There are changes swirling in the widening gyre

“Come senators, congressmen, please heed the call / Don’t stand in the doorway don’t block up the hall / For he that gets hurt will be he who has stalled / There’s a battle outside and it is ragin’ / It’ll soon shake your windows and rattle your walls / For the times they are a-changin’” – Bob Dylan

I remember the first time I heard that song, way back in ’64. I was just a kid at the time; girls, shaving and puberty were still years distant. I had heard the word “politics,” but had no idea what it meant. Even so, that song spoke to me on a level I couldn’t begin to understand.

The years sped by beneath the nightly televised specter of Vietnam as I edged ever closer to the age when I, too, would be required to register for the draft.

Was I scared? Hell, yes, I was scared. I did not want to return home in one of those flag-draped caskets I saw on TV every night. I did not want to die for a cause that made no sense to me.

Neither did a lot of young men; some died anyway, including some I called friends. Others protested, raising their voices against a war they saw as senseless. Because of their voices – in part, at least – the war in Vietnam wound down just as I was reaching draft age. I registered but was never inducted.

I later joined up on my own. I liked the military but was never particularly good at being a soldier. I just wanted to serve my country, like my old man, my Uncle Ray, my grandfather, my great-grandfather; all served at one time or another.

But even during my time in uniform I remained thankful to those protestors. The kids gunned down at Kent State, the 100,000 who filled the streets of Washington, D.C. in ’67, the millions more who gathered across the nation … it’s possible I – and a lot of other guys my age – are alive today because those protestors made their voices heard in a way that would not be silenced.

Don’t get me wrong, I never sided with the idiots who spit on our returning troops or screamed “baby killer” from the cozy safety of the sidelines. Too many of my friends and relatives were among those in uniform and I knew them to be good people.

To this day, our Vietnam vets don’t get the respect they earned and deserve, though things are improving. Still, too little, too late, in my opinion.

And now this country is swept up in another polarizing storm. This time the war’s in our own backyard, in our schoolyards, classrooms, hallways. Though the venue has changed, the body bags remain the same. The tears, the televised sobs of parents who will never again see a son, a daughter; the ineffectual, corrupt politicians who extend hopes and prayers rather than meaningful legislation.

For those of us who lived through the Vietnam era, it’s all eerily familiar.

The kind of folks who mistake Facebook memes for wisdom claim that out of every bad thing a good thing comes. I’m not sure that’s true. All the protests over Vietnam, the war itself, the civil rights movement that was happening at the same time; it could be argued they helped birth a better nation than the one we had before; more tolerant, enlightened, equal.

But it was a painful, bloody birth. Was it all worth it? Historians may know; I do not.

I just know it did my heart good to see the recent news photos of those young protestors in Washington and around the country. They’re mad as hell and they should be. To borrow from Yeats, there’s a rough beast running loose in this country and for too long nobody’s done a thing to stop it. Maybe this is the start. Maybe this is the loosened pebble that will grow into an avalanche.

Again, I don’t know. You could fit all the wisdom I possess into a thimble and still have room for your thumb. I don’t know any more about politics now than I did back when Dylan wrote that song.

I own guns myself and not the sort one uses for hunting. But just like in the sixties, I’m sick of seeing body bags. Something’s got to change.

If our leaders lack the courage to make a stand, maybe it’s time history repeats itself. For the first time in a long time I think I feel the ground beginning to swell beneath me.

A change is coming.

MTaylor325@gmail.com

(616) 745-9530

Sometimes, it’s OK to give up your principals and no, that’s not a typo

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away (so it seems to me now) I worked in a classroom filled with third-graders.

Children. Stinky, sticky, noisy children. A whole room full of the little hairless monkeys!

I loved it. Kids are fun and I’ve always enjoyed their company. They’re more honest than adults, more creative, confident. They’re everything we are, but without all the filters and hangups that choke the happiness out of us later in life.

They haven’t had time to put up the walls that we, as adults, spend most of our lives hiding behind.

Sure, by the time they turn 13 or 14, children enter that degenerative process known as puberty, transforming them from “cute kid” to “surly teenager you feel you must ignore in order to avoid killing him with your bare hands,” but that doesn’t last forever. It only seems it does. And once they’re adults, you miss even those teen years. I do, anyway, at least when it comes to my own kids. On the other hand, I do not miss the lilting tones of Dr. Dre and Wu-Tang Clan thumping through the walls of my house.

But I digress. Frequently.

The point is, I loved working in the classroom. I loved the kids, the hours, the summers off with pay, the awesome health insurance (it was back then), the smell of chalk dust. 

What didn’t I love? I can sum that up with a joke my students used to tell: “I don’t mind school, it’s the principal of the thing I can’t stand.”

Now, before you principals get yourselves all lathered up and start writing me nasty letters filled with the sort of edu-speak that would make a thesaurus-writer scratch his head, let me say this: I’ve only worked under one principal and she’s the one I hated. I’m sure there are many administrators who are lovely people, though I wouldn’t want my sister to marry one. Kidding. But seriously, stay away from my sister.

The principal I worked under was simply not my cup of tea. It wasn’t really her fault; it was a personality thing. I had one, she didn’t. (Please feel free to insert “meooooowww!” sound here.)

Sure, I’m being catty, but it is very rare I meet someone I don’t like and I don’t handle it well when it happens. I always assumed she was the worst principal ever. Turns out she’s not even close.

I just read an article about Dana Carter, a principal at Calimesa Elementary School in California’s San Bernardino County. Shortly after accepting the position, Carter decreed (that seems the right word here) that all students must bow down on one knee when addressing him.

The students were to remain kneeling until he “released” them with a wave of his arms. Apparently, there was no scepter involved, but one can only assume it was just a matter of time.

The article didn’t mention his office chair, but I’m guessing it’s ornately carved and at least a few inches higher than the other chairs in his office.

It didn’t take long for parents to complain to the school board and that was the end of King Carter’s reign.

So. Principal that I used to work for, I hereby take back at least one of the many terrible things I have, over the years, said about you. You’re not the worst principal ever.

Now can I have my old job back? I miss those summer vacations.

More of Mike Taylor’s Reality Check online at mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com. Contact: mtaylor325@gmail.com.

The Hug-o-porium is now open for business

As regular readers of this column know (Hi, Carrie and Dave!) I’m always looking for some new way to make enough easy money that I never have to work again. I know, I know, I don’t work all that hard now, but still, not having to work at all would be even better.

I was built — emotionally, intellectually and physically — to experience a pampered, uneventful life of leisure, indulgence and extravagance. I would be immensely happy to while away my days as a trust fund baby, living off the fruits of someone else’s hard work and sacrifice; preferably an uncle who died young, leaving me the bulk of his estate, including a nice castle in England and a big yacht anchored off the coast of Belize. 

I do have a rich uncle, one I haven’t seen since I was a little kid, but he steadfastly refuses to die and even if he did he has kids of his own that will undoubtedly inherit his loot.

There might have been a time, when I was still young and marginally attractive, that I could have enticed a rich widow to marry me, but rich widows are tough to come by in my social circle. Rich widows, it turns out, do not hang out at roadside bars, pawn shops or the third floor walk-up apartments of rock and roll drummers.

Not that it matters. These days, I’m too old and ugly to attract a rich widow, or even a widow with a decent 401K. I might be able to attract a poor widow, but that would do little to advance my goal of living a life of leisure, so what’s the point.

Over the years I’ve come up with several get rich quick schemes, but so far, none have panned out. The reasons for my failures differ from scheme to scheme; some required work, which is what I’m trying to avoid in the first place; other ideas were stolen before I had a chance to implement them (curse you, Pet Rock guy!); and some I foolishly abandoned because they simply seemed too ludicrous to succeed (the career arc of Lady Gaga, for instance).

But now I think I’ve finally found the golden egg, that one, perfect stratagem that’s going to rocket my financial portfolio into that rarified ionosphere shared by guys like Bill Gates and the dude who invented the Ginsu knife.

It’s hugs.

That’s right, hugs, the kind you give your grandchildren or your best buddy after you’ve had too many beers. Plain, old hugs. Nothing erotic, nothing weird; just hugs.

“Now, wait a minute,” you may say. “Hugs are free.”

To which I say: they are … now. For centuries, people have just been giving hugs away, never once stopping to consider their potential monetary value. Until recently, that is.

Administrators at a Kindergarten in China’s Jiangdu District recently figured out that students who receive regular hugs tend to do better academically than do kids who get none. Now, being relatively new to capitalism, the Jiangdu administrators are willing to explore all money-making options.

So they started charging for hugs.

I kid you not. Parents worried about the math scores of their son or daughter may now pay a $12.80 monthly “hugging fee,” which covers two hugs daily, delivered by a teacher who promises to at least appear sincere and caring. The kids whose parents are too cheap to shell out the cash can hug themselves as they slowly circle the academic drain.

Teachers say the hugging program creates a “good mood” for learning, at least for the kids getting the hugs. If the hugless kids don’t like it, they’re free to quit school and get a job in a Shanghai sneaker factory.

This all seems morally ambiguous, at best, but that’s never stopped me before. So, without further ado, I now announce the Grand Opening of Mike Taylor’s Hug-o-porium Deluxe! For only one buck, I will hug you.

The actual length of the hug may vary depending on whether you are an overweight, smelly guy in need of a shave, or a nubile, Swedish stewardess, but rest assured, the hug delivered will be sincere, caring and filled with the genuine empathy that only Mike Taylor’s Hug-o-porium Deluxe can supply.

Visa and Master Card accepted at most locations.

Contact Mike at mtaylor@staffordmediasolutions.com or call (616) 548-8273.

I have too many friends and not enough enemies

Hugga, BT and The Prez—my three best friends from high school—have talked me into going to our upcoming class reunion, number 30-something, I think. I’m not sure why we’re bothering. The four of us have remained close over the long years without any formal reunion hoo-hah; the rest of our graduating class we barely know, or in my case, knew.

My high school career was not distinguished. I skipped so often my 12^th grade history teacher began referring to me, on those rare occasions I showed up for class, as the “prodigal son.” I’d mention his name here, but as I saw him only rarely, I can no longer bring it to mind.

Same goes for most of the rest of my fellow students.

I do remember one kid; he had crazy hair, ala Nicholas Cage in “Raising Arizona.” His hobby was taxidermy and he had a stuffed bullfrog mounted to the dashboard of his Chevy. It might have been posed there with a tiny banjo, but that may just be my memory embellishing the facts.

Then there was the dazzling blonde girl who wore a little silver spoon on a chain around her neck. I was pretty naïve back then and had no idea what that was all about. She had a lot of nervous energy, but I never made the connection until decades later.

These days she’s probably a retired Los Angeles super-model. Or a grandmother. Or both.

And Mady Cody, now there’s a name I remember. We had an art class together and I was madly in (unrequited) love with her. She had a boyfriend in college; girls like her are born with a boyfriend in college. We sat together and talked every day, but I never told her how I felt. She was the little red-haired girl to my Charlie Brown.

Hugga, my friend mentioned in paragraph one, was also in (unrequited) love with her. There was no rivalry there because we both knew she was too good for either of us.

I’m hoping she doesn’t show up at the reunion. As it is, she remains in my mind the ineffable ideal of what a girl should be. If I see her again, I’ll no doubt witness those ravages of time that seem to plague everyone except, ahem, me.

I’m not sure I want reality intruding on my fantasies.

Speaking of fantasies, I’m going to have to come up with a new one to explain everything I’ve been doing since high school. Or maybe not been doing would be a better way to put it.

Reunions—from everything I’ve seen in movies—are supposed to be a time when you return home famous, rich or much-honored, and then rub your former enemies’ noses in it. This isn’t going to work for me as I’m neither rich, famous nor honored. Also, I skipped school so often I never really cultivated any enemies.

On the plus side Anne, my fiancée, will be attending with me, so at least I’ll be with the prettiest woman there. I just wish I had some enemies to make jealous with that fact. All I have are friends, the sort that are happy for my good fortune.

Where’s the fun in that?

More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com. Email Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

The real education takes place during summer vacation

A couple weeks back one of my fellow columnists, Kathy Runyan, wrote a piece in which she implied that, deep down, most kids would rather be in school than on summer vacation. Now, Kathy’s a good friend, a very sweet lady and—in my opinion—the best columnist since Erma Bombeck, but she’s also obviously a little crazy.

Either that, or a girl.

I remember hearing rumors, back when I was toiling away at St. Isadore’s Elementary, that some girls actually liked school. We didn’t have the term “urban myth” at the time, but I assumed it was something like that; a fairy tale invented by girls to further distance themselves from the grimy, skin-kneed rabble that is prepubescent masculinity.

Whatever the case, I do know there are no schoolboys who pine for the chalk-dust-smelling confines of the classroom during summer’s long, temperate months. The school year is a time of vacant stares, watched clocks, irrelevant memorizations and flickering fluorescent lights.

Summer vacation, for a boy at least, is when the real education happens.

Remember that writer, Robert Fulghum, most famous for his book “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten”? Well, all I ever learned in Kindergarten was that I prefer chocolate milk to white, and that you really can eat paste.

The things I really needed to know I learned during summer vacation.

For instance:

- Nothing feels as good as June grass against your bare feet. But there are boards with nails in them out there; care must be taken.

- Crawdad pinchers don’t really hurt that much, but it takes courage and faith to discover this fact for yourself.

- Grapes you pick yourself from wild-growing vines taste better than those you buy in a store, even though they have huge seeds in them and are frequently a little sour. Same goes for strawberries.

- A bicycle can go just as fast as you imagine it can go, and as far.

- A book read in a tree fort on a sultry July afternoon is infinitely superior to any book assigned by your teacher—even if it’s the same book.

- If you lie on a hillside beneath a star-littered night sky and gaze upward long enough, you will see God.

- Like grapes and strawberries, watermelon from the neighbor’s garden tastes better than watermelon from a store. But it also tastes better to your neighbor; don’t expect him to give it up without a fight.

- Skateboards are fun. Sidewalks are hard. It’s the same with life.

- If you sneak one cigarette from your father’s pack on the bedside stand, it won’t kill you. Unless you’re caught.

- Trains, not books, are the preferred transportation of the imagination.

- In the summertime, you sometimes become aware of air, even when there’s no scent upon it but the veiled aroma of faraway times and places.

- Life—despite sour grapes, boards with nails, and the distant shadow that is the resumption of classes in September—is good.

Oh, school serves its purpose, I suppose. We must learn to read and write, after all. But it’s during summer vacation that we learn the things worth reading and writing about.

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or petitions to increase the length of summer vacation, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429. Miss a week? More Reality Check online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.mlive.com/advancenewspapers.