dannydmc

You, my friends, are staring at the main house of the old Hutmacher Farm, located in Western North Dakota. Built in the 1920s, it was an earthen house built from sandstone quarried from a nearby hill, and held together by clay, sand a gravel which were also found near by. A perfect gem of subsistence building by a farmer who managed to raise an entire family in that cozy little house without any of the modern bennefits which we take from granted today; electricity wasn't added until the early 1960s and it never had running water.
And, you should come and look at this place today, and gaze upon the thatched roof, you can rest assured that I built it! Well, helped build it at least; I was a member of a group of about 8 students who traveled out with our professor to help rebuild this homestead. Years from now, however, when I have children; I will tell them that I did it all by myself. Being flesh of my own flesh, I doubt they will believe me; but such is the problem with children (especially _IRISH_ children) no respect for their elders at all. Even when, or maybe especially, when their elders are completely insane

God, it was a wonderful trip! I haven't had that much fun in months, nay, years! I hurt by the end of it, of course, but it was the good kind of hurt; the kind that comes after doing hours of honest labor that tears your muscles to shreds but also manages to allow you to leave an imprint, no matter how small, upon the landscape. I sifted clay, mixed mortar, pitched hay from a nearby field, helped roof and, let me tell you, I wish I could do it all over again!
Part of the fun was, of course, the people I was working with. All students from the same class, we bonded pretty readily during those few days; we guys especially, due in large part to the presence of an extra van, went out drinking in this local country-bar every night. Nothing builds bonds faster, I think, than break ones back together followed by the emptying of a few glasses.
It was great to feel part of a group again; a feeling that has been sorely missing from my life lately. Although comraderie was certainly an everyday part of my existence during my last few years at college, it had dropped off after that point; even in Alaska where we teachers had to band together just to survive, I always felt the odd one out due to my young age and the workaholic tendencies of my co-workers. This, however, was a group where I belonged and felt completely at peace with. I'd honestly forgotten just how much I missed it.
Speaking of Alaska, if one looks back through my old entries you will find several missing from around October of last year; I'd been forced to take them down after someone in the village discovered this very blog. As a teacher in a small native village, it was a disaster which I managed to nip in the bud through some fast talking, stratigically placed apologies and also knowing when to let the issue drop. I fear, at my heart, I really am a politician.
One of those entries, of course, dealt with the rather traumatic incident of October 21st, 2006 when a drunken student showed up at my house, tried to batter hi way through my front door all the while screaming he was going to kill me. At the time, I honestly saw no reason not to take him at face value.
As we near anniversary of that date, I've been going back and reading some of my writings from that time; partially out of morbid interest, and also to remind myself why I am in grad school. The morbid interest, honestly, trumps the other by a large margin
It was a bad time and it, more or less, marked the end of my engagement with teaching. I lived in that village for several more months, I did my duties and all else that was expected from me; but I was no longer there mentally. Several further incidents of violence directed against me over the course of the rest of the year just further drove that view home, and I came closer to an emotional collapse than I think I ever had in my entire life.
You see, I was determined to stay put throughout the rest of the year. As my Mother said, I had a contract, and we Midwesterners see our contracts through; but it was more than that. I was determined to not have people say that I ran when the going got tough. I was tougher than that, I was strong, and I would see myself through these difficulties with my head raised high and my face set in stoic determination. That was the front I showed to the world.
Inside, however, things were very different indeed. I slowly to withdrew from the environment around me to a large extent, the fires of my passion cooled to a smothered smolder, and I began to grow horribly depressed. I still recall reading a collection of Arthurian legens at that time, coming to the figure of the Fisher King who had been castrated and ruled over the wasteland of his Kingdom and being nearly moved to tears; I saw myself all too plainly in that image.
It was also during this period that I began to suffer from panic attacks, a curse which has not revisted me since moving away, thank god. I would wake in the middle of the night and leap from my bed, suddenly convinced that I would die if I stayed in the house any longer. Usually, by the time I fled my bedroom into the living room, I'd have come to my senses and begin to wonder what I was doing awake. Timidly I'd crawl back into bed and try to sleep through the rest of the night.
Perhaps worst of all, my temper began to grow worse. I was scared and, in the typical fashion of the men I grew up with, I would turn that fear into anger. The depridations I was forced to endure from my students began to drive me into a rage; and the fact that I had no recourse to take against them made it only worse (although the jackass who'd threatened me had been let off by the police, beause 'no one got hurt', I had very little confidence that _I_ would be let off if I wandered down a similiar path). It began to flare up at inopertune times; I remember once going on a tirade because a soda i'd put in the staff fridge, with my name on it, had gone missing and I was utterly convinced that it was an active conspiracy against me that had done it.
To sum all of this up; I was in bad shape. My only release from it was my tobacco habit which began to grow worse. I'd lock myself in a backroom of the house and smoke a cigar or two, while listening to Nirvana, the Smashing Pumpkins or other Grunge bands (which, I'm ashamed to admit, I'd just discovered), belting out songs between puffs on the stogie and inhaling too much smoke in the process. Smoking, and also writing, became my only two joys and avenues for escape.
It was during this time that I also finished the epic poem I'd been working on for three and a half years; the tale of a young lumberjack who's father is killed by a beastly Wendigo, and who goes off in a quest of vengeance against the monster, only to become, in the end, that which he most feared and hated. I took some strength from this poem and the story and I actively credit it for helping me maintain some semblence of stablity during those long months.
I won't go into any more details about that time; I could write a book about it if I so chose. I'll only briefly mention incidents such as kids beating on my house randomly, my bed beginning to shake as I tried to sleep, with no apparent cause (was my house haunted? Was I doing it myself? Was it all in my mind? To this day I can't be certain), a staff member showing up drunk to my house and not leaving until I'd drank some of his homebrew (drinking was illegal up there, and I was risking my job by doing so), the fact that I rarely left the house at night without a knife at hand, just in case.
It was a bad time; one of the worst I've ever faced. But it wasn't terrible; many other members of the staff had taken a liking to me during that time, largely due to my sense of humopr and my willing to drop what I was doing to help them out if they needed it. I still remember out Computer Tech man, a native from the village himself, coming in to see if I was all right one day; even some of the small kindnesses from several of my students (one, in particular, sticks with me: We were having an assembling, and I often will get overwhelmed by crowds. I stepped out to get some fresh air and this student came out, saw me, and asked if I was feeling all right. Such small human kindnesses mean a lot!)

I'm not particuarly sure while I've written all of this. I'm in grad school now and have left teaching behind me; I'm enjoying my new life, mostly, and feel as if I'm back where I should be. Yes, there are some things about my current condition I'd be happy to change, but over all I'm content and happy with myself. So, why did I write this long description of when times weren't so good? Possibly to remind myself what I'd gotten through, by sheer determinatin and force. Maybe to show what can happen when someone allows pride to blind them to a bad situation. This post could even stand as a monument in case I should ever begin to romanticise that part of my life and grow to suspect that it wasn't all that bad.
What ever the case; it has been written now, and I'm going o bed. I've got to get up and go to the gym tomorrow.

Once last note: Here is a new Hank III song I discovered. Not only is it a great song; but there are boobs in the video. And, hell, those ALWAYS make me feel good