NIGHT LIGHT

It spewed. Molten orange lava from the Fimmvorduhals volano near Reykjakik, Iceland. Illuminating a northern sky.

So, my question of the day is what incident in your life caused you to erupt? Not just an explosive tirade. Nor an outburst that you later wished undone. I'm talking about the mother of all rage?

You may have to roll that query over in your mind for awhile. It may go back to childhood. It may have been manifested in high school or college. It may have been work related, family related, or happenstance simply caused by some circumstance over which you had no control.

But the outlet, the release wasn't all that different from Fimmvorduhals. The intense pressure had to be released in lashing out of some kind. Anger is like that. Blowing a gasket is necessary when counting to 10 or 100 won't help.

I've thrown my share of tantrums. Fortunately most have been at the expense of inanimate objects. Mechanical things are near the top. The number of lawnmowers that I couldn't keep running outnumber vacuums but only slightly. They both have endured my wrath.

But I think my volcano was reached back in 1969 when tv announced draft numbers. Since we were involved in a conflict; at least I don't believe Congress officially called it a war in Viet Nam, and even with the largest population of youth ever in the Baby Boomer generation, recruits were not running to enlist in the military. The draft was in vogue, so when it was announced that my birthday had been selected as the ninth number, which meant certain induction, I went volcano.

I walked out into the yard, saying a variety of Joe Biden choice words and I hit the biggest tree in our yard with my fist. I mean I punched it like it was a soft bellied opponent. How I didn't break my hand, I still don't know. But I never have hit or thought about hitting a tree again.

So I stayed in college and made my grades so I wouldn't be drafted. I taught school for a few years before they took way teacher deferments. Fortunately the conflict ended before my deferment.

I stuck around the school for 27 more years. I think I served my country. I even got wounded by a high school student who shot me with a high powered Chinese air rifle while I was on the picket line. No one told me it was a firing line. I didn't know the kid; he really didn't know me. But I bet he was some kind of Druid; some kind of tree lover. Just getting even.