Today In A Stranger's Backyard ...

As I’ve stated in previous posts, my family has a tendency towards procrastination hidden deep in our genetic markers. So it was no real surprise when, a few short weeks ago, my oldest nephew announced that his yearbook “photo” was due and that no one had made a single inquiry or formulated a plan about having his “Senior Portraits” taken.

With the pervasiveness of the Internet and the pic-saturated world of Facebook, I figured that procuring pictures during their last year of prison … I mean high school … would be the furthest thing from the minds of our techno-savvy youth. And I would be wrong!

My nephew has already collected dozens of formal and candid shots from classmates whose parents, no doubt, lit a fire under them months ago about crossing this senior-year task off their burdensome lists. Some of these photos, in my opinion, were better than others, displaying more care with lighting and location and even the clothing and props chosen. And some … according to my nephew … ran his classmates close to $700!!

Many moons ago (damn, I’m old) I, too, had the daunting task of having my image captured for posterity and exploitation during my last year of state-mandated education. My parents let me handle the process, promising to put $150 toward the project … I was responsible for anything more. So during the summer between junior and senior years, I called around to three or four photography studios, scouted locations, and solicited advice from my friends concerning their intentions. I ended up working with Ray Delgado of Delgado Imagery. He was a friendly guy … about 50 … who had been taking photos for more than 20 years while also dabbling in selling real estate. Because of his contacts, Mr. Delgado had permission to use the grounds of several fairly fancy homes for his photography business.

Delgado Imagery offered the “Senior Sizzler Package,” which included one hour’s worth of shooting time, five finished 8” X 10” photos of one pose, half a dozen 5” X 7” shots of two selected poses, 25 “wallets” of three selected poses, and a keepsake proof book with your 15 best shots all for the low, low price of $185. My Dad went with me to make the initial deposit and I asked Mr. Delgado if he and I could meet a few days before the scheduled shoot to discuss my “plan.” He smiled a really toothy grin and said, “I like your spunk, kid … how about Thursday around 4?”

When I stopped by his studio, Mr. Delgado was finishing up taking some baby pictures. I waited in the small reception area but I could hear him working with the baby and the parent. He had a soothing voice that put people at ease. He had that baby squealing with delight so I figured he must be getting some really good shots. A little later, the photographer and I were sitting around a small bistro table and he was laughing about how prepared I was. I had six 4” X 6” note cards with me. One said “formal” and I think I had scribbled notes like “suit and tie? best colors? outside?” Other cards included “swing choir,” “art,” “reading,” and “sport.” And my last card just said “bridge” because there was a park with a small bridge on one of its trails that I had always loved and hoped it could be worked into a photo. For additional visual support, I had taped some images from magazines to all of the cards.

It took about 30 minutes to address each card, but Mr. Delgado didn’t seem to mind taking the time. He asked me if I was comfortable in a suit and I told him a shirt and tie was more my style. “Shirt and tie it is,” he said. He also assured me that a pale solid shirt would work fine and that we could take a few nice outdoor poses with no problem. The “art” and “reading” poses were easy to plan and we agreed on a few props that I would provide. Under “sport” I explained that I had ran cross country for two years but it wasn’t anything recent and I felt odd claiming that as a non-participating senior. I also mentioned that I had played golf with my father a few times but didn’t really enjoy it. We jotted down a few ideas that seemed like winners. For “swing choir” I didn’t need to explain because Mr. Delgado knew about our school’s award-winning group. I did, however, have to explain the bridge and my desire to have at least one kind of “artsy” pose.

And just as we finished going over my notions, Mr. Delgado’s eyes grew wide and he blurted out, “could you pull yourself together for pictures by Saturday morning?” I was a bit shocked but told him “sure.” He gave me a card with an address on the “nice” side of town and told me to give him between two-and-a-half and three hours and we could “knock it out of the park.” I was excited but nervous because of the time.

“Mr. Delgado … maybe I should scale back because I want to keep the price under control. My parents …“

He put his hand on my shoulder. “Son,” he countered. “We’ll make this work.”

So at around 9 a.m. on Saturday, I pulled into a sprawling, tree-lined lot with a fairly modern looking single story home. The mailbox said “The Wellingtons,” which meant nothing to me. Mr. Delgado was in the driveway and escorted me inside. He explained that the Wellingtons were good friends of him and his wife, and that they were out of town for the weekend and had no problem with us using their home for a few photos.

We lugged my props into the entry way and then I was shown to a small guest bathroom where I changed into my “formal wear” and checked my hair and stuff. When I came out, Mr. Delgado fussed with me a bit, straightening my tie and running a lint brush over me. We moved into the living room area where Mr. Delgado had set up some lights and diffusers near a wall boasting a huge weaving showing coarse vertical bands of ecru, tan, and ochre. He had me work through a variety of stand poses before he clicked off the lights and ushered me outside into the Wellington's spacious and enclosed backyard. Several types of summer foliage were in bloom and Mr. Delgado used these as artful backdrops. The Wellingtons also had a rock garden alcove and I sat on a granite chunk for a few more pics. Formal ... check.

Mr. Delgado was very pleased with how well I took directions and he said we would be finished up “here” in no time. I wondered what he meant exactly when he scooted me inside to change into my jeans and casual pullover. Once dressed, we used a study in the home’s small office/library to shoot a few frames of me reading my all-time favorite book … Ursula LeGuin’s “A Wizard of Earthsea.” Reading … check.

Then Mr. Delgado surprised me when he threw me an old denim shirt. It was a little too long and covered with paint like it was used when doing chores, but I shrugged into it. “Just see if this works for you,” he said with a wink. We set up my easel complete with a large blank canvas for effect. I retrieved a few brushes from my art kit and removed my palette from a garbage bag. Mr. Delgado moved over his lights and took a couple of readings. He explained that he wanted to create some harsh shadows. I trusted his skills so I just nodded and did as I was told. As the photographer moved around me to try and get a moody portrait of an “artist at work,” his frown told me that he wasn’t happy with the set up. Suddenly he asked me if I had actual paints in my kit. “Yeah,” I said and that led to the man actually smearing small dabs of paint on my face and then he took more shots with much greater gusto. Art … check.

Once this scene was done, Mr. Delgado asked if I had any more clothing changes planned. I told him yes so he dismissed me and sent me into the restroom to wipe off my face and alter my attire. It didn’t take me long but I could tell the photog was slightly surprised when I emerged in cargo shorts, a t-shirt layered under a burgundy striped oxford, high tops, and spiked hair. I had also put in my earring and put on two chokers I almost always wear. “This is how I dress,” I explained firmly. “I figured since I am paying for part of this that I should look like ME.” He just gave me a resigned smile and directed me to follow him.

We exited the home proper through the kitchen into a well-lit garage. There, standing near a bluish gray wall, stood a recording microphone from like the '30s. "It's a prop from a community theatre play that I had stored at the studio. I thought you might like to try a few poses with it and we'll see how they turn out." Mr. Delgado also handed me a pair or matte gray headphones. They did't look exactly like recording studio equipment, but the neon yellow accents on them were really cool. I aped a few rocker poses and even did the "cupping your ears for the high note" pose. Through the headphone padding I'm sure I heard the photographer's muffled laughter. Swing choir ... check.

I helped Mr. Delgado load the microphone into his Jeep Cherokee before we headed back into the Wellington’s yard. The photographer directed me back over toward the rock garden and I noticed for the first time the slightly Asian-looking red footbridge and a koi pond. Mr. Delgado suggested I take off my shoes and dangle my feet in the water. “George and Maggie haven’t had any fish in there for years,” he explained when he saw my reluctance. Mr. Delgado certainly was imaginative. He took shots of me from several angles, even from up and behind me. He never had me look at the camera and I hoped his artistic flair and forced perspectives would look cool. Bridge … check.

We broke down the lighting equipment inside and did a quick check of the library and bathroom to see that everything was in order. When we stood outside beside my old beater, I checked my watch and was amazed that it was only 10:40.

I was about to ask when he thought I could see proofs when Mr. Delgado asked if I had enough time for one quick stop. I assured him I had set aside the entire morning. He grinned and told me to follow him to Twilight Lanes, the local bowling alley. About 15 minutes later we were inside the lanes and shaking hands with the manager. Mr. Delgado explained that he had asked if we could spend a few minutes over in the far corner lane before business picked up for the day. The manager … a dude named Loren … was a buddy of his and said it wouldn’t be a problem. He even turned the overheads on over the back alleys so Mr. Delgado didn’t need any extra lights. I grabbed a blue-swirled ball and met the photographer on lane 22. He positioned himself to my left about a third of the way down lane 21 and had me throw about 10 balls. For the last three he closed the distance by half.

I felt like I was in a professional model shoot; my mind was filled with ideas I wished we had tried at the Wellingtons. Damn, I wish I would have climbed up into that treehouse, I thought. So I think Mr. Delgado was both surprised and pleased when I asked him if we could just take a few shots at one of the nearby pool tables because I loved shooting pool. Sport … check.

Long story short … I went with the outdoor formal pose for my yearbook shot and 8” X 10”s. And the art pose with paint smears and the dangling feet in the pond pose made it to 5” X 7”s and wallets. The shooting pool pose … a close-up with my face and a cue close to the felt … was awesome, but I liked the others better. The reading, singing, and bowling poses were fine too, but my family and I agreed that the other ones were better choices.

And Mr. Delgado was the most awesome prize of all. He offered to give me the whole package as planned for $220 dollars if he could use my proofs for promotional purposes. And when I picked up all my prints, he had made a 5” X 7” and a set of wallets (50) of the pool pose I liked so much for free!! I think it was the one picture that all my friends wanted too.

So back to my nephew. I ended up taking his yearbook photo. We picked out an awesome shirt and tie and then went to a nearby bookstore that has all these interesting nooks and alcoves. We took pics in about 10 locations and ended up with some truly good shots.

I also sat down with my oldest brother’s son and we created a plan. He isn’t a football star or a pet owner, but he does love rock climbing walls and taking care of his used car … his baby! So I suggested the climbing wall at a big sports complex in Columbus and maybe simple pictures of him checking his oil or washing the car or even gassing it up. I also suggested some shots of him playing with his Xbox and maybe some outdoor shots at a nearby playland on the jungle gyms or curly slides. There’s even a carousel nearby, but he thought that sounded “girly.”

“What about me with a guitar?” he suggested.

“But you don’t play guitar.”

“Who cares … it’s cool!”

POINT OF RANT: Why do I bother?

Today With My Blood Pressure ...

I'm so pissed ...really steamed ... and I blame it all on Labor Day! That was the weekend when it all came to a head and I was "put in my place," or so that's how it was related to a family friend who likes to gossip. The holiday will never be the same again!!

Let me give you some background. Every year since I was a small child, my family has always hosted a major picnic/cookout on Labor Day or sometimes the day before. Once my parents were gone, my oldest brother took over the tradition, but the last few years we have held the gathering at my sister's place because she has the most space and good street parking. It's just family and close friends but the number of attendees is close to 30. This year, we were all sitting down at tables and in lawn chairs and on sundry "perches" when I noticed my sister's daughter ... my 14-year-old niece talking loudly on her cell phone. I admit I have a thing about cell phones and how they bring out the rudeness in people ... it's really a pet peeve I need to work on. Anyway, I casually walked over to where she was sitting and asked her nicely to put her phone away and enjoy the day with the rest of us.

"In a minute," she replied and turned her head away from me to continue talking.

I walked around to her other side and said quite firmly. "Now!" She grinned, playfully flipped me off, and went right on with her conversation.

With a good head of steam, I sat my food down on a nearby table and placed my hand lightly over her phone. "Seriously ... you're gonna act like that. Can't you call them back in an hour and at least act like you're happy to see these people and carry on a few real conversations?" She looked at me with these big, uncomprehending eyes. "Hell, ask whoever you're talking to to come over and join the party. The brauts are great!"

My niece made apologies to her phone buddy, made some comment about "adults," and pocketed her cell. I returned to my seat and mouthed a "thank you" in her direction. The heated look she gave me ... had it been a corporeal thing ... would have incinerated me on the spot.

Just as I was raising a forkful of colorful pasta salad to my mouth, my sister appeared and nicely asked me if I could help her with something in the kitchen. The fact that she asked "nicely" should have been my first warning sign. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON ... DANGER!!

We had barely entered the kitchen and closed the door before my sister turned on me, her face distorted like a snarling beast. "What the hell was that little 'show' all about?" she demanded. "What gives you the right to embarrass my daughter like that?!"

"Huh?" I stammered. I was genuinely perplexed.

"It's none of your damn business when my daughter uses her cell phone or texts her friends. You're her uncle, not her warden." My sister threw her hands in the air and added, "Oh, you're not a parent ... you can't understand!"

I imagined my self being slapped in the face with a leather glove. I suddenly was not in the mood for my sister's routine histrionics and superior attitude. "You know what?" I challenged. "I may not have kids, but it doesn't take a genius to recognize bad manners. You have guests and it wouldn't kill your daughter to act like she belonged to this family. She's been glued to that cell for two hours. I haven't even seen her speak to Chet's dad ... her one living grandparent who drove an hour to be here. That ought to be what you're concerned about, Sis!!"

I'd crossed a line, but it felt damn good. Just as my sister was forming her retort, the patio door slid open and my oldest brother entered the kitchen. "Jesus, you guys ... we can hear the yelling outside!"

My sister just pointed at me ... the ultimate defense and explanation all rolled into one simple gesture. "Tell him ... he's the one telling me how to raise my kids!"

"Of come on ..." I started to say, but then I noticed my brother. His posture got ramrod straight and he crossed his arms in a very judgmental manner.

"Oh, I understand what you're saying all to well. He's been riding Adam's ass for months about college. Our 'little baby brother' just thinks everything is so simple. And for him it must be, 'cause he's got ALL the answers!" I just stood there, my mouth working like a landed trout. But no words came out. I was really dumbfounded. And hurt.

Adam is my 17-year-old nephew and I love him like a son. He's just a great kid and I actually consider him a friend. But from time to time, Adam needs a little push to get him motivated. Last May, right before his junior year in high school came to a close, I attempted to engage him in a conversation about college. I didn't think I was pushing ... I just tried to get him to articulate his interests and draw him out about careers he was considering. Like I said, he's a good kid with good grades and a bright future. And to be honest, getting him out from under his father's thumb and onto a progressive college campus would NOT be the worst thing to happen. Anyway, Adam's responses were terse and noncommittal. His one thought was that he would "probably" go wherever Karrie, his current girlfriend, decided to attend.

"Is that a smart way to plan your future?" I blurted it out before my brain's sensor (or censor) had a chance to kick in.

Adam and I were sitting in the kitchen working our way through a stack of grilled cheese sandwiches I had whipped up. His father ... my older brother by nearly a decade ... was in the adjacent great room perusing the newspaper's sports section. "Ignore him, Adam," he yelled in with a surprisingly flat, emotionless tone. "He just likes to tell people what to do." I dropped the subject and turned my attention to the suddenly-unappetizing sandwich.

Over the next few weeks, Adam and his indecision over college plagued me. I spent some free time going online to about 14 or 15 college Web sites within the state. I picked about half private institutions and half larger public universities to get a good mix. The list conveniently included the Alma maters of myself and each of my siblings. From all the data I found, I assembled a matrix that included projected tuition and fee amounts, admission office phone numbers and e-mails, prominent programs, school colors and mascots, and even the estimated "drive time" from my brother's house to each campus. And ... most importantly in my mind ... I included all "visitation" and "exploration" programs scheduled for the summer and early autumn months. What a great, low pressure time to check out some potential schools!, I had been thinking at the time. The majority of the colleges I had researched had one or more "Freshman Fridays" or "Openhouse Picnics" events in June and July and August. I e-mailed the matrix to Adam, his father, and my sister-in-law separately. No one ever responded with so much as a thank you. I also tried on three face-to-face occasions to engage Adam in another "thought anymore about college" discussion. Each time he just shrugged and changed the subject. By my estimation, as of Labor Day, Adam and his parents had missed close to a dozen opportunities to explore some very fine collegiate options.


Back in the present in my sister's Mediterranean kitchen, I pled my case. "I wasn't trying to push you or Adam ... I just don't want him to miss out on something. A lot of kids are already collecting recommendations from teachers and employers. A lady at work has a daughter writing entrance essays for three separate schools, and she says some of the more competitive schools start sending out first-wave acceptance letters at the end of October ... October!" My brother seemed not the slightest bit fazed by my declaration. But I was on a roll and added, "has he even filled out a single application? Or even sent away for any literature?"


"See ... there you go again," my brother bellowed, stepping away from a counter and closing the physical distance between us. "It's not YOUR concern what Adam does or doesn't do!!"


"You can't be serious ... I love that kid! I just want what's ..."


"NONE ... OF ... YOUR ... CONCERN!" While my brother punctuated each word with a poke to my shoulder, my sister closed ranks. In solidarity against me, she moved to stand just behind our older sibling, wearing a pleased little smirk on her sour face. I was out the door and on the road in minutes.


As I merged into freeway traffic, my mind shifted away from my exasperating family and settled on my good friend Terry. He and I had been best friends since the fifth grade. I was his best man at his wedding and am very proud to be godfather to his daughter. One day a few month's ago, I was at Terry's house talking with his wife, Leslie. Terry was at a neighbor's helping with a clogged drain and we were waiting until his return to order some pizza ... Terry's very particular about pizza. Anyway, as we conversed, Terry's son Ricky ... I think he's two ... waddled over and started climbing up my leg. I hoisted the little guy onto my lap where he immediately started fussing with my car keys which I had laid to the side on a table.


"Tell him no," Leslie said with a hint of a challenge.


"It's okay ... he can't hurt them."


She eyed me slyly and said, "Do you really want him messing with them? ... he chews and slobbers on everything."


"Well then, no ... not really."


"Then get his attention and tell him 'no.' Say it kind of loud and if he doesn't listen, smack his hand and tell him again."


I shot Leslie an incredulous look. "I'm not gonna smack your kid."


My statement made Leslie snort out loud. "Aaron, I didn't say break his hand ... I said gently smack his hand so he knows you're serious. He has to learn to mind when he's told to do something."


As non-confrontationally as I could, I explained to Leslie that I wasn't comfortable disciplining her children like that. She took Ricky from my lap and fixed me with an amused smile. "Listen," she playfully lectured, "we consider you part of this family, so it IS your job to help us raise Ricky and Amber to know the difference between right and wrong. We're counting on you." I remember feeling my eyes mist up a little over her heartfelt words.


Back in the present, in my car driving home, I had similar "moisture" threatening to occlude my vision. But these were tears of anger. Could my siblings really not see what I was trying to do? I pondered. How was wanting my niece to have decent manners or helping my nephew make informed decisions about going to college a "bad" thing? Was "being an uncle" just helping out from time to time and showing up at Christmas and birthdays with a nice gift? Whatever the case, I knew it was going to be quite some time before I bothered speaking to my two oldest siblings.


POINT OF RANT: Thank God friends make the best "family!"

Today In The Reference Section ...

My one nephew, Jake, has a big report due on a famous figure from history. He chose Abraham Lincoln. Over lunch at his house, I asked the innocent 11-year-old why "Honest Abe" intrigued him. "Because he got shot!" was his reply. Over cheese pizza ... this family wouldn't know a salad or a fruit plate if it knocked on their door and asked to use the phone ... I discovered that Jake still had a little over a week until his report was due but he hadn't even started it. His Mom, my sister, was going to print a bunch of stuff off the Internet at work "in a few days."

I have a problem with our cookie-cutter, Wikipedia-wrought world sometimes, so I asked Jake if he wanted to run and get ice cream ... just him and me. He was ecstatic. His happy mood faded quickly when we pulled into the parking lot of the library 20 minutes later. Jake turned sullen and then oddly awed as we entered the main lobby. I know he's at least "visited" his school library but he'd probably never been to this main branch of the public system downtown. It's huge. Busy. Serious.

We found the reference section and a nice lady helped us locate four really great books. Jake's mood definitely brightened when we discovered some interesting facts about Mr. Lincoln. Not only was he the 16th U.S. president and the first Republican to hold the office, but he was also born in Kentucky and raised in Indiana ... both just one state away. And while everyone knows he helped move the U.S. toward an end to slavery and brokered the conclusion of the only major war in history where Americans were fighting Americans, Abraham Lincoln is also one of the few presidents with no middle name and he accomplished his goals with less than 18 months of formal education. And Jake thought it was a hoot that some places ... like train cars and a few hotels ... had to build special beds to accommodate Lincoln's 6'4" frame.

Jake and I photocopied several pages of information and borrowed a highlighter from the same librarian to mark the good things we found. I even "bankrolled" a few color copies of pictures he might use in his report. And on the ride back out of the city, Jake was even considering wearing a "beard" and stovepipe hat for the oral presentation portion of his assignment and was going to see if his Dad could build him some "mini-stilts" out of scrap wood to look taller. I agreed to work with him next weekend on memorizing part of the Gettysburg Address ... "four score" and what not. He was really getting into the spirit of learning!

When we arrived back at my sister's residence, I didn't go in. My self-preservation instinct is strongest around Jake's mom. And she was not gonna like Jake all enthusiastic about school and wanting to get to work. Plain and simple, my sister has always been a procrastinator and an enabler with her children ... and I try not to be. All of us kids were raised in the same way in the same house by the same people, but I think by being the only "girl" my sister got away with a great many things.

A prime example of her "slacker" ways is "The Great Leaf Project." Since the dawn of time, our high school's freshman biology class has required each student to assemble a collection of leaf specimens from area trees and present them in a photo album or some type of "book." Each leaf included in the project must be properly identified. To aid in this, students are given these cool books that, by answering simple questions about leaf color, shape, texture, vein structure, etc., help identify the proper phylum. Overall, the more properly-identified leaves a project contains, the higher the grade it receives.

Like everyone else, my sister had six weeks ... SIX WEEKS! ... to do this. And she waited until the last minute and "boo-hooed" around the house until my parents drove her around and helped her collect a smattering of leaves. I remember the weekend before her project was due ... the kitchen table was off-limits to everyone but my sister and my Mom. We ate our meals on TV trays in the living room. In the end, my sister had 30 leaves. My mother had found some leaf stickers and thought maybe my sister could dress her project up a little. "Use them sparingly," my Mom cautioned, "they're pretty colorful." My sister put those stickers everywhere. It was a mess! My sister earned a "C-" and complained that the grade was low because the teacher didn't like her.

My slightly-older brother had the same project when he entered high school. I helped him find some of his leaves because he is actually a decent sibling. And my brother is pretty clever ... right away he went to a local floral shop owned by a family friend and got them to sell him a can of this preservative spray that really kept his leaf samples pristine and colorful. It was like protective shrink wrap for plants. His specimens looked great, and when he organized them he also alphabetized them and added the location where the "donor" tree was located.

And for a final flourish, my brother begged my father to take him to an arboretum about an hour away. The trip netted him five exotic leaves. He ended up with 58 leaves and a "B+" ... two measly points away from an "A-." Damn the high school grading scale!

When my turn rolled around, I hit the ground running. That first weekend I had 20 leaves stacked and "starched" with the same pecial spray my brother had employed. Likewise, I guilted my father into making the same arboretum trip and walked and walked until we had eight specimens to add to my leaf count. And during that first week, my Mom helped me phone friends and family we had in California, Florida, Arkansas, and Tennessee. I explained my project to them and over the following two weeks I received big, overstuffed envelopes containing out-of-state samples ... nine in all ... of sequoias, hemlocks, red junipers, Spanish moss, several citrus trees, and even a redwood. These I placed in the back of my "book" with a map noting their home locations and a little block of text explaining how I had purloined them.

With two weeks to go before my "due date," I spent some time detailing my project. I went back and took some photos of a few trees and included them on pages where I had the most room. I added scientific names to many of my samples like "Ginkgo biloba" and "Acer saccharum." I also alphabetized my samples and added "addresses" like my brother had. My final "touch" was decorating the cover with a poem that my great grandmother wrote about leaves and had published in 1959. I reproduced the poem in the simple shape of a leaf. I thought it was very artistic, and so did my instructor. Out of a possible 100 points, I earned 98 ... and the teacher wanted to keep my project as an example to show future classes. I politely declined her request.

I bring this all up because I see my sister passing her "tendencies" to her children. One time, my niece ... also my sister's kid, of course ... was given a project where she had to create a series of flash cards to help younger children learn common Spanish words. Each student was required to work with a list of 20 words and produce 40 cards in all ... one "basic" flash card with the word in Spanish on the front and its English equivalent on the reverse, and then a second card exactly like the first but with little icons or graphics to prompt recall. The assignment was due in three weeks, and my niece received what I thought were pretty simple words like "cake" and "forest" and "school" and "picnic" and "bulldozer." Hell, the teacher even supplied the card stock with a generous amount of extras to offset any "flubs."

Two days before the cards needed to be turned in, my sister called in "sick" and made every stinking card. My niece had put it off and put it off until my sister just decided it was easier to create them herself. She even had me e-mail her some clip art images ... I was unaware I was "aiding and abetting" until much later. My niece "earned" an undeserved "A" and a compliment from her teacher for all her extra hard work ... she had actually turned in cards for 25 words.

Now, I'm not a tyrant. Parents ... and uncles ... can and should help young people with their academic studies. But when I say "help," I mean "aid" or "guide" or "clarify" ... not "do" or "take over" or "complete." I remember being 11 ... exactly like Jake ... and my class was studying Native American tribes. We were placed in teams of four and I volunteered to construct a scale model of a wigwam. I asked my father ... a man who could make a tree fort out of a pile of sawdust ... for help. First, he had me find several pictures of what I hoped the model would look like. Once assembled, we sat down and he tried to explain why some things would be easy to do and others not so much. Then we went over the tools and materials I'd be needing and looked to see what wasn't available in my Dad's workshop. At this point, with him watching closely, I built a wigwam. He gave advice but it was me doing about 80 percent of the work. My percentage probably would have been higher but early on a sliced into my thumb badly. We discovered I was quite a bleeder and Dad took over all "cutting" activities from that point on.

And I will concede that my father did provide a few very cool elements to my primitive dwelling. He worked with a guy who hunted and trapped and did all that "outdoorsy" stuff. His friend gave me some scraps of pelt ... rabbit and squirrel, I think ... and I used them throughout the model. My father also helped me install a little light inside the structure so it looked like a small fire. My wigwam was outstanding and my team received high marks. And I earned a "wigwam scar" that remains to this day as a reminder of the merits of hard work.

POINT OF RANT: When using a knife, always cut away from yourself ... especially if you want a matching set of functional thumbs!!