) fishermen. Hopping in Old Blue (our clunker Ford pickup, which I must write about in the future) and headed through the crowds, across the covered bridge, through the corral, and onto the other side of the lake. I had to try to warn the people that they needed to evacuate, and then I would try to keep the people away from the buffalo.
I’m not sure what happened, but the animals were spooked into a different direction and instead of swimming the lake, they stormed across the covered bridge (giving some more people stories to write home about) and into the pasture where I was with Old Blue. I was sweating in so many different ways until some other employees arrived to take over.
Another day, I was talking to Lynn Wilds about the possibility of building a giant Ewok-like tree house in one of our forested areas. When we entered the forest, we noticed a young buffalo calf looking at us with its dark eyes. We froze in our tracks, and Lynn asked, “Where’s Mama?” It didn’t take long for Mama to answer him. And we were in the middle, between Mama and baby! Lynn told me to run, but not too fast, to get out of the way. We trotted backward as Mama kicked up dirt and blew fire out of her nose (OK, so there was no actual fire, but you get the idea.). She took a couple of galloping steps toward us, but stopped when we were out of her way and she could get to her calf. The funny thing was, the herd was supposed to be in the other pasture. Oh well. And we never talked about the tree house idea again.
Sometimes I feel like things are going like that in my classroom. My plans can change on the head of a dime. Kids can be distracted and have to be redirected. And at the end of the day, I often feel as if I’ve been trampled in a stampede. Plans don’t always work as planned, but we often end up with a good story to tell.
10. Hay Maze
The Wilds had an Autumn tradition. Every year, they constructed a hay maze in the barn. Normally the barn was open for people to visit the animals, but every fall it became something like no one could imagine. The entire center area became a maze.
The first step was to roll out carpet on the floor of the barn (because we were a classy operation with the only carpeted hay maze in town). Next, we arranged bales of hay into a maze pattern on top of the carpet, taking into account that we would need ventilation inside the maze.
When groups visited to have a bonfire and a hayride, they could also opt to visit the hay maze for another dollar. After a brief explanation of the rules (no flames, etc.), they could enter the maze, crawling on all fours. With no light in the maze, sometimes they would crawl through the darkness for up to a half-hour without finding their way to the exit.
Then I got involved and decided the hay maze should be supersized. We made the maze two bales high as usual, but this time we made it double decker. I also installed PVC pipes extending from each corner of the maze to a centralized worker area; this way we could listen to various parts of the maze without actually being inside. We could also talk to people in spooky voices. With alert listening we would even learn the names of our “victims” and then call to them from every part of the maze.
The first part of the maze took visitors past the chicken coop on the right side. I made the other side not with a bale of hay but with another frame of chicken wire that faced the employee access area. As our guests felt around the wire, I could scratch at the carpet and growl a little bit to paralyze them in their tracks.
Most people would keep going straight until they came to resistance. Knowing this, we emptied the regular hay storage area of the barn and made a huge open area of loose hay. Unfortunately, people would bunch up in this “room” not being able to find the opening to the rest of the maze, and we would have to talk them out through the PVC. Once I even caught an indiscreet couple in that room indiscreetly starting to do something questionable.
At some point they would have to find their way up the ramp. The ramp, also carpeted, had a small opening on the side large enough that the employee had access to talk to people or reach inside. My grandfather worked this section for this year, and he discovered the only thing he had to do to scare the people was keep his hand on some ice and then reach through the opening. People would crawl on the ramp, their hand would land on his ice cold digits, and they would freak out.
The ramp was wide enough that there was a row of bales in the center dividing the up from the down. People thought they were backtracking when they went up one side and down another, and they would get more and more confused. Amazingly, there was a side exit at the bottom of the ramp that people had to find to enter the last part of the maze. Again, they tended to go forward until meeting resistance, but they had to feel around on the sides to find all the right routes to the exit.
Darkness was all we needed to scare people out of their wits. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to put themselves through something like that, let alone pay for the privilege.
We had an employee cookout at the end of the season, and we sent the waitresses from the restaurant through the maze. Right or wrong, David Wilds took one of our new piglets (old enough to run wild) and shoved it into the maze with the girls. I don’t know who scream louder, the pig or the girls, and I think that was the last time we could use the maze that season due to the waitress-shaped holes through the outer walls. Not only were they scared to death; they also didn’t like it when the pig lost control of its bowels in the maze. It must have been absolute torture.
The hay maze is one of my fondest memories of working at The Wilds. It fed my desire to be creative with the space that I have been allotted.
The first step was to roll out carpet on the floor of the barn (because we were a classy operation with the only carpeted hay maze in town). Next, we arranged bales of hay into a maze pattern on top of the carpet, taking into account that we would need ventilation inside the maze.
When groups visited to have a bonfire and a hayride, they could also opt to visit the hay maze for another dollar. After a brief explanation of the rules (no flames, etc.), they could enter the maze, crawling on all fours. With no light in the maze, sometimes they would crawl through the darkness for up to a half-hour without finding their way to the exit.
Then I got involved and decided the hay maze should be supersized. We made the maze two bales high as usual, but this time we made it double decker. I also installed PVC pipes extending from each corner of the maze to a centralized worker area; this way we could listen to various parts of the maze without actually being inside. We could also talk to people in spooky voices. With alert listening we would even learn the names of our “victims” and then call to them from every part of the maze.
The first part of the maze took visitors past the chicken coop on the right side. I made the other side not with a bale of hay but with another frame of chicken wire that faced the employee access area. As our guests felt around the wire, I could scratch at the carpet and growl a little bit to paralyze them in their tracks.
Most people would keep going straight until they came to resistance. Knowing this, we emptied the regular hay storage area of the barn and made a huge open area of loose hay. Unfortunately, people would bunch up in this “room” not being able to find the opening to the rest of the maze, and we would have to talk them out through the PVC. Once I even caught an indiscreet couple in that room indiscreetly starting to do something questionable.
At some point they would have to find their way up the ramp. The ramp, also carpeted, had a small opening on the side large enough that the employee had access to talk to people or reach inside. My grandfather worked this section for this year, and he discovered the only thing he had to do to scare the people was keep his hand on some ice and then reach through the opening. People would crawl on the ramp, their hand would land on his ice cold digits, and they would freak out.
The ramp was wide enough that there was a row of bales in the center dividing the up from the down. People thought they were backtracking when they went up one side and down another, and they would get more and more confused. Amazingly, there was a side exit at the bottom of the ramp that people had to find to enter the last part of the maze. Again, they tended to go forward until meeting resistance, but they had to feel around on the sides to find all the right routes to the exit.
Darkness was all we needed to scare people out of their wits. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to put themselves through something like that, let alone pay for the privilege.
We had an employee cookout at the end of the season, and we sent the waitresses from the restaurant through the maze. Right or wrong, David Wilds took one of our new piglets (old enough to run wild) and shoved it into the maze with the girls. I don’t know who scream louder, the pig or the girls, and I think that was the last time we could use the maze that season due to the waitress-shaped holes through the outer walls. Not only were they scared to death; they also didn’t like it when the pig lost control of its bowels in the maze. It must have been absolute torture.
The hay maze is one of my fondest memories of working at The Wilds. It fed my desire to be creative with the space that I have been allotted.
9. Catfish Chow
Occasionally it would fall upon me to feed the fish. I would go to the feed shed to get a huge bag of Purina Catfish Chow, and yes that’s a real product. I would tote the bag out to the paddleboat dock and toss it onto a boat. After paddling to the middle of the ten-acre lake, I would open the bag and start to throw out the feed. The fish would waste no time coming to dinner.
Huge catfish bubbled and slapped the surface of the water all around the paddleboat. Catfish with six-inch mouths or more would come to the surface to chow down. It could be a pretty scary experience. It was amazing to see how many of our fish were actually albino. It was always fun to take someone out who hadn’t seen such a thing before.
It’s the same way with teaching. Helping children experience something for the first time is simply awesome.
Huge catfish bubbled and slapped the surface of the water all around the paddleboat. Catfish with six-inch mouths or more would come to the surface to chow down. It could be a pretty scary experience. It was amazing to see how many of our fish were actually albino. It was always fun to take someone out who hadn’t seen such a thing before.
It’s the same way with teaching. Helping children experience something for the first time is simply awesome.
8. Entertaining Guests
Entertaining guests at the Wilds was one of the most interesting parts of the job. We often had visits from the governor or lieutenant governor and their guests, news anchors and their families, and school groups. We also hosted all kinds of groups. I remember a group from the University of Oklahoma. A professor brought out an English-As-a-Second-Language class, and I took them on a tour.
Attempting to communicate with people who spoke different languages was difficult. I remember distinctly passing by a cage in which I had placed a possum earlier in the day. When we passed, of course, the possum was asleep. I mentioned to the group that she was “playing possum”, and that opened a tremendous discussion between the students and their teacher. They had no idea what playing possum meant – especially since they knew not what a possum was in the first place.
Attempting to communicate with people who spoke different languages was difficult. I remember distinctly passing by a cage in which I had placed a possum earlier in the day. When we passed, of course, the possum was asleep. I mentioned to the group that she was “playing possum”, and that opened a tremendous discussion between the students and their teacher. They had no idea what playing possum meant – especially since they knew not what a possum was in the first place.
7. A Fish Farm
Starting at ground level meant I was aspiring to something greater. Lynn Wilds was the one who hired me, but he saw in me something that he could use in the future. As I wrote, I started by selling bait and skinning catfish. Strangely, I didn’t mind, and I quickly fell into a pattern of really enjoying myself in this new job.
Not being a fisherman myself, I would have never thought I would enjoy reaching into a catfish and scooping out its bowels. Folks would visit with their poles, and they would fish in our lake or pond. Required to keep every fish they caught, they would pay for their catch by the pound. Then they would take their fish home, either as is or cleaned.
When they paid us an extra fee, we would skin and fillet their catches for them. I took many trips down the hill to the “skinning shed”. Placing the catch in a sink, I could remove one fish at a time, bonk it on the head with a huge wrench, and hook it on the stainless steel counter. After a couple of slices behind the gills, a quick tug of the t-shirt, a peel of the skin down the body, a twist of the head to sever it from the body, and a scoop of the “guts”, the fish was ready to go. If the patron wanted the fish filleted, it only took a notch and a cut along the ribs, and the meat was off the bone. A rinse and a plastic bag later, and the fisherman’s catch was ready for the skillet.
I mastered this skill to the point that I could skin each fish in under a minute and then take another minute to fillet it. You can imagine it looked a little bit like a Japanese table chef, throwing knives in the air and slapping the counter with fish bits. Patrons would gather at the door and window to the “skinning shed” to watch the show. We had all kinds of patter we would give and even the occasional song. We gladly answered questions and even stopped to educate younger visitors about fish anatomy. When two or three of us worked together at the task, things moved along like a machine. We could toss fish through the air, over each other’s heads, to deliver them to the next step in the process.
One of my jobs became to order fish to stock the pond and lake. In a good summer, I could order one or two thousand pounds of fish from a farm in Mississippi. The fish would come on a truck, and the driver would stick a “channel” into the side to allow the fish to slide into the water. Our patrons caught fish fairly easily on most days so we had to keep the pond and lake stocked regularly. Some thought we starved the fish in order to make them more inclined to bite a hook. Untrue. Actually, feeding the fish was another part of my job on several occasions.
When we stocked the lake, we could also stock a “runway”. People would often eat at the restaurant and then walk through our park. Most of their walks took them beside the runway to the waterwheel on the grist mill. They were always amazed by the size of the fish we kept in the runway. In fact, we only stocked with fish that were, on average, two pounds (often up to five or six). If a fisherman couldn’t catch fish (or if someone wanted fish but didn’t want to fish), I could lower the water level in the runway and noodle a fish or two with my bare hands. On less adventurous days, I would use a giant net to scoop out some fish. I would even throw the fish to someone if he wanted to claim that he actually “caught” them. It was the freshest way to buy fish, have fun catching them, and still pay about what you would in the grocery store.
On one Labor Day, after I became manager of the park, my fish cleaner failed to show up to work, and I had to pull double duty. My double duty quickly became a single duty – cleaning fish. I started with an empty drum and began filling it with fish guts and heads as I made my way through dozens of catches. There were hundreds of fishermen that day, and the fish were biting like crazy. I didn’t take a break all day, and ended up filling the 55-gallon gut barrel and covering my apron with fish blood.
Yet the day was somehow rewarding. I think, as much as it might have seemed horrible and disgusting to a lot of people (including myself at first), this job was rewarding because I made it into more than it was. Basically, I created a character, and I entertained and educated people as they watched. I would love to have the chance to get back into that shed and fill some more gut barrels. In fact, I still have the occasional dream about it.
That’s what’s rewarding about any job actually. If you have the freedom to make it your own, you can own the job instead of the job owning you.
Not being a fisherman myself, I would have never thought I would enjoy reaching into a catfish and scooping out its bowels. Folks would visit with their poles, and they would fish in our lake or pond. Required to keep every fish they caught, they would pay for their catch by the pound. Then they would take their fish home, either as is or cleaned.
When they paid us an extra fee, we would skin and fillet their catches for them. I took many trips down the hill to the “skinning shed”. Placing the catch in a sink, I could remove one fish at a time, bonk it on the head with a huge wrench, and hook it on the stainless steel counter. After a couple of slices behind the gills, a quick tug of the t-shirt, a peel of the skin down the body, a twist of the head to sever it from the body, and a scoop of the “guts”, the fish was ready to go. If the patron wanted the fish filleted, it only took a notch and a cut along the ribs, and the meat was off the bone. A rinse and a plastic bag later, and the fisherman’s catch was ready for the skillet.
I mastered this skill to the point that I could skin each fish in under a minute and then take another minute to fillet it. You can imagine it looked a little bit like a Japanese table chef, throwing knives in the air and slapping the counter with fish bits. Patrons would gather at the door and window to the “skinning shed” to watch the show. We had all kinds of patter we would give and even the occasional song. We gladly answered questions and even stopped to educate younger visitors about fish anatomy. When two or three of us worked together at the task, things moved along like a machine. We could toss fish through the air, over each other’s heads, to deliver them to the next step in the process.
One of my jobs became to order fish to stock the pond and lake. In a good summer, I could order one or two thousand pounds of fish from a farm in Mississippi. The fish would come on a truck, and the driver would stick a “channel” into the side to allow the fish to slide into the water. Our patrons caught fish fairly easily on most days so we had to keep the pond and lake stocked regularly. Some thought we starved the fish in order to make them more inclined to bite a hook. Untrue. Actually, feeding the fish was another part of my job on several occasions.
When we stocked the lake, we could also stock a “runway”. People would often eat at the restaurant and then walk through our park. Most of their walks took them beside the runway to the waterwheel on the grist mill. They were always amazed by the size of the fish we kept in the runway. In fact, we only stocked with fish that were, on average, two pounds (often up to five or six). If a fisherman couldn’t catch fish (or if someone wanted fish but didn’t want to fish), I could lower the water level in the runway and noodle a fish or two with my bare hands. On less adventurous days, I would use a giant net to scoop out some fish. I would even throw the fish to someone if he wanted to claim that he actually “caught” them. It was the freshest way to buy fish, have fun catching them, and still pay about what you would in the grocery store.
On one Labor Day, after I became manager of the park, my fish cleaner failed to show up to work, and I had to pull double duty. My double duty quickly became a single duty – cleaning fish. I started with an empty drum and began filling it with fish guts and heads as I made my way through dozens of catches. There were hundreds of fishermen that day, and the fish were biting like crazy. I didn’t take a break all day, and ended up filling the 55-gallon gut barrel and covering my apron with fish blood.
Yet the day was somehow rewarding. I think, as much as it might have seemed horrible and disgusting to a lot of people (including myself at first), this job was rewarding because I made it into more than it was. Basically, I created a character, and I entertained and educated people as they watched. I would love to have the chance to get back into that shed and fill some more gut barrels. In fact, I still have the occasional dream about it.
That’s what’s rewarding about any job actually. If you have the freedom to make it your own, you can own the job instead of the job owning you.
6. The Wilds
With my bachelor’s degree in communications in hand, I earned myself a job on a fish farm. What!? Yes, a fish farm – a catfish farm to be more accurate. The Wilds was a family who owned a large portion of land between Oklahoma City and El Reno, along Interstate 40. They had personally hand-built a barn, a covered bridge, a large restaurant, and other things. On the property was a grist mill, complete with a waterwheel, and a set of paddleboats. There were also a half-acre pond and a 10-acre lake, also of which the Wilds formed themselves.
There was a collection of native wild animals, as well, including elk, a timber wolf, rabbits, buffalo, and the regular menagerie of farm animals for the kiddies to enjoy. People visited the place to eat at the restaurant, play old-time firefighter games, pet the animals, ride hayrides through the buffalo pasture, roast hot dogs on bonfires, and fish.
When I interviewed and got the job, I knew I would have to start on the ground level, but it was a position from which I could quickly advance. And I did. I started out selling fish bait, skinning catfish, and greeting visitors. When I left, I was officially titled as the education director and park manager, and my duties were vastly different from when I began. There’s too much to put all of this job in one entry, so come back later for a whole lot more.
There was a collection of native wild animals, as well, including elk, a timber wolf, rabbits, buffalo, and the regular menagerie of farm animals for the kiddies to enjoy. People visited the place to eat at the restaurant, play old-time firefighter games, pet the animals, ride hayrides through the buffalo pasture, roast hot dogs on bonfires, and fish.
When I interviewed and got the job, I knew I would have to start on the ground level, but it was a position from which I could quickly advance. And I did. I started out selling fish bait, skinning catfish, and greeting visitors. When I left, I was officially titled as the education director and park manager, and my duties were vastly different from when I began. There’s too much to put all of this job in one entry, so come back later for a whole lot more.
5. College Work/Study
Well, I haven’t had a lot of jobs in my life. My next job was actually working on campus at the University of Science and Arts of Oklahoma, my college of choice (since the girls outnumbered boys two to one). My main duty was to deliver audiovisual equipment to professors and offices when needed (I’m certain the advent of today’s technology has all but eliminated the need for overhead projectors and tape recorders by now.).
This was how I paid my college bills for room and board, as well as for tuition and books. In fact, my parents paid nothing for my college years due to a couple of really good scholarships and financial aid (of which the work/study program was a part. This job didn’t pay very much, but it actually allowed me some spending money while I was there, and if my memory serves me right (and it often doesn’t), I think I bought my first car (an $800 1967 Chevrolet Biscayne) with some of those earnings.
This was how I paid my college bills for room and board, as well as for tuition and books. In fact, my parents paid nothing for my college years due to a couple of really good scholarships and financial aid (of which the work/study program was a part. This job didn’t pay very much, but it actually allowed me some spending money while I was there, and if my memory serves me right (and it often doesn’t), I think I bought my first car (an $800 1967 Chevrolet Biscayne) with some of those earnings.
4. Ink in My Blood
They say some people – newspaper people – have ink in their blood. It’s what motivates them to do their jobs – to get the stories, to scoop other media outlets, to snap the perfect photo. Some of that may have happened to me when I worked for Mr. D’s little community newspaper in Tuttle, Oklahoma. The next year, during the summer before my senior year in high school, I took a plunge and decided to put out my own weekly paper for the community.
That means I had to do every aspect of producing a newspaper. I sold the advertising. I looked for stories. I wrote the stories. I took the pictures. I typed the copy. I put the copy onto the pages and laid it all out as straight as I could. I took the paper to the printer. I distributed the papers. I kept the finances out of the red (but just barely).
I spoke weekly to the chief of police. I maintained contact with city planners and the city manager. I was able to cross fire and police lines to get closer access for photos of car accidents and fires. I was often on the field during football games or on the sidelines for basketball games (Hey, it got me closer to the cheerleaders, didn’t it?). I even covered the Miss Tuttle competition for a two-page photo essay (It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it!).
Now this, if you can’t tell, was a big operation, and yet it didn’t pay me. I low-priced my advertising so far that the paper barely paid for itself and my gasoline. But I didn’t mind; this job was exciting, and I was my own boss. A self-made man while still in high school.
That means I had to do every aspect of producing a newspaper. I sold the advertising. I looked for stories. I wrote the stories. I took the pictures. I typed the copy. I put the copy onto the pages and laid it all out as straight as I could. I took the paper to the printer. I distributed the papers. I kept the finances out of the red (but just barely).
I spoke weekly to the chief of police. I maintained contact with city planners and the city manager. I was able to cross fire and police lines to get closer access for photos of car accidents and fires. I was often on the field during football games or on the sidelines for basketball games (Hey, it got me closer to the cheerleaders, didn’t it?). I even covered the Miss Tuttle competition for a two-page photo essay (It was a dirty job, but somebody had to do it!).
Now this, if you can’t tell, was a big operation, and yet it didn’t pay me. I low-priced my advertising so far that the paper barely paid for itself and my gasoline. But I didn’t mind; this job was exciting, and I was my own boss. A self-made man while still in high school.
The Tuttlite didn’t survive very far beyond that summer; I just couldn’t keep up with it and enjoy my senior year. However, the publisher of the Tuttle Times, the other newspaper that had been in town somewhere under a hundred years, approached me to hire me to write articles for his paper. He told me that I had almost put him out of business with my little paper, and he wanted to capture some of my talent for himself. That job didn’t last very long, either, with the low wages and my going to college the next year.
I still have every newspaper I published. Though I didn’t make a career in the newspaper business, I still recall 1982 every time I smell fresh newspaper ink.
I still have every newspaper I published. Though I didn’t make a career in the newspaper business, I still recall 1982 every time I smell fresh newspaper ink.
3. The Newspaper Business
During high school, my mom owned a craft supply and consignment shop in Tuttle, Oklahoma. At that time, our little town was a 30 minute drive from Hobby Lobby so people could come to Katy’s Kraft Shak for their supplies. The shop was located in the old Otasco building on Main Street, but was more square footage than we could fill, so mom sublet the extra space to one of the high school teachers. Mr. D was a creative writing and photography teacher and had decided to open an extra business to capitalize on his interests.
His idea? He would publish a community newspaper to compete with the newspaper that Tuttle already had. The current newspaper was headquartered in Chickasha, Oklahoma, also a half-hour away from the town, and rarely had any news in it that wasn’t passed to them by community members. Mr. D was going to change that with his locally-run paper.
It was a weekly publication, and I got to be in on it. I was already interested in the communications field and media, so it worked out pretty well for me, and I learned the ins and outs of the newspaper business. The advent of the computer and really good home publishing was still a few years away, so our newspaper relied on typewritten text and a lot of photos. The paper took off and was fairly popular, but the venture turned out to be too much for Mr. D to handle along with his teaching responsibilities. The paper lasted for less than a year, and a lot of our readers were upset when it folded.
It prompted a new age in newspapers for Tuttle, and it fed my career interests, as well. I had learned enough that year about how to produce and how not to produce a weekly community newspaper, and I started my own, during the summer of my junior year. You can look forward to my writing about that adventure in a future post.
His idea? He would publish a community newspaper to compete with the newspaper that Tuttle already had. The current newspaper was headquartered in Chickasha, Oklahoma, also a half-hour away from the town, and rarely had any news in it that wasn’t passed to them by community members. Mr. D was going to change that with his locally-run paper.
It was a weekly publication, and I got to be in on it. I was already interested in the communications field and media, so it worked out pretty well for me, and I learned the ins and outs of the newspaper business. The advent of the computer and really good home publishing was still a few years away, so our newspaper relied on typewritten text and a lot of photos. The paper took off and was fairly popular, but the venture turned out to be too much for Mr. D to handle along with his teaching responsibilities. The paper lasted for less than a year, and a lot of our readers were upset when it folded.
It prompted a new age in newspapers for Tuttle, and it fed my career interests, as well. I had learned enough that year about how to produce and how not to produce a weekly community newspaper, and I started my own, during the summer of my junior year. You can look forward to my writing about that adventure in a future post.
2. First Job
I guess the first job I had was in junior high and high school. My friend Robbie and I, like so many boys, mowed grass. We were paid by the hour, slightly higher than minimum wage, not to mow lawns, but to mow acreages around new house construction sites. We used manual push mowers, and it was hot, sweaty work.
I remember the grass was usually about a foot tall by the time we were sent in. Before we mowed, we were expected to pick up all the refuse from the subcontractors – bricks, boards, and all kinds of garbage. We would follow each other around in rectangles until one of us ran out of gas. Then we would both stop for a rest. If we were lucky, we could get a drink from the hydrant, but in many cases the water hadn’t been turned on yet.
I guess the thing I learned from that job was that I did not want to have a career that required physical labor. I was a pretty active kid, riding my bike and running from place to place, but I wasn’t interested in muscle work. I wasn’t cut out for it or interested in it any more than I was sports.
At that time I didn’t have any ideas as to what I wanted to be “when I grew up”.
I remember the grass was usually about a foot tall by the time we were sent in. Before we mowed, we were expected to pick up all the refuse from the subcontractors – bricks, boards, and all kinds of garbage. We would follow each other around in rectangles until one of us ran out of gas. Then we would both stop for a rest. If we were lucky, we could get a drink from the hydrant, but in many cases the water hadn’t been turned on yet.
I guess the thing I learned from that job was that I did not want to have a career that required physical labor. I was a pretty active kid, riding my bike and running from place to place, but I wasn’t interested in muscle work. I wasn’t cut out for it or interested in it any more than I was sports.
At that time I didn’t have any ideas as to what I wanted to be “when I grew up”.
1. Something Dad Taught Us
Dad always taught us boys to do our best. No, I take that back – he taught us more than that: he taught us to have pride in whatever we did, and that goes far beyond just doing our best. It didn’t particularly matter what lot we chose in life as long as we had pride in what we did.
That doesn’t indicate that we wanted us to be boastful, or to have the boastful pride that’s condemned in Scripture; it means that we were make sure that when our efforts were seen by others, they were to not to see shoddy work. We could be garbage collectors or orthodontists as long as this was true.
Dad’s teaching is probably also what keeps me from taking sick leave when the going gets tough at school; it’s what keeps me from giving up on difficult tasks; and sometimes it is what gets me frustrated when I see others who don’t hold the same values – in regards to my peers, my students, and parents. Parents, you were a teacher for your children long before I was. Please take a page out of my dad’s playbook – teach them to do their best AND take pride in their efforts.
That doesn’t indicate that we wanted us to be boastful, or to have the boastful pride that’s condemned in Scripture; it means that we were make sure that when our efforts were seen by others, they were to not to see shoddy work. We could be garbage collectors or orthodontists as long as this was true.
Dad’s teaching is probably also what keeps me from taking sick leave when the going gets tough at school; it’s what keeps me from giving up on difficult tasks; and sometimes it is what gets me frustrated when I see others who don’t hold the same values – in regards to my peers, my students, and parents. Parents, you were a teacher for your children long before I was. Please take a page out of my dad’s playbook – teach them to do their best AND take pride in their efforts.
