little life (loving the details?):
I am so without big plans.

Shawna and notforprophet: Bonnie and Clyde??

She was a runaway.  Had to be.  About 12 years old, dressed in pajamas, late at night, in the bad part of town, a block away from the orphanage, and running in the direction away from the orphanage.  I just caught a brief glimpse of her while passing from the other direction in my car, but there was no doubt in my mind—a runaway for sure.  But what a fleet-footed waif she was with thighs pumping and feet barely touching the ground!  She sent chills up my spine as I beheld her vibrancy, her energy engaged in her quest for freedom and  wilderness.  And then she turned the corner and was gone.

A little further down the street, as I continued driving in the direction I was initially going, I encountered the frantic social workers.  They were running, too, but already worn out and no match for the wildering waif.  As they saw me approach, they flagged me down.  *Oh hell*, I thought, *this is always how I get involved….*

Sure enough, they, confirmed her status as a break-away.  And pleaded, pleaded for assistance as the police had not yet arrived and they feared that that girl with her phenomenal speed would be long gone with no trace by time the cops showed up.

 “Okay,” I said to one of them, “get in.”  I then did a  180 and bee-lined back to the corner where I’d last seen her.  But she was  already gone.  Up and down the adjoining streets and alleys there was no sign of her—no body in flight.  All that was left unexplored was a dark, dead-end alley that culminated in  a brace of barb wire fence erected to threateningly detach the corridor provided for the train tracks.  As I drove up to the fence I was thinking “no way she could have gotten over that,”  but I was wrong!  There she was on the other side, already 50 yards down the track—a fleeting spectre of unbridled vigor.

The social worker got out of my truck and stood at the fence screaming for her to come back.  Already in motion halfway up the fence, I stopped to the ask the social worker one question: “What’s her name?”  “Shawna,” was the reply.  Then I was up on the wire.  Seat of my pants ripped but… up, over, and…down on one foot.  And running before the other foot even landed.  Yeah, running like a paratrooper on a night jump as I hit the ground.  Poor Shawna!  Now stalked  by a running fool with automaton feet, she had no chance to get away…except… whenever I “run for the money,” my mind always drifts.  And so I started thinking about how as a child I never ran away but always dreamed about it.  And a voice inside whispered “It’s not too late.”  I would catch her—no doubt about that.  But what if I just reached out, took her hand, and continued to run?  Would she run with me?  Of course, she would!  Two runaways!!  How joyously my adrenalin-heightened imagination was playing with that notion.  And then a deadening realization brought me back to ground: one runaway and one kidnapper!  Ha!  it was too late for me.  And, soon, too, for her as the distance between us had closed to 20 feet.  “Shawna, hon, I love to run.  And you’re fast, but I’m faster and I’ll be right there,” I forewarned.

She never stopped running until I snatched her hand like someone overreaching for the baton in a relay race.  And then she started crying, “I want to go home.  Please let me go home.”  Blabbering, balling her eyes out.  And I thought, ah man, what if I let her go?  No—in this neighborhood she’d likely be killed and/or raped before the end of the night.  And even if she got home, if there was still a home, might that not, too, be a dreadful fate?  No—even though I hated playing “authority”, I knew too little and it was too late.   I led her back to the arms of the social worker who brushed her hair back caringly, gave her a big hug, and said, “Shawna, doll, it will be alright.”

Class last night was everything that nobody expected, including me.

Well, the surprise for the students was just as I here previously revealed to you.  Except that I teased them (in a half-serious manner so as to allow them some comic relief) by spoofing that the go-around oral quizzing was actually a “class oral final test component in which everyone will share the class grade.”  Here is the quiz.  They collectively scored 80% on it—a “B”.  And I left it hanging, again half-seriously, whether or not I would “curve” the grade.

At mention that I had decided upon an oral presentation of the projects, I encountered a near revolt!  I had to carefully watch hands to assure that none were slipping into purses to draw out a little derringer or .22 short pistol.  So I backed off—just a bit.  I told them that I would read the projects aloud and orally challenge them on any “issues or concerns” that I might raise.  There were actually just two projects since they were group projects ( 2 groups of four students each), and while the first one was fairly typical (statistically dry), the second one caught me by surprise:

(Note: students were told to make up a “little background story” for their research—the students mentioned below are the actual students conducting the research)

The Real Story About Hooch and Smarts

On a balmy July 23, 2001 at 3:21 a.m., Joann, Ali, Juli and Gene were sitting in Joann’s basement discussing their educational smarts, while smoking hooch (dude).  Gene had been hogging the hooch all night; Ali and Juli had been to the kitchen, making a batch of “magic brownies”, and Joann was sucking on a bottle of Ripple.  Once Gene finally stopped making odd bodily sounds, a discussion arose.  The discussion was about whether or not hooch, otherwise known as marijuana, should be legalized.

Gene, the ninth grade dropout, with no smarts at all, was all for the legalization of marijuana because, “It feels good, dude.”  Juli, the high school graduate, was against the legalization of marijuana because “Hooch should only be legalized for medical reasons.”  Ali, the college graduate, was also for the legalization of marijuana because “Everyone does it man, so why not just make it legal.”  Suddenly, Joann, the one with the masters degree, slammed her bottle of Ripple (careful not to spill any on her leather couch) and yelled, “If hooch *hiccup* was legalized, then people would smoke it all the time and our economy would fail due to the lack of productivity and absenteeism, man.”  Then, Joann puked all over her precious leather couch.  Gene applauded the projectile display and yelled, “Hey, watch out for the hooch, dude!”, and Juli and Ali continued munching on their brownies unfazed.

The next day, the quartet resumed their discussion about the legalization of marijuana and concluded:

Research Question:

The team took a random sample of 35 individuals and gathered data pertaining to their level of education and their opinion of the legalization of marijuana.  Is there a relationship between smarts (independent variable) and hooch (dependent variable)? …

Both projects had flaws, but this one…I do believe that they were all too high sailing for their own academic good.  I laughed uncontrollably at the story, but tore heavily and ruthlessly into their flawed methodology (i.e., “You chose the wrong test—t-test instead of chi square—for the levels of measurement—nominal/ordinal—you have selected.”  and “If this project were a boat, it would be sinking as a vessel of research.” ) 

Poor sweet Juli looked like she was about to cry!  I almost could have (((hugged))) her—but, hold on, I’m the Prof—can’t have that!  These are my students!  This is my class! OMG, how have I failed them??!!

Maybe that’s the problem: I didn’t fail them (understatement).  Nobody took the option to take the final test, instead opting to double-up on their midterm grade (*A*).  As dreadpirate might comment, they all seized the breeze and “Sailed on, sailed on” , relieved to have passed the course, looking forward to some remaining weeks of vacation before the Fall semester, and most probably (ah yes, that’s a statistical hedge) never looking back.