John Oliver Smith
Bio
Baby, son, brother, child, pupil, athlete, collector, farmer, photographer, player, uncle, coach, husband, student, writer, teacher, father, science guy, fan, grandpa, comedian, traveler, chef, story-teller, driver, gardener, regular guy!!!
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Stories (126)
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Some Things You Just Never Hear
During the final eight years of my teaching career, I had the wonderful opportunity and once-in-a-lifetime experience of teaching in an International High School in Wuhan, China. There were so many things that took place on almost a daily basis in that school over those eight happy and memorable years that I will never forget and which seemed like an annoyance at the time but really were the substance of good-hearted fun. In the account below, I will list a few of them, in a format that may only make sense to teachers and students who have encountered the same experiences during the same time period.
By John Oliver Smith4 years ago in Education
The First Day
Fall is simply the best time of year. Fall is all the golden, red and yellow mash-up tapestry you only get to see for two not-long-enough-weeks after summer has checked out. Fall has crisper, more urgent air than summer. Fall air takes nothing for granted. It reintroduces itself with each breath as it moves through your nose, your throat, your chest. Fall air is much like spring air, but fall air is fresh in a more carbonated way – a way that sensitizes for a winter that will eventually put an end to everything that fall is. Fall is football and World Series baseball and vacationers coming back from their summer sojourns.
By John Oliver Smith4 years ago in Education
The Pears of Black River
'Las Peras del Rio Negro' was the bright red title on the poster hung on the cork-board outside the employment office door. I attempted to say the words aloud, not even knowing for sure the language in which they were written. I somehow suspected they might be Spanish because I recognized the word “Rio” from a couple of old ‘dusters’ I had seen at the cinema when I was a kid. I liked the way the phrase sounded, even though I knew I probably wasn’t pronouncing it correctly. I opened the door, edged into the crowded waiting area, closed the door behind me, then made my way to the queue marked ‘New Job Opportunities’. One of the agents was making his way up and down the lines, handing out the updated job list as we stood waiting. The list provided something to do as we shuffled from foot to foot over the half hour or so of moving forward at a snail’s pace. It also gave us a head’s up on what to inquire when we finally made it to the window at the front of the line. On perusing the list, I again noted the title – Las Peras del Rio Negro. “Interesting!”, I thought.
By John Oliver Smith4 years ago in Fiction
Ode to a Moose
It was late April and we had just experienced another cold snap. Out my cabin door, I could see that the big pond had taken on more ice. The winter ice never really went away, and now that the temperature was dipping down to minus 15 degrees at night, any open water that might have been around, was thickening up pretty quickly. There were some smooth clear patches here and there that were alright for skating. Regarding ice thickness and skating safety on lakes and ponds, I always remembered the little verse I learned during Red Cross Swimming Lessons when I was a kid – “One inch – NO WAY, Two inches – ONE MAY, Three inches – SMALL GROUP, Four inches -OKAY”. Since I was skating by myself, I knew that the ice really only had to be about two or three inches in order to be safe enough for my medium-build frame to be supported as I lutzed and sowkowed around from patch to patch or when I took a slapshot to see how far a puck would actually travel.
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Fiction
All My Friends and Relatives Eat Shit
“Hi there. My name is Ralph and I’m a Dung Beetle. I live on the western edge of the tropical Amazon rainforest in a country called Ecuador. I very seldom see the sun because of the massive overhead canopy formed by the large tropical trees in our neighborhood. We do have a daytime and a night time though. The night time is very dark and I can often see the stars through the openings in the trees. But in the daytime, it is very difficult to see the sky. Because of the light coming through the leaves above me, everything appears to have a green tinge to it. I’ve heard that in most places in the world, daylight is white. In my forest, however, the daylight is green light.
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Fiction
A Ton of Bull
Sitting in the cowboy’s lounge, back of the holding chutes, my mind filled with some pretty serious second guessing and anticipatory jitters about what was coming up in the next few minutes. Like I had done, dozens of times before, I made my walk out of the locker room, down the corridor toward the event arena. As I climbed up the rack of tubular metal bars separating my next ride from the rest of the world, I wondered if I wasn’t making a mistake and whether or not I should have stopped taking part in this crazy sport after my last successful ride, 24 hours earlier. No surprises though. That was usually the feeling I had each time I made the ascent to the top bar before gingerly lowering my frame onto the back of a one-ton monster. The only thing that compensated for the doubt that filled my heart and mind as I grabbed onto the metal penning and put my boot onto the first rung was the absolute explosion of adrenaline and exhilaration that filled my entire body as I wiggled into position for my eight seconds (or less) on a rodeo bull. The bulls that any of us rode always waited reluctantly for their cowboy. The game was set up so that we never have to wait for them. Each preparation for the ride was, for me, as routine as shaving and consisted of a series of steps. If all went well, there might even be one additional celebratory step after everything was over.
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Something Special for The Man in the Moon
In the final year of the twentieth century, I was commissioned by NASA to conduct a series of experiments using tomato seeds that had been incubated in three different conditional states. Well . . . I mean I wasn’t actually sought out by NASA to do these experiments. Rather, I applied via a lengthy form to have my Grade 8 class receive the seeds so that they could be part of this scientific study. I was successful in the application, and when word came that I would be receiving three packages of tomato seeds along with an investigator’s instructional manual, I was overjoyed to think that soon I would be in the unpaid employ of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. I imagined myself to be a simple step away from living the life of an astronaut, bouncing through the far reaches of the solar system at the end of a nylon tether. “Rocket Man – burning out his fuse up here alone!”
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Here's Johnny
Five A.M. again! That time of day seemed to come around more often than any other time of day. Sometimes it showed up unexpectedly. Sometimes it was agonized for hours, long before it ever arrived. Ready for work, I would walk, jog, run toward the grandest of all structures in the yard. That building could be seen for miles when approaching from any direction. It was actually built in stages starting with Phase I, erected in 1935. A modest piece of work at that time, but as highly functional then as it became later. The next installment was put together four years later just to the north of the first one and attached directly. It was taller than the first and gave the impression that if more would be built, that they may each grow taller and grander until a final entry may certainly reach well into the clouds. Newer additions were fabricated to the south and north of the original buildings in 1960 and 1964 respectively. They were both of the same height, which was less than the stature of the segment put up in 1939, and seemed to lack the imposing character of the two original pieces. Together, the four buildings made up what was lovingly referred to as the “Pig Barn”. The Pig Barn was the destination of my daily five-in-the-morning jaunt and the venue in which I performed several times daily. For each of my daily gigs, I would roll back the massive sliding door on the south end of the most southerly barn, revealing a central concrete alley-way bounded on each side by endless rows of pig pens. Each pen contained anywhere from eight to 15 pigs, depending on age and size. Each pig within a pen bore it’s own character and personality. Each character had his or her own voice and appearance. As I stepped up into the Pig Barn and proceeded northward along the alley-way, I could hear one or two small murmurs, “He’s here, he’s in the barn.” Gradually, more and more voices filled the soundless gaps. Gradually, more and more volume was added to the noise of this now-bubbling throng. As I would reach the center of my concrete stage, I would stop and clap my hands once and sharply. The voices would stop in an instant and at which time, I would proclaim with great gusto and enthusiasm, “Heeeere’s Johnny!!” At this point every other individual in the Pig Barn would begin to run around its own group enclosure, yelling and screaming at the top of little piggy lungs, “We love you Johnny!” I would dance on my private stage in full view of my audience, throwing my arms and hands in the air while facilitating the perpetuation of shock-waves of porcine passion through the entire length of the barn. Some of my fans would stand on their hind legs and dance themselves while pawing at the sky. All would continue to scream, “We love you Johnny!” All would reach out for me in the hopes that I would reach back and touch them in turn. And when I did touch them, it was often more than they could handle, and they would drop to ‘all fours’ and then roll on the floor and convulsively gyrate until brought back to a condition of lucidity by their friends, whereupon the whole fit of unbridled rambunctiousness would begin again. I would sometimes continue my performance for nearly 30 minutes before I would stop and sign autographs for my adoring fans. They would bare their fair white and bristlely skin and thrust body parts in my direction. With blue and red grease markers, I would scrawl my name on their backs or limbs or faces or ears. They would attempt to embrace me while tugging at my clothing. I would have to push them away in fear of being mauled or thrown to the floor and trampled by the maddening crowd. After the autograph sessions were completed, I would provide them with a buffet meal and plenty of refreshing beverages. They would partake oh-so-willingly. After they finished they would look at me adoringly and proclaim, “You are the best Johnny – the absolute best and we love you with all of our four-chambered and homeothermic hearts.” As I would leave the barn and roll the door closed, they would beg me, “Please come back again Johnny. We love you truly and dearly and we would simply die without you.” I would reply while blowing kisses, “Five o’clock tomorrow it will be then.”
By John Oliver Smith5 years ago in Fiction
