Graph Paper

Being a teacher allows for a unique perspective in retrospect. It allows for some questions to be answered and the ability to continue learning about yourself and the world at large. This is one such incident.

Not too terribly long ago I came into possession of a spiral filled with graph paper. I am sure it is not an unfamiliar aspect of education. Quadrille lined in a light blue ink, three-hole punched, and wire bound in all of its mysterious beauty. Graph paper is absolutely transfixing. Perhaps it is just me, being a teacher and all. I must admit to being a little fixated with office supplies. Besides a bookstore, an office supply store is my favorite place to browse and shop. So it comes as no surprise that this abandoned spiral of pristine graph paper caught my eye, lying there in the deserted hall after a school day. It was too much to pass up.

I snatched it from the once magnificent linoleum floor. It was mine. A simple act brought about a little joy at the end of a tiring day of teaching. It was a proverbial breath of fresh air, putting a little lilt in my step that afternoon. For just a little while, there was a bit more certainty and clarity in my world. Reflecting upon the situation, I cannot explain or define the reason, and I do not want to. It was just enough to experience the feeling.

Of course, the adventure did not end there. A larger question loomed over the horizon. Lurking in the corners and shadows where we must look if we are to truly experience life. My revelry was curbed with the gnawing question of what to do with this newly found treasure. What was I to do with it? Perhaps it is my blue collar blood that everything needs to have a purpose. It is more than just existence. One must have a calling or job to do in this life. The same sentiment fell upon inanimate objects such as this orphaned spiral.

At the time, I was taking some graduate courses. It was inevitable that the thought of using this spiral as my notebook for these courses would come about. It just seemed right, at the time. And it was. It served my educational purposes well…at least until the end of the semester. Of course, the spiral did not even make to being partially, or even half filled with notes, outlines, and rough drafts of responses. Technology is to blame. I have learned the craft of composing on a computer.

However, I still hold strong to pen and paper writing...

Lately, I have tried to pick the spiral back up and utilize it as a sort of journal. Its pedestrian appearance makes it ideal for composing at staff meetings and grade-level conferences. I like to think of it as a form of professional camouflage. It works quite nice, especially in the educational world. More on that another time.

A little history…Like most kids, graph paper beguiled me. It was the utmost enchanting thing to write on once college ruled notebook paper lost in brilliance. There was just something mysterious and enticing about all of those precisely measured out lines. They were begging to be written on, traced over, and asking to hold answers to mathematical problems and scientific inquiries. It was manly to be seen writing on graph paper. Even if it was pulpy science fiction and sappy poetry, at least it was on graph paper. Growing up in the oil fields of East Texas during the ‘80s, this was the parchment of possibility. Engineering was on the minds and mouths of most young boys who were not stellar athletes or stoners.

I suppose I am a victim of my own Romanticism. I cannot look upon a piece of graph paper without it igniting a sense of urgent possibility. A subconscious command to seize it and write comes over me. I suppose there are worse inclinations to be afflicted with. Excavating this particular spiral from one of my desk drawers, I was once again filled with the same expectations that I had when I first picked it up in the hallway of my school.

Fluttering past the pages of notes and rough draft, I quickly came to the first available blank page. And I stared at it. I could think of nothing to write…nothing! At first I thought is was a simple case of writer’s block, a constipated imagination. I was wrong. Something had happened. At first, I didn’t know what it was. While this does not sound overly disconcerting, it was.

Think of a cook or chef looking at fresh produce and meat without being able to conjure up a recipe much less a meal. Or, picture a lifelong fisherman picking up a favorite rod and reel and not get any type of longing for the lake. This was the dilemma I was right in the midst of. It was horrible. Nothing came, and it was debilitatingly painful.

I didn’t know what to do. What happened was a knee-jerk reaction. I quickly closed the spiral and stared at its faded yellow cover in shock. “How could this happen,” I thought. Not that I am immune to writer’s block, but this was something more. It was the paper itself.

The perfectly measured and printed blue, quadrille lined pages were mocking me. I could not write anything upon them. They were just too confining. It was like I could not breathe, much less create. Perhaps this was some sort of existential anxiety attack. I don’t know. Nonetheless, I quickly closed and reshelved the spiral in my office bookcase where it currently resides.

Now, I am not totally sure, but sometimes I feel as if the spiral of graph paper is lodged comfortably in my bookcase fiendishly mocking me. Almost like a nagging failure palpitating like the haunting heart in the short story by Poe. I have asked my family and they have only ended up questioning my sanity or lack thereof. But I swear I can feel it staring at me sometimes, especially when I am at the computer trying to compose a piece of writing…any writing…and laughing.

Needless to say, the spiral still holds a place on my bookshelves. And perhaps one day I will venture into its pages again with more wisdom and confidence that when I originally pulled open its covers. Then again, maybe I won’t. This incident may be one of those mile markers upon the road of life that announces when you have reached a certain stage in life.

Having grown a little older, and hopefully a little wiser, the spiral may not hold as much significance in the future. Perhaps it is something akin to fist fighting. At least for my generation, before the rampant litigation, it was a regular past time for young males. It was a way of defending your honor, friends, and family name, or just proving you had the moxie and wherewithal to brag and swagger just a little. At some point in most men’s lives you outgrow this endeavor. The urge and possibly the ability to fight have been channeled, thankfully, into other activities. Pretty soon, you just don’t care. Some day the need to compose in a graph paper spiral may do the same…just fade away.

Saturday and the Shed

Saturday’s in suburbia are mostly the same. It is chore day that is barring any soccer games or tee times. The only difference from house to house, subdivision to subdivision, city to city, is the addresses and house styles. Actually the chores are all alarmingly similar. Inevitably, the almost always include some form of yard work or home improvement. It is the unwritten rule that housing appearance must be kept up. Of course, in this day and age of lawn and landscaping services and home improvement specialists, most of this work is effectively outsourced. I blame my own generation. Supposedly we are too busy to get all of these chores done. I can’t argue with that. I suppose the teachings of my father are just too well ingrained within me.

Using a lawn/landscaping service or hiring a handyman for simple projects is nothing short of pure emasculation. That is the way I see it. Perhaps this harkens back to some mid-century mentality. I like to think of it as home ownership. Not to sound too dowdy, but that includes responsibility. Anyway, it was fun to be working outside this weekend.

Since we bought out house a little over two years ago, a rusting hulk of a metal outbuilding or shed has been squatting in the far corner of our backyard. You couldn’t escape it. It was like this monolithic beast sitting in silent protest over something that has been long forgotten. Needless to say it has been a point of contention, both internally and externally since we moved it. In fact, we had to sign an official addendum to our mortgage stating that we understood the shed sat right in a utility easement. Great! It had to come down. That was one of my first statements as soon as we signed the papers for the house.

Well, I finally got around to dismantling it. I started during the week. I did manage to remove an entire side. It was the north facing side of the shed. By this time in Texas, there is scant wind out of the north to worry over. It is the first of March and we are already moving about in shorts and t-shirts. The largest population of migratory fowl is the Snow Bird from the north. Regardless, it was excellent weather and I was under orders from the boss.

You may wonder why I stopped with just one side. It was soon after removing it that I discovered that the shed had not formal framing. To remove any more before the roof would be insane. It would have been a literal house of cards. The site was prepped and ready for the remainder of the demolition. I love that word…sometimes.

It goes without saying that my primary concern was the materials. I didn’t want to get sliced up by the rusting aluminum and get yet another tetanus shot. For awhile I think I averaged about one a year. There are some high points to health insurance. Shot records on file are always a good thing. But, I digress…I attacked the upper perimeter where the walls attached to the roof. Walking back into the shed I could not precisely tell if the roof was anchored by any other bolts or screws. I reached up with one hand to test the resistance and the whole roof, I mean in a single piece, came down on top of my head. Luckily I had already finished my last cup of coffee so there were no burns to worry about this time. I quickly reached up with my other hand and grabbed the center beam and balanced the roof. What to do next became the dominating existential dilemma of the morning.

With a muffled grunt, I shoved the roof to one side, what I thought would be the weakest side since the sliding doors were there. It also helped that I had more yard space on that side. Needless to say I heaved the roof to that side and one of the walls pancaked under the weight. I had effectively completed half of my work in one deft move. This thought relieved some the pain I was currently experiencing in my head.

While this thought of near completion assuaged the throbbing in my head, it was far from being wholly true. As you could well guess, or perhaps not, the years of exposure to the elements created tight bonds on many of the joints, bolts, and screws. Needless to say, even the most advanced tools and high-tech equipment would be of little use in dismantling the shed.

But there’s the catch. I was looking at the task from the wrong perspective. This was not a process of dismantling a shed, but rather demolishing it. Already, a few days before, I could not completely disassemble the wall of the shed. I had to detach it from the rest of the structure and fold it up like a piece of paper. This would have to be the procedure followed for the remainder of the day. None of the pieces were able to be broken down any further than either a side or a roof in toto.

As I continued to demolish the rusting shed with expediency, a feeling of completeness began to well up in me. I could see progress. It was definitive and concrete. In my profession, this is not an everyday occurrence. Teaching tests and tries any patience a person may have, especially anyone who is results driven. Regardless, I sense of well-being was the side dish to the joy or physical labor on a sunny afternoon.

Once I got the roof folded and drug to the side of the house, I leapt upon the remaining sides. I made quick work of these three. After wrestling an aluminum roof of a 10 x 12 shed into the side of a kayak, anything…well, almost anything…seems possible. With the three walls taken down and folded into their respective rectangles of rust, I hit my next big snag. It was the flooring.

The rotted ¾” plywood should have come up easily. It did. The trouble was getting a good finger hold on a corner to pull up on. The answer to the dilemma lay in a rusty screw that I found lying near what was the front of the shed before I got my hands on it. Rooting around for a loose spot I could not believe how tight the boards were attached given their particular state of decay. However, I found an obliging corner and ripped away. I found that once you were able to get one corner up, the remainder of the floor board gave way easily. It was a trick. I had seen behind the curtain and now knew the truth. These boards were rotted and insect-eaten through and through.

After pulling the boards up, I discovered a little treasure of sorts. It was a mouse nest, neatly tucked underneath the floor boards. It was ingeniously constructed and well maintained. I was impressed. For a brief moment, I wondered who was really out of place here. But it soon passed. I was not going to get fined by the utility company for some bonehead’s mis-measurement. I called out daughter out and had her take some pictures of the little den, replete with half eaten pecans, and an escape tunnel. Perhaps it might score her a few bonus points with her science teacher at school.

Needless to say, the flooring frame came up easily and folded even easier. By mid-afternoon I was done. The only thing missing was a cold beer. However, my wife respected my laments and brought back a six pack of cold Mexican beer that is a blessing in Texas, especially on warm afternoons.

So, as we tumble through the twenty first century bemoaning the fact that sprawl and suburbia are ruining the face and character of your wonderful nation remember there is something we can do about it. No, we cannot single-handedly halt the progression of sprawl, at least not physically. However, if we are willing to learn to use some tools and suffer a little cutting, bruising, and humiliation from time to time, we can slow the progress of sprawl within us. We can wrestle with the weeds in our lawns and joust falling fences. In doing so, not only do we get a chance to reclaim a little of our identity, but also to show what we’ve accomplished with a day’s worth of work.