Happy Frickin' Halloween - Julie

I am sitting here in my classroom wearing a scratchy Agent 99-esque wig, with jeans and a gray sweater. The wig is my nod to Halloween. It is all I will ever do, costume-wise, for Halloween. It will surprise the kids when they walk into my class; they may think for a moment that they have a sub. But they will quickly get over it, and say to themselves, it's just Ms. Inada with black hair, and then we can get down to some normalcy (the kind where they basically ignore me). If you've been studying my blogs (and there will be a quiz on them in January), you know that the reason I write is to gently and unobtrusively call attention to myself. Any other method of calling attention to yourself (say, a rainbow wig, suspenders, sexy kitten/witch outfit, wizard's hat, leopard-print caveman suit, etc.) is unseemly.

There is also something in the air I cannot abide on Halloween -- an eerie crackling energy made up of peoples' experimentation with being something entirely different for a day. It leaves one breathless, all this tin foil, cardboard, fabric, glue, paint and applique imagining.

So think of me this Halloween, little black wig, eating a bit of candy, and holding my breath, hanging on until November 1st.

My First (of many?) Embarrassing Moment In Publishing…

So I get this email from my new editor:

To: Christy Raedeke
Subject: Don't worry . .

I am going to get you notes, etc. on PoD. Brian and I have talked about it and he’s excited about the premise. I think he’ll be even more excited once he gets into the text.

More soon,
AK

I read it and think, what the hell is PoD? I Google the acronym for an hour, in various configurations with words like "edit" and "manuscript" trying to get hip to the whole publishing slang. Can’t find much, so I assume his edits are so big that he’s binding them into a Print On Demand (PoD) book. Realizing I should go ahead and clarify rather than assume anything, I email back:

To: Editor AK
Subject: RE: Don't worry . . .

Print on demand? Payable on death? I’m so sorry I don’t know what PoD means.

Cheers,
Christy

To which he replies:

To: Christy Raedeke
Subject: Don't worry . .

POD = “Prophecy of Days.” You’re officially working with a publishing house. All books get acronyms.

AK
____

Oh, that. Yes, of course. My book’s title.
It honestly never occurred to me.

Found Words--Marcia

The coffee is brewing, the oatmeal is on, and there's a cat in my lap. It's Wednesday. Blog day. Happy Blog Day to me.

I get to mull over the things I want to write about, the things I should have written in a journal, but no longer keep.

I thought I was going to write about the Trunk-or-Treat/Picnic-Flicknic I put together last Saturday at Roosevelt. But the instant I write the word journal I change my mind.

This is why I don't get much writing done.

I have kept journals, "diaries", FOREVER. I have a giant Rubbermaid tub or two full of all the diaries I've ever kept. I think I started as soon as I could hold a pencil.

I have diaries from Chinatown with silk covers, the black and white school books I love, yellow legal pads, black artist's books meant for drawing, Holly Hobbie puffy plastic ones, "women's" journals from the late eighties, mod-Ikea-like deals from a few years back . . . and now . . . nothing.

A lot of times my diary went something like this: "Amy likes Lisa better than me. My brother hates me. I hate him. I wish his guts would pop out of his eyeballs. I'm going to try to lose weight. Brad said Hi to me today."

In college my journals were all about love, lack of love, thinking about being in love, and my weight.

Well, since I've got the love thing taken care of, I've given up on my weight, what else is there to write about?

James barfed all over the furniture and floors Monday, so I had to do a major housecleaning. In doing so, I unearthed a vintage suitcase. The early precursor to a backpack. It is no bigger than one of the first laptops. navy blue with white piping, it might have held a young lady's satin pajamas, a charmeuse blouse for the next day, a hairbrush, toiletries and her novel, and that's about it.

I haven't paid attention to this suitcase in a long time. I couldn't recall what was in it, despite the fact that it has been sitting on top of a speaker underneath the breakfast bar in my family room for over a year. Sometimes you can find an old newspaper, or the contents of my children's "Monday folders" on top of it.

It took three hours to clean up James' gunk. The room got turned inside out. Furniture was moved.

Daniel came home from school in a foul mood, screaming, crying, red-faced snotty. A clear, and unfortunate, sign that he too was sick. By the time I got back from errands, dad had him banished to his room. Once it dawned on us, that he needed gingerale not horsewhipping I set about setting up the sickbay.

Ensconsed in his bunk bed trying to read, he needed a firm surface for his soda. I remembered the the little suitcase. Perfect. I set him up and left him. I came back later only to find him deep in its contents. I heard my husband ask about it as he was headed in to read to James.

"There's old diaries and stuff," Daniel said as I see an old Hawaiian calendar being passed over the bunk rails down to his brother. Diaries! I resisted the urge to run in and snatch everything.

When I climbed up to read with him, I found a piece of white paper folded over on his comforter.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Oh nothing, just something I wanted to keep."

"Where did you get it?"

"Inside the suitcase." He holds his giant Sponge Bob, his pretend lantern light shone down on his half-guilty face.

"It's okay," I said, "Let's read it."

"I want to keep it up here with me Mom, okay."

"Okay."

I put my head down on the pillow next to him, unfold the paper and hold it up for us to read.
The words, shockingly, are my own.

There is the usual gibberish about my plans to focus on writing despite my lack of attention span. then there is what amounts to treasure in my son's eyes:

"Mother's pride . . . My son is becoming a leader. Already just a few months into his fifth birthday. I could see his power today at the Dojo. He had no fear. He stood up in front of his master, made his quick ferocious moves and shouted his loudest "ki-ais" ever. I watched him maneuver his kicks with perfection and complete his kata. Incredible. He was miles beyond the energy and focus of the other children in his group, even Justin the older boy.

Daniel is cool. Daniel is powerful. Daniel has a way with the children at school. Everybody wants to play with him. He is balanced. Dear God, let it stay that way a while. (Do a karate story)"

Daniel takes the paper from me, carefully folds it, and puts it between his headboard and mattress right by his pillow.

This is not my best writing, but it might be my most important.

It might be time to get a new diary.

I See the Light --Kerry

I didn't write anything for an entire week except for signing my name on numerous credit card slips throughout Disneyland. Not writing was actually cathartic, mostly because it's hard to beat yourself up about what's not going down on the page when you're hurtling through the darkness on Space Mountain or laughing hysterically while getting soaked on Splash Mountain.

I did think about it though, to be honest. And I missed at least the feeling of accomplishment I get when I see my words on paper. Any feeling of accomplishment from produced writing always puts more light in my world. However, there's always other ways to find light, as well, and when Disneyland beckoned in the midst of yet another family funeral, I heeded the call.

On the way home we visited my sister and heeded the call of the Exploratorium, the Zeum and the Natural Science Museum. More distraction, more light in all of our eyes. One thousand four hundred eighty driving miles later, I'm happy to be back in front of the keyboard but happier still that I visited the "happiest place on earth", a logo I formerly would have cringed at.

Sometimes running away may be a good answer to writer's block. However, I could have done without the stinky feet, crushed cheetos and six hours of driving time spent listening to the class of 1989 reunion cd.

why i cant blog -- Jennie

I can't blog today.

I am too busy disinfecting student papers that are plagued with "i" for "I" and "u" for "you" and "2" for "to."

It's true.

These days students write like they text.

As much as I love these learners, as much as I love reading the content of their stories (after I find it), I do not love editing the new style of grammar.

Sorry, readers. Next week, I'll have a perfectly polished piece. I promise.

4 now, c u l8tr!

Julie Rox -- Julie

Some of you may have noticed that the quantity and quality of my blogging has decreased since the inception of the Lithia Writers Collective blog, though you may not have mentioned it out of discretion, and I do appreciate that. See, when we first started it, I was a "reading coach" at the high school, and since no one REALLY knows what a reading coach is, I spent a lot of time in my office, writing my blog, and thinking about teaching reading. Then, this summer, with no work, I spent a lot of time writing my blog, and then watching the X-Files. So yes, I was blogging, and happily so. But was I actually Happy? Satisfied professionally? Nope.

Now, I'm teaching full time at the middle school, and while there is precious little time to blog, there is, finally, professional satisfaction.

I love teaching middle school. I love the smell of floor wax in the halls after a vacation. I love when some kid writes "Julie Rox" on my dry erase board. I love leafing through their little Language Arts notebooks and seeing how seriously they take everything I ask them to do. I adore their poems about palm trees and mean teachers, stories about zombies and broken arms. I am over the moon when they discuss "Flowers for Algernon" for 15 minutes without me saying a word. When they pass a note in class, I have to take the note and act stern and disappointed, but I secretly can't wait to read it after class. I come to work at 7:30, leave at 4 and more often than not work at home in the evenings and on weekends.

So yes, I am inconsistently pursuing my own writing, but I pursue THEIR writing with vigor. And I'm Happy.

Stay tuned for next week's blog: How One Parent Email Can Make Me Believe That All of the Above is a Load of Crap and I Need to Find a New Profession.

Rantings of a Registered Independent

Over the past few weeks I’ve felt this mounting irritability, a deep-rooted feeling of being unsettled. There’s angst, a bit of woe, and a good amount of fear. It’s getting worse as we get closer.

Do you feel it?

McCain’s latest trick, the “Joe the Plumber Tour” that he’s kicked off in Florida has hit a new low in Gimmick Campaigning. Joe isn’t a plumber, and in fact, Joe is working without a plumbing license. Joe hasn’t paid some back taxes. Joe, as seen on interviews, is kind of a jackass. But all of a sudden it matters that if he buys the plumbing business he will pay 3% more taxes on anything over $250,000? Cry me a river Joe. And this, it seems, is all McCain can think to talk about.

Where is the Joe the Teacher tour?

Never has it been more important to think. Never has it been more important to vote.

77 Steamroller--Marcia

At 77 my mother still kicks my heine. Hooked up to oxygen and only able to walk one step. She still gets more done in a day, with more sheer persistence, than I could ever fathom.

My mom has guts.

Ten days out of the hospital and she still decides to make the ten hour drive to Medford from San Luis Obispo. Her doctor said it was okay.

He didn't know that my mother does not relax on vacation, she fixes her children, her children's children, and their homes, bank accounts, and hem lines. We even picked out Halloween costumes, birthday gifts and party favors for James' and Daniel's upcoming birthdays.

My mother knows how to take care of business. She arrived. Took one look at my sister's brand new hand-me-down, overstuffed floral couches and got straight to it. I think it took her less than three days to have everything slipcovered, a new rug put in, the mantlepiece decorated, and the art work reframed and hung. A few new toned down tchochkes and a stylish floor lamp y voila! One daughter taken care of.

Then she gave us all her silver. We lined it up on the kitchen counter at Mama Katie's guest house. Sister and I drew straws and then the picking began.

I got to go first. Jesus loves me.

I know my sister wanted those candlesticks too.

My sons were born with the same genetic disposition as my brother Peter--they cannot wear pants that rise any higher than their hips. Thus we have major "crackage". My brother is skinny as a rail and has no butt, that's why his pants fall down. My sons are more hefty little packages and just can't pull their pants up over their tummies. Have no fear my mother's here.

She knows how to whip out her measuring tape, check their waistlines, measure the inseam, and get it all going on. After a day of hitting all her favorite places. She can come home and report that Target's 12 husky, and Sears 10 husky are the same. So you never know, you better measure first.

I wish she could have seen James checking the tag on his new color coded (the boys wear the same size) pants and the subsequent look of exhilaration as he hoicked on a pair of jeans that didn't trail three feet behind him. He topped these off with a cool gold-toothed skull shirt courtesy of Granny. He was so excited that he ran out to the curb when the schoolbus came and hopped right on. The thing is he doesn't take the bus anymore. Thank God he had shoes on, because he hadn't eaten breakfast, and left without his backpack or a jacket. But, damn, he looked good.

Who knew pants were such an esteem builder?

My mother!

She left me with a weight loss plan for both of them, copious healthy snacks from the "Traders" in San Luis, and a check to buy two weeks worth of Lean Cuisine. Oh, and three bottles of wine. Can I drink them all at once?

My weather beaten farmhouse table is now dressed with the beautiful Sheffield candlesticks, Georgian salt cellars, and Tiffany pepper shakers. They gleam amongst the scalloped platter laden with purple grapes, a green and gold acorn squash and a few rosy apples. My table, an island of etiquette and ancestry amidst my chaos. Thank you mumsy.

I putter around this morning, thinking about her visit and what she is able to accomplish. I think about how truly brave she is to be putting into action the last stage of her life. She is divesting. Distributing. Making lists. Making a plan. She has put her money down on Horton Plaza. She will sometime soon, be leaving her wonderful house, her garden and kitchen, the grandchild who is the favorite of her dotage, a circle of incredible friends, and her role as ruler of the roost--to come here--where she can live an active life simply by rolling down the hall to the "game room".

But you know. She is good at change. She takes charge of it, hems it up, makes it fit. And although my children are apalling, rambunctious, fiesty, and unruly--they adore her. My oldest son is already dreaming of riding his bike over to her apartment after school. I think that's a good thing. Maybe even better than silver candlesticks.

So mom, you better stock up on healthy snacks.

The Greatest Moment -- Jennie

“Was the greatest moment of your life when you married Daddy?” my nine-year old daughter, Daney, asks with big blue eyes.

I want to say, “Yes.”

Everyone who knows me knows that I’m in absolute adoration of my husband.

And our wedding was amazing—perfect, even.

But I can’t say that it was the greatest moment of my life.

A once-in-a-lifetime experience with him surprised me in New York City. Our family was enjoying the last half-hour of a firefighting museum in SoHo, when Daney grabbed my hand and said, “You have to come with me! Something’s wrong with Daddy.” She pulled me into an almost-bare room with two arches plastered by the faces of 911’s fallen heroes, and there was Dave, his baseball hat clutched at his chest, his chin tucked, his cheeks wet.

There was nothing to say. I let go of Daney’s hand and she skipped off to another exhibit, while I stood by my husband of 15 years in silence and sadness and shock.

He had never cried like that over anything.

Then there was the time I served pizza in my dad’s kitchen to my brother and his friends, who were scripting their Valedictorian speeches. They chewed and thought and talked and invented an unusually collaborative graduation speech. Those kids had worked twelve years toward this opportunity, and after they delivered, they would be scattered around the world.

I knew the invincibility, the friendships that would vanish. But they didn’t know it. They had this certain time together, and it was the only thing that mattered to them.

I’ve felt that way, too.

When Paul McCartney belted out “Let it Be” in Berkeley, I wished those notes, the lighters, the feeling would last forever. In a way, it has. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Last year, within seconds, my kids’ music teacher stuck them on keyboards, guitar, and tambourines, as a boy and his sister we’d never seen before plunked away at the piano.
Suddenly, five young musicians were playing and singing “Knocking on Heaven’s Door.” Dylan would have loved it as much as I did.

There are many moments—my ten-year old sister’s singing “The Heart Will Go On” at our mom’s funeral, the entire fire department’s calling to say that Dave tested at the top of the hiring list, publishing my first piece, drinking a cup of Christmas coffee when I was a little girl—that have been great.

“What was the greatest moment in your life?” I ask my husband.

“The day you married me,” he says.

Gulp.

How Orwellian...

Jay Asher just put up a funny post about senior photos, and challenged one and all to scan in their own. Having recently cleaned out our storage unit, I knew exactly where mine was. So here for your amusement is:

Christine Marie Gersich
Ashland Senior High class of 1984

To get my "mall bangs" that poufy and my side rolls just right I used a round hairbrush the size of a kielbasa and a LOT of Aqua Net. I'd like to say I've made a radical departure from this look, but if you glance at my blog photo you'll see that in nearly 25 years I haven't made a whole lot of progress in hairstyle or makeup scheme. (Although a friend did finally pry the Lancome Electric Blue Eyeliner from my hands in 1989. But hey, I gave it a good run.)

As John Cougar Mellencamp said so profoundly: Hold on to 16 as long as you can/Changes comin round real soon make us women and men...

Wild Geese Over The Clam Sands-Marcia

Autumn brings out the best in me. I always want to be kicking through drifts of fall leaves in Frye boots and a calf length wool skirt, or perhaps a nice pair of courduroy trousers.

I will muse as I kick through the leaves. Alone with my deep thoughts. The brisk air putting the sap in my veins, the scent of apples making me want to bake, and eat. And sit in front of a fire, and drink coffee, and eat. Coffee cake. Mmmm. Larded with brown sugar and walnuts. And coffee! And quiet. And my deep thoughts and my courduroy. I'll look out the window at the leaves floating down to earth, I will have a nice fire, and listen to it crackle. And then, after, I've had this rich amber hour or so of lolling, and eating, and coffee, I will feel deep enough into my writer's mind to go and write a rich story larded with meaning and crackling with intensity, and blazing with fire, solid as Frye boots, and textured as corduroy, and and and and and. Everyone knows this won't be possible until I'm like 72.

So the stories are percolating. Hopefully they'll linger until I have the time to catch them. Hopefully they won't flicker out as quickly as my attempts to light a fire.

Despite a few frustrating weeks of no time to write, I've made a few positive moves.

1. I submitted an article!!!!
2. This made me want to submit more. It was fast, easy, and fun.
3. I found out what I need to do to get the family room computer hooked up to the Internet, so I can get the kids OUT OF MY OFFICE!
4. I've got STUDIO SPACE!!!!


Saturday, after almost having a heart attack when all I wanted to do was sit and work, and I couldn't get my children uprooted from my space, I called the Princess. She has what I need. An empty house, counter space, proximity, and privacy. I asked if I could rent her home office. Being a good princess, she declined, but suggested a fair trade. I keep the surfaces dusted, flies out of the window sills, and air the place out every once-in-awile, and we're even. Wow! A studio.

As soon as my house guests leave, I'm moving in.

So for now, as I bust around to jobs, kid activities and lessons, I know that my space awaits me. Autumn isn't over yet. It's all Wild Geese Over the Clam Sands.

I mean Calm Sands. A CD Christy gave me, that I decided to listen to on the way home from work this morning. Hoping to stave off any need for Anger Management classes or Tai Chi, I put the CD in, and was reading the jacket before pulling out of the school parking lot.

In two places, mainly the cover and back cover of the album, it reads "Wild Geese Over The Calm Sands," yet where the "cover tune" is listed it says "Clam Sands." Maybe the Chinese musicians were trying to musically depict the geese delicately plucking up scrumptious clams with chopstick-like beaks. Maybe the jokester translator forgot to revert back to the original title before submitting the job to the printers. Either way I like it.

Breathe in, kick through the fall leaves, picture your life as smooth and relaxed as a beach of teaming sea life ready to be steamed, chowdered, or, my favorite, turned into linguine. With clams there's so much more possibility. A life waiting to be opened and devoured.

Enjoy your Calm and Clammy day

Tasting the Strawberry -- Kerry

Excerpt from "Comfortable With Uncertainty" by Pema Chodron

"A woman is running from tigers. She runs and runs and the tigers are getting closer and closer. She comes to the edge of a cliff. She sees a vine there, so she climbs down and holds onto it. Then she looks down and sees that there are tigers below her as well. At the same time, she notices a little mouse gnawing away at the vine to which she is clinging. She also sees a beautiful little bunch of strawberries emerging from a nearby clump of grass. She looks up, she looks down, and she looks at the mouse. Then she picks a strawberry, pops it into her mouth, and enjoys it thoroughly.

Tigers above, tigers below. This is the predicament we are always in. Resentment, bitterness and holding a grudge prevent us from seeing and hearing and tasting and delighting. The might be the only moment of our life, this might be the only strawberry we'll ever eat."

This is a direct analogy to a writer's life. If we do not take the time to enjoy the pleasure of the writing skill that we all possess, we lose this aesthetic pleasure to the chaos. Here's to tasting the strawberry.

Writer's Guide to Cheap Pampering--Kerry

I admit it, I color my hair. Although I did profit when I wrote my book, the freelance market has been a little sparse lately. So my haircare and healing arts indulgences had to be creative. Here's the breakdown on the writer's way to pampering at a fraction of the normal market price:

Medford School of Beauty hair color: $45
People's Choice Acupuncture: $20 - $40
Zia organic cosmetics and aveda shampoo at Grocery outlet: $10
Annie's pizza and frozen lunches at Grocery outlet: $3 -$5
20 minute massage at Endless Massage with clothes on: $20
15 minute massage at YMCA: $15
Ralph Lauren polo shirt at Goodwill: $5.99

And then of course there's the ultimate pampering for the kids, a cardboard box that they draw all over and gradually destroy: free and really, why buy toys?

Reviving Steinbeck -- Jennie

In reading my kids John Steinbeck’s The Pearl before we head off to La Paz, I’ve been awed once again by the master writer’s attention to detail, his significant settings.

Incidentally, since today is the last day of Banned Books Week 2008, it’s worth mentioning that Steinbeck is the American Library Association’s tenth-most frequently-challenged author.

As I walked through the autumn-anticipant Ashland this morning, I tried to apply some Steinbeck-ian observation.

Snapping a rose from its stem, I picked off a petal. Before letting it fall to the slick street, I rubbed it between my fingers for a minute, thinking how remarkably similar it was to a human eyelid: thin, soft, and veined, with like curviness.

Next, I grabbed a fistful of lavender and crushed it in my palm, releasing its sweet, wet, earthy scent.

Finally, I plucked off an overhanging plum—ripe and fleshy—and sunk my teeth into its stickiness, waking up my lazy taste buds.

It was an unusually sensory amble through downtown, an ode to nature of the small sort.

Steinbeck is inspiring, even in a city.

The walk made me wonder, though: How can a guy who made the American setting critical, who’s been dead two decades, get such a bad rap in the reading world?

He’s a hero.

Five Years Ago --Christy

The publishing process is painful...but this was worse.

Happy Birthday Hank!

Finding the right rhythm--Marcia

It was a jam packed week and then my mother wound up in the hospital. Wow. Mom, if you read this, I'm so proud of you for getting yourself to the emergency room. For those of you who don't know me mum, she's a wee strong headed. (The apple doesn't fall far, does it?) But my mother's usual remedy of clipping a hedge, going to Target, or sewing up some slipcovers wasn't going to chase off a heart rate of 230. Of course my mother's cell phone didn't work, she was training someone at her Episcopal thrift shop, and my brother was out of reach. Thank god for Elsie, one of mom's thrift shop ladies. I think Elsie's like 90. But she can still drive!!!

Mom is as good as can be. Now she has a "cardiologist". For my generation this is like saying you have a personal trainer or "don't worry the maid will get it." She'll be up to visit in a week. Those yankees, never a weak moment. She can't stand lolling about with glossy magazines and a bowl of broth, and now it'll have to be sodium free. Damn. She'll probably have to cut back on the butter and half-and-half. My mother's always been proud of her ability to cook like Julia Child and eat like a frigging bird. It's alfalfa sprouts and tofu for you now my litle pigeon.

I have been less worried about my stoic mother and more worried about my sensitive brute of a five year old. James does not like kindergarten. When the principal, yes the principal, asked him why not, he said "because of the time outs."

James is going to be the one that tries the teacher's patience. James is the one talking and not working. (Hmmmm.) James is the one who, because he can't cut with the ding dong little scissors, experiments with them, first a couple of shirts and then somebody's hair. Yip. James is the one. It happens every year. One of the kindergartners plays barber.

He's got a seat work teacher. A fine motor skills teacher. James is the size of a twelve year old with hams ready for the boxing ring not a miniature pair of baby blue Fiskars.

I feel guilt. I set him up. For five years he's been coming to my classroom where we learn by singing songs, playing at "centers", doing countdown to halloween, jumping like a frog, and wearing glitter goggles made of cardboard when we do the letter "G". He thought that was kindergarten. Well not everywhere.

James will make it. I know he'll be fine. But I wanted something to be good for him so I ran him over to Superior Athletic to check out the swim team. He wanted to jump right in that pool then and there.

"But buddy, we're just here to watch. To see if you think you can do it."

"I can do it, I can do it. I want a black swim hat. Go get my stuff. Come on."

The wonderful coach comes over and talks directly to James and invites him to swim with him after class if he would like.

I've never seen James move faster. We had to bust out of there PRONTO to go and get his trunks and goggles and get back in time.

I love James in goggles and his red-flame trunks. His belly hangs out, his crack shows, his hair sticks up, and the goggles give him that old-fashioned convertible driver look. I know I am not the only one to appreciate James' charms. He makes a lot of people smile, including the coach.

I cry when I see James in the pool. He takes off freestyle for an entire lap. The effort is huge the splashing sublime. But he can't breathe side to side yet, so he has to surface every once in awhile for survival. He and the coach go through a number of drills. James is absolutely compliant and gives it 100 %. This is what James needs.

The sweet coach comes to me after and suggests James do some more lessons. He doesn't want him disappointed or frustrated. He says that usually there have to be four or more kids in a class, but in James' case he'll make an exception. He's right to do so. James has passion. And as the coach said when they first met, 'James, how old are you?---Five! What is your dad like 6'9"?" In a swimming pool, winning is often done in inches. James has inches.