My love affair with writing started in my 11th grade English class, with an F-. Yeah, you read that right, “eff minus”. And, as it usually is with things of this nature, the grade was entirely my fault, not that I could convince my father of such a thing. He and my mother arranged a parent-teacher conference with Mrs. Jaffe, purveyor of said grade.
“I’ve seen his notebook, and I agree he earned a F,” my father began. “But, a F minus? That’s an insult!”
“Well,” she replied. “His test was insulting.”
It was, no doubt. Every day for six weeks, she waited on me to live up to my potential, and each day I waited for her to give up. I earned every bit of that F minus.
The past seven days have been crazy. My oldest broke her collarbone, necessitating a one thousand mile trip for her surgery. Eight titanium screws and one titanium plate later, she is in full recovery mode and no longer needing either my wife or myself. That was a lot of time in airports and hospitals. To distract myself I came up with an idea; Project Blackford.
