Week Fifteen: November 30th

Strangely itchy, yet strangely satisfying. That is how I could describe these chops cut from the cloth of Martin Van Buren.

Why one would offer up two hair-kickstands formed in the mold of our lesser-known 8th President is a curious tale. For more on him, including the photo I was wary to post here, search Martin Van Buren and visit the White House archives website--you will not be disappointed. Suffice it to say, I am jealous. Someday....



During the summer, as I was tinkering with beards, I stumbled upon a sweet set of choppers similar to these. One of my fellow employees inquired about my aspirations to become Van Buren, albeit, not in so many words. Knowing little of the man, and even less of his facial hair, I conducted several searches and learned a great deal, concluding my search with the image of his amazing chops forever seared in my memory.

So, of course, how better to honor his 'burns than to bridge the gap between present and past: creating a strange connection between a comic-book mutant (last week) and a leader from 170 years ago? Wouldn't Marty VB be proud?

Equally proud were some former students of mine, visiting our school this week. Every year, in early December, an elite squadron of 8th graders, playing in the orchestra, band or singing in the choir at the middle school, visit all the area elementaries and perform. The aim is two-fold: entertainment and information. While the remainder of the school is entertained by these "big people," the 5th grade sees an advertisement of sorts, as they offer these options to them for next year (when, they too, reach the big time.)

This was how I came to be surrounded by former students at the end of the assembly, regaling them with wisecracks and sarcasm (perhaps the only two things I do well.) In the midst of our recollections, one student cut in, "So, Mr. Chisholm, would you define those as Muttonchops?" Not one for straight answers, I turned to him and replied, "No, Tom, I believe these are actually sheep." At that moment, as in fourth grade, four years before, they were not quite sure what to make of the statement, or me.

One girl, tried to interject, in hopes of saving the day, "Well, Mr. Chisholm, those aren't exactly in style anymore." Oh, Susan, if there is one thing I would hope you learned from me all those years ago, it is that I am not in the least bit concerned with style. Anyone willing to sport these for a week, can also support that claim.