A Thanksgiving Pie a la Mad

Have you ever had one of those days which does not go as planned?

That happened to me the Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

My sister hosts our family’s get together and does most of the cooking.  My contribution is to bring pies (no, not made by me).

There used to be Marie Callender restaurants all over the place. Glendale, Burbank, and Toluca Lake all had one.  Now, the closest one is in Sherman Oaks.

When I called to buy my pies, I was told that there were two ways of ordering:  online or in person—not over the phone.

So, I filled out the online form, paid with a credit card, selected the time, 7:00 a.m., and waited until the 22nd.

It was a wonderful cruise on the 134 West that early in the morning since traffic was light.  I got there under 15 minutes.

When I walked up to the door, I was surprised to notice that it was locked.  Then I noticed the hours—it opened at 8:30 a.m.   Yet I was given a 7:00 a.m. option for pick-up.  Oh well.

I tried making the best of one and a half hours in Sherman Oaks by walking the neighborhood.  I was amazed at how many homeless people were sleeping on the sidewalk on Ventura Blvd.

I headed over to Gelson’s to have a cup of coffee.  Even though the day hadn’t gone as planned, I was trying to enjoy the adventure of it all.

In this market, tables and chairs are located immediately near the front entrance on the right, adjacent to the salad bar.

No one was around.  Soon, an older couple in their late 60’s sat down. The wife told the husband that she would set up the table with napkins while he went to get coffee and Danish.  I thought it pleasant the interplay between the two.  Maybe that could be my wife and I in a few years.

All of a sudden, the woman went over to the salad bar and deposited a scoopful of bacon bits into her hand and ate them.

I could not believe what I had just witnessed.   While I was the only person in the sitting area, there were Gelson employees around.  Surely one of them must have seen her do it.

The man came back with their food and beverages.  Then the woman returned to the salad bar and helped herself to another scoopful of bacon bits—free of charge.

Now my morning peacefulness was shattered with inner turmoil over what I should do about this woman’s thievery.   Locate the manager and tell him about it?   Confront the woman myself with something along the lines of “you shouldn’t do that”?

What amazed me was the brazenness of her actions more than the theft itself.   Even though I was two tables away and workers were close by, she still stole the food.

It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen people “graze” through the market.  You know those plastic containers which contain nuts and raisins with scoops inside?   There are people who put their naked hands in those areas and steal food, contaminating the rest of the contents.

Twice I have notified the managers about these incidents.   But this morning, a morning which already felt a little off the axis for me, I remained silent.

If only the strangeness of the day ended there, for when I returned at 8:30 a.m. to pick up my pies, the employee told me that since I had pre-paid, I would have to return at 11:00 a.m.  Meanwhile, there was another line at the counter with people who had not pre-paid for pies who were buying pies right off the shelf.

This time, I was not mute.   I asked for my money back unless I was able to get the pies.  After talking with her manager, the pies were no longer held hostage and I was able to leave Sherman Oaks by 8:40 a.m.

Next year, I plan on baking the pies.

High School Classes are not College Prep

Over the years that I have been an English teacher, there has been a steady decline in students’ writing skills.

Every time I assign a major piece of writing, one that is multiple pages in length, I brace myself for the avalanche of papers about to be turned in.   It’s not the sheer volume of 100 plus essays submitted in one day that blows me back; it’s the poor quality that is troubling.

It can be quite disheartening to read student writing from advanced students and realize that these young people, the best in their class, struggle to organize their thoughts, unable to form a clear argument.

Reasons for this decline does not require a Brookings Institute study.  Kids are reading less and teachers are assigning less writing.

In the most recent round of essays I graded, one-third of the papers did not mention the literature being written about in the introduction, and when they did, these 15-year-olds did not properly punctuate the book title.

Like turning a car engine on and off, their papers began, ended and began again in just two paragraphs, each paragraph reading as a new beginning, lacking transitions or threads to the thesis.

They often bounced back and forth between present and past tense, singular and plural pronoun forms in the same sentence.

And some students decided to analyze the film version, not the book itself, perhaps because they did not read it.

I teach my students that the best mistake prevention tool when writing is to read their paper out loud; few did it as evidenced by the scores of typos not caught by a spellchecker.  What else explains not capitalizing names of characters or misspelling the names altogether.

I asked my students how many of their teachers (other than me) require them to write an expository essay:  53 percent said one, 14 percent said none.

Of course, students don’t have to write full-fledged essays to practice writing.   Students can show their thinking by writing multiple sentence answers to test questions.  So, I queried my students on this.

While 40 percent replied that they have two or more teachers who administer these type of tests, 32 percent have just one teacher who does so, while 28 percent have none.   That means, for the majority of the time, students are taking multiple choice tests which require no writing beyond a fill in the blank.

Remember, these students are taking other advanced placement classes, the most rigorous courses the school has to offer.   Think about how little writing must be happening in the regular classes.

The teachers at the secondary level, especially those who don’t teach English, need to have students read critically and write analytically as often as they can.   With so little writing being practiced, students enter college with a huge handicap.

My freshman son volunteered that only a couple of his high school classes prepared him for the level of writing and the amount of reading required in college; this coming from someone who took several Advanced Placement classes.  Even though all the courses were labeled “college prep,” few deserved that distinction.

If one of the missions of high school is to prepare students for university-level work, we are doing a miserable job.

Could this partially explain why only 21 percent of Cal State University freshmen finish college in four years?

Finding a student paper that isn’t riddled with errors is as rare as finding a parking space at the Glendale Galleria on Black Friday.   And when there is a crisply written paper with an eye-catching opening, a strong argument, and quotes which support astute observations, a teacher wants to shout “hallelujah,” with hope in America’s youth restored.

Until the next paper on the pile.

 

Suffering the Dodger Blues

“As a lifelong Dodger fan, I am in blue heaven.”

That was supposed to be the last line in my column this week, celebrating the Dodgers’ first World Series championship since 1988.

Instead, “I feel Dodger blue” is more apropos after they lost the World Series to Houston on Wednesday.

It has been 29 years since the team’s last appearance in the Fall Classic.   Despite having the best record in baseball and home field advantage through all three rounds, they came up one game short.

The media’s spin is that the Dodgers lost to an offensive juggernaut.  Yet in the three Astro defeats, the Dodger pitching staff limited them to four runs in three games.

Actually, the Dodger and Astro teams were almost identical.

Houston’s team batting average was .230, while L.A.’s was .205.

Houston’s team pitching ERA was 4.64, L.A.’s was 4.45.

While Houston had 56 hits compared to L.A.’s 41, each team scored the same number of runs:  34.

The Dodgers’ three victories were games that they had won without a challenge:  Game 1, 3-1; Game 4, 6-2; Game 6, 3-1.  The Astros’ victories in games 2 and 7 were likewise unchallenged:  5-3, 5-1.

Games 2 and 5 were the battles, exciting for the casual fan, gut-wrenching for the Dodger fan with the team on the losing end both times despite having the lead in the ninth inning of Game 2, and giving Kershaw a four-run cushion then a three-run cushion in Game 5.

The Dodgers should have won five of the seven games.

As horribly disappointed as I am, there were positives that came out of the month-long marathon of playoff games.

For the first time, my youngest son got involved in watching the games, riding the emotional roller coaster that Dodger fans know too well.

The Dodgers put on a show that my whole family sat down to watch together on TV in real time (no DVR-ing).   At jubilant moments, we yelled and jumped up and down; at heart-stopping moments, we turned off the TV.

In following the Dodgers and their October run, I didn’t even get a chance to enjoy Halloween.

I was in a Dodger coma.

Reading every article I could find on the Dodgers, even skimming comments posted on the Houston Chronicle website by Astro fans after their losses, did not satiate my cravings.

On game days, I found it hard to focus on my work.

I would tune in to the Dodger pre-game show on radio, then hear callers voice their opinions after the game concluded.

And I did cross off an item from my bucket list when I got two tickets for my oldest son and I to see the first game of the World Series.

Donned in Dodger jerseys and caps, we sat in the reserved section on the third base side halfway towards the foul pole.   It was a record-breaking 103-degree scorcher of a day; even in the shade, my body glistened with sweat.

The game ended up being one of the shortest played in recent World Series history, clocking in at 2 hours and 28 minutes.

Eight days later, the dream season ended.

Still, the Dodger odyssey gave me a respite from Trump’s tweets, natural disasters, and vans mowing down bicyclists.

And that is the beauty of sports—to take you away from the ugliness in the world and give you hope that your team will win.  For if they do, we are all winners.   And if they don’t, after the dust settles, it was still worth it.

Hey, I got to go to a World Series game with my son.