Chick's Country Corrected, by GJ

Have received comment from brother Chick's part of NW Illinois."Anonymous" says my guess about Lanark and Shannon is too far SE from Stockton to be the towns that sprang up on my great grandfathers' acreages. The writer wonders if two villages named Elizabeth and Scales Mound might have been the ones in question. Who knows? It doesn't really matter all that much, except that where railroads went, towns sprang up to accommodate them, with stores, banks, hotels, etc. (One rumor had it that two railroads crossed in one of those places, which probably resulted in a somewhat larger town, I'd think.) (Always glad to hear from you, "Anonymous." You sort of keep me honest!)

Mac Davis, a good buddy, by GJ

I would appreciate hearing from anybody who knows (or knew?) of Mac Davis. (Seems to me he lived in Washington State in 1984? Could it have been Spokane?) I corresponded with him quite a bit, and we enjoyed each other's jokes. He wrote some memoirs, too. If anyone wishes, I'd be glad to see if I can find them.

Mary Ellen Stelling, my poet laureate, by GJ

This is to inform Mary Ellen's fans that I may have some of her verse dating back to 1984 which has not appeared elsewhere. We communicated by letter and phone several times, but I never knew which might have surfaced in other media. I would appreciate hearing from anyone who enjoyed her work as much as I.

Henry W. Baumann, champion by Grandpa Jim

This is to reassure my readers that I have several great memoirs by Henry, dating back to 1984. Among them, are; "Those Fox-tail Reeds," "A Day at Rosedale Pond," and "Mr. Platz's Fishing Trip." If there is any response, I'll gladly try to post them.

"Chick's Country" by Grandpa Jim

My brother Chick always used to say that his part of far northwest Illinois was “God’s Country.” It’s not exactly the ONLY area that people call this, of course. Anywhere that there is some natural beauty and fierce pride qualifies, apparently.

If you are in the market for a tour, however, I’d recommend giving it a try. There is an old, genuine “river town” called Savannah, for instance. Coming from the east, you really drop down into the town, because eons ago, the Mississippi River etched out a deep ravine for itself.

Just east of Savannah is another small, old farm-town, Mount Carroll, the county seat of Carroll County. It is also the site of what used to be the Frances Shimer College for Women, and also for a short-lived television series of 20-some (?) years ago. I recall Savannah as the home of some distant cousins when I was small, and Mount Carroll as the home of one of the only movie theaters for miles around.

Just north of M.C. is a wide spot in the road called Pleasant Valley, the home of a close cousin when I was growing up. He was Willy Willson, a breeder of draft horses, mainly Belgians, I believe. I didn’t know until just a few years ago that Belgians, Clydesdales, and Percherons are all just about the same size. (I had always thought that Clydesdales were larger.)

North of P.V. is Stockton and the home of one of my grandfathers, who owned a harness shop. Legend has it that two of my ancestors received acreage (some say 150) as reward for military service. One was “Captain Tommy” Harrison, reportedly kin to President William Henry Harrison. These two great-grandparents are supposed to have been disappointed in the acreages and traded them. (One for the harness shop, a turn-key business, I presume.) Later, it is said, railroads bought up a lot of land that ran through these acreages, and towns grew up there to accommodate the railroads. (Yes, the acreages would have increased in value, perhaps greatly. The towns may have become Lanark and Shannon, possibly?)

Before I leave Mount Carroll too far behind, I need to mention that one of my grandfathers earned credits from the women’s college there! He worked part-time for the school, tending the furnaces in the winter, and was allowed to attend some classes as part of his wages.

I always though it was interesting that my late brother (Chick) was so proud of this area. After all, he didn’t move out there to live until he was 16! (He left school and home for a place that appealed to him more. I will never know of all his motives, and it doesn’t matter. There is evidence that he truly enjoyed working with, and being around, horses, and Willy was glad to have the help.) In my next post, I’ll add some more places in “Chick’s Country.”

Some following posts refer to this author’s experience in a large, affluent, suburban high school of 30 to 40 years ago. It wouldn’t surprise him if he were to discover that much has changed. It was, obviously, another time, another place. At the root of the matter, however, are some observations that contain some truths. Grandpa Jim has spent 30 years as a full-time high school teacher, and another 15 years as a part-time instructor on the elementary, community college, and university levels.

Van Delinder has wondered, in recent times, if maybe public education can long endure. He sees a terribly wide gulf between large and small, city and rural, modern and out-dated efforts to educate our young. There is little emphasis or practice in the skills of writing. There is little reward for delving into older literature, which was usually the basis for the modern writers. Mathematical ability seems to have declined deeply into the ranks of cashiers and tellers. One can point to example after example of how far education has fallen behind in many walks of life. Tradesmen seem to struggle with basic measurement, those who should be able to read blueprints can’t always do so, etc.

Please do not take personally his assault of that system he once knew. He protests not the victims of labeling, he questions the labels and those who resort to them. If one had only the labels “smart, dumb, and strictly average,” would you want your child (or anyone’s child) to have to enter that class, let’s say based on an IQ test?

Grandpa Jim welcomes all comments.

Mrs. has a Comment

Mrs has left a new comment on your post "Just a Christmas thought for today by GJ": I love Snickers Candybars, and I love Jean's, "When will I be married all of my life?" My grandmother married my grandfather when she was only 16. When asked if she felt as if she'd been married her entire life, she replied, "Only the best part." Looks like Jean feels the same way!

Just a Christmas thought for today by GJ

According to a booklet I found, the month Jean was born, February, 1930, the first red and green traffic light was installed. (I’m not sure how that really pertains to Jean, but there it is.) In November of 1930, the first non-stop flight from NY to Panama occurred. (That’s of indirect, highly questionable importance to today, I guess.) For you sports fans, the Detroit Lions played their first NFL game and won it, 13 to 6. (Very mean thought for today= have they won, since?)

In international news for the year 1930, Constantinople was renamed Istanbul, Donald Duck made his screen debut, as did the Lone Ranger on radio, and Blondie in comic strips. Here’s a flash…frozen foods are sold commercially for the first time.

Back to the sports page... (heads up, Janeene…The Packers were pro football’s champions.) The Indy 500 was won at an incredible speed of 100. 4 MPH. Babe Ruth signed a Yankee contract for two years worth $160,000. Yankee General Manager Ed Barrow is quoted as saying, “No one will ever be paid more.”

Life expectancy in 1930 was 59.7 years, and Jean has been married almost two years more than that. Actually, she has been married for 78% of her life. When we celebrated our 17th, I told her she had been married 50% of her life. When we celebrated our 34th, I told her she had been married for 66 2/3rds of her life. She asked me, “When will I have been married for all of my life?"

The inventions for 1930 included: twinkies, sliced wonder bread, and Jean’s favorite, Snickers candy bars. Cost of Living in 1930…new house…$7,146. Average income…$39 per week…new car…$610. Average rent…$15 per month…Tuition at Harvard…$400 per year…movie ticket, 25 cents….gasoline…10 cents/ gallon…postage stamp…2 cents…milk 56 cents per GALLON…fresh ground hamburger…13 cents/ pound…fresh baked bread…9 cents/loaf.

All I can conclude is that I praise the Lord every day for the 78 years He has given to Jean.

The Seven Days of Christmas

I just walked into our "quarters" and asked Jean if she were all right. She looked up from her book, peered over the top of her glasses, smiled, and said, "Fine." I told her I'd be back shortly, and came in to share with you what that does for my day. Here it is, almost the 62nd Christmas we have spent as husband and wife. Were all 62 perfect? Not at all. By far, though, the preponderance were wonderful. Was the ancient stable perfect? Not at all, but look who lay in the manger! And look at the witnesses! There are so very many little things that can make our holidays "happy," I pray that we can focus on them, rather than some of those things that seem like imperfections.

A brief memory that warms my heart right now is one Christmas with our son-in-law, David, no longer with us. I don't know where the balloon came from, but it had some sort of gas in it that compelled it upward. We happened to have a two-story living room, so when the balloon got away from one of the grandchildren, Dave walked up the stairway to retrieve it from the ceiling.

We both had the same idea...how much weight could the balloon hold and still rise? We fastened some sort of "basket," perhaps a match box, to the string and placed something in it and released it over near the stairway, of course. It took several tries, but eventually we found the proper number of paper clips or rubber bands or safety pins to make the balloon stay at floor level. I doubt if anyone recalls any particular gift, or what we had besides turkey, or even what the weather was, but those fifteen minutes or so have lasted many years.

May you find a similar, little thing, to enhance your day. Love, Jim.

A Christmas Idea by Grandpa Jim

Just had a thought that others might benefit from. If you know of anyone who needs, or would enjoy, or in any way deserves such attention, may I suggest a variation on the “12 Days of Christmas” theme?

I just finished my version, which is stickers for the girls. We have three great granddaughters, 7, 5, and 3. Like all little ones, they enjoy stickers. I made out 36 envelopes, put in a handful of stickers, many of them different from their sister’s supply, tagged with numbers from 12 to 1, and dated them. They’ll be instructed to open one each day and that, alone, is kind of fun for them.

But it doesn’t have to be stickers, and it doesn’t have to be for kids. I once did this for a woman who has become a valued member of our extended family. She is a single, retired missionary who had to go up to Pennsylvania for her job several years back. Because she was away for the holidays, and ill part of the time, I thought it might make it easier for her to have twelve packages to open while there. There was nothing all that major in those presents, maybe an ornament, as I recall. I won’t try to list them here.

Now there is nothing all that essential about the number 12 if one can’t get it done in time.
Plan B would be to label the project 12 (cross out) 11 (cross out) and then “The 10 Days of Christmas.” (The 12 start on Sunday.) Plan C, of course, would be to postpone until Christmas of 2009, save up ideas, take advantage of sales, and make it a “whopper.”

I guess I can’t help but think about those people who find Christmas lonely, or isolated, or shut in, or whatever…maybe even neglected?

One could even put 12 (or whatever number) of different greeting cards in the envelopes, couldn’t they? Some could be seasonal, but some could be humorous, maybe? Some stores have a lot of “miniatures” which might work well.

If someone lives near enough, you could deliver one each day. Even anonymously? (Careful, Jim, you’ll get carried away here and you surely have been accused of THAT before.) Good luck! And Merry Christmas!

THE response to "Places" challenge by Donna

Donna Magliano has left a new comment on your post ""A SOD Story," by Grandpa Jim": My "take" on the end of 'Places In The Heart':I think the characters who "appear" to be sitting in the church pew with Sally Fields and her children at the end of the film, are literally the people who had a place in her heart. So even though they are gone she still carries them in her heart. Such as her husband, even the young man who shot him, and, of course her handyman. The SOD is that they appear to be sitting there, but they are not. Donna

S. O. D. Thoughts by Grandpa Jim

Before I see if any responses come in, and thus before I might be influenced by them, I’ll put down my own ideas.

Ninety-nine percent of “Places…” is quite down-to-earth realistic. Everything about it seems historically accurate. From the script to the credits, it is a marvelous movie. It deserved even more Oscars than it won.

Only in that final setting of the church service do we need to suspend our disbelief. There are people in the pews “who couldn’t be there.”

Yes, they couldn’t be in that church, in reality.

They could be “in our hearts,” of course, just as they are in the hearts of those sitting next to them. If we can accept this, we can be saddened and uplifted at the same time as the camera scans the players.”

My mother, who has been gone for 72 years, seems beside me and in church when certain hymns are sung. (She often hummed them as she went about the housekeeping.) My father, who has been gone for 47 years, seems beside me at odd times, because I am reminded of funny things he was in the habit of saying. For one, as we would cross the bridge from Illinois, he would take an audible, deep breath and remark, “can’t you just smell that fresh, Iowa air?”

Our late great-granddaughter, Ellie, looks over my shoulder whenever I pass sticker displays.

"A SOD Story," by Grandpa Jim

I’m fascinated by a concept called, “the suspension of disbelief.” I don’t claim to be an expert, but here’s how I view it.

The concept applies to novels or films or plays that deal with things that are thought to be impossible. One movie, “Tootsie,” comes to mind as an excellent example.

When we walk into the movie theater (or sit down to watch TV) we expect to find what I’ll call “real life,” or, “pretty much real life,” anyway. UNLESS, of course, we know that we are going to see something else, such as fantasy or cartoon or satire, for instance. Normally, we find it hard to believe that a man can pass for a woman…at least not for very long.

Think about such things as height, bulk, muscle, facial hair and voice. We all, I think, are confident we could tell, eventually, that something “is wrong” with this person …who is just “not right,” somehow.

“Tootsie” is just such a challenge. The role is played by Dustin Hoffman, for one thing. Now, he’s not a bad-looking MAN, but he’s ugly for a woman, to be frank. THE STORY ASKS A LOT if we are to believe that the others in the story could ever be fooled by him! But we must believe it if we are to enjoy the film!

Thus, we must SUSPEND what we normally believe to be true, and “go along” with the other actors and BELIEVE THAT THEY ARE ACTUALLY fooled by him----er, her. It isn’t what we believe about HIM, it’s what we believe about THEM that draws us in. We have to accept that they are “taken in” by someone WE’D NEVER BE FOOLED BY, ORDINARILY.

To put it in other words, we sit down to watch this story, CONFIDENT that we can almost always tell the difference between men and women. But NOW we either must accept this IMPOSTER, or get up and leave. We suspend, or “put on hold,” what we accept 24/7, for two hours in order to be entertained.

I submit that we have become so adept at this suspension, that we can enjoy book after book, film after film, play after play just because we have learned it so well. (And it doesn’t diminish our common sense, either!)

In a recent post, I referred to the film “Groundhog Day.” This is another and an excellent example of the suspension concept. If someone tells us that this is the story of a guy who relives a day over and over again, we’d probably avoid seeing it. “That can’t happen,” we’d say.

The secret lies in the question, “What causes us to want to see the NEXT DAY?” On the surface, the answer is, “To see if that next day EVER COMES!”

Now keep in mind that this isn’t a “perfect” scenario. We could probably take a position that there are some small questions aroused by the plot as it unfolds before us. But in the main (where did that old expression come from?) we are already “hooked,” and must see it through.

I find myself quite impressed by those who can “pull off” films like these. They MUST be written well, acted well, cast well, and photographed well in order to succeed. I’d like to see another Oscar category…best S.O.D. picture, actor, etc. (Suspension of Disbelief.)

If any of you are also film buffs, I’d like to hear from you about this question; in “Places in the Heart,” the final scene has been somewhat of a controversy. In light of my S.O.D. concept, what is your “take” on that matter? The best answer, not necessarily the first, will earn a prize.

Next Thursday, I’ll post my thoughts on it.

Thursday is early this year...by GJ

I MUST, after all, take tomorrow off from posting! I sincerely wish everybody a very happy Thanksgiving. I do believe it's my favorite holiday, but that belief is rooted deeply in the past. Too many people who used to make it great are no longer with us. What it means is, that our lives do move ahead by "eras," don't they? That era when we were young, when the young were young and when the young are old. My family has MUCH to be grateful for. We pray that yours does, too. It will be a struggle, but I'll try to make the most of a full tummy, maybe part of a football game, and maybe even a NAP! (I've never met a TV sporting event I couldn't nap through.)

Wanderers, Chapter Two by GJ

The peak of our wandering was probably 1949 (when I entered U of I) to 1961, when we moved to the Chicago suburb of Deerfield. We moved 15 times in those 12 years, or an average of every 9.6 months!

The first of four was from Elgin to Philo, a tiny burg just outside of Urbana, while attending the university. (Three years.) Each was because of a rarity in U. S. housing history. Returning GI’s were buying homes for the first time and builders were jumping on bandwagon. Places were vacant, but rented quickly. Thus, one often had to settle for extremely temporary quarters.

Moving to Champaign-Urbana meant taking something just until regular veteran’s housing opened up. With Jean and nine-month-old Donna, we were eligible for a two-bedroom apartment in an 8-unit “barracks-like” building. (Two-floors, four per floor.) BUT…there were no vacancies before registration, so we had to take a room (with bath and kitchen “privileges”) in Philo. We stayed upstairs in a farmhouse for about one month.

Next, we were notified that there was a vacancy in vet’s housing, so we moved into a very small, one-bedroom prefab unit with a coal stove. We lived there for about four months when a two-bedroom unit opened in the 8-unit building described above. It was now spring, and a lot of veterans had graduated (1950) and Nancy was on the way.

Finally, in 1951 a three-bedroom duplex became vacant, and we couldn’t believe how spacious it seemed. It was located right across the street from Memorial Stadium, the U. of I. football field. The huge grounds encircling the stadium gave us a view of manicured lawn, a wide boulevard, and space all around. We were to enjoy this luxury for almost two years.

We would then move to Clinton and Maroa, Illinois, about 30 miles west of Champaign, where I would enter my first year of teaching. In those next 11 or 12 months, we would move (1) to Clinton, (2) to a house in the country, (3) to a funny little prefab in Maroa, and (4) from there to an apartment in Rock Island, about 125 miles away.

These months were stressful for a number of reasons which I won’t go into. We were “talked into” the first move (from Clinton,) we couldn’t afford the heating bill in the second (because the registers were in the cement floor,) and I resigned from Maroa High School in June. Thus, we had to move north and for our fourth time. Starting from scratch in early 1948, we had now moved eleven times in five years!

Some of these moves were due to the times and beyond our control. Some were due to our limited finances, and some to our naivety. Looking back, we sure learned (1) to pack, (2) to unpack swiftly, (3) to take down and put up curtains, and (4) to store stuff in new, unfamiliar places.


PART II....................


That first move (to Clinton) took us to a large house that was, at one time, a funeral home! We didn’t know this until we had been there a while. Before that, it had been a small mansion! There were huge ceiling-beams in what had been the dining room, there was a study with wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, glass-door bookshelves, and the pantry was big enough for our daughters’ bedroom! (They were only four and two, and all their belongings fit in the built-in drawers, leaving room for one small bed and a crib.)

After three or four months, somebody at church persuaded us to move into their empty farmhouse. We didn’t know how to say no, but the rent was somewhat less. It wasn’t long before we got our first heating bill (electric) and discovered that it was prohibitive! The heating coils were buried in the cement floors and caused almost 24-hour heating to do any good. (We were still chilly!)

We were on month-by-month basis, so we gave notice and moved to a funny, octagonal pre-fab quite near the high school. It was very reasonable, and required no travel to work. By this time, I was also driving a school bus for almost the same salary as teaching!

You would not believe the reason why I resigned that summer, and I may or may not find the right words to explain it. Suffice it to say that I worked briefly as a radio station announcer that summer and got fired! A junior high school principal drove down (about 125 miles) to interview me and gave me a contract on the spot to move up to Moline, Illinois for the up-coming school year. I would be teaching 7th grade creative dramatics (elective) eighth grade public speaking (required) and 9th grade drama (elective.) Plus, I was to direct a play.

The only thing the principal neglected to tell me was the class schedule. I was to teach five classes of 7th that met twice a week, five classes of 8th that met five times a week, and five classes of 9th that met three times a week! Yes, that’s 15 classes of almost 30 per class which means almost 450 different students! I used to have to open my drawer and look at the schedule after every class in order to determine which class came next! The only students I ever got to know were those who rehearsed the play after school!

We started the year in a dingy apartment after a serious search and quickly moved into the upstairs of a private home in Moline. After a year there (and resigning from the junior high school) we moved across the Mississippi to Bettendorf, Iowa where I would teach for three years, 1954 to 1957. We rented a neat little cottage for two years and then bought the house across the street for about $9,000 as I recall.

From the beginning in 1948, it is now summer of 1958 and we have moved
15 times in 10 years. (Statistically, it is getting close to every six months!)

Wanderers, chapter three yet to come.

Reply to "Mrs."

Yes, it was THE Jimmy Stewart. When I was in high school ('41 to '44) the "big man on campus" was he who could boast at having the latest GM record. (78 RPM...breakable, of course.) It was the peak of the "big band" era, too. When we received word that he was "lost" on a flight to France (from England) to entertain the troops, we were in the Pacific and felt we had lost a member of the family.
-

You Never Know by GJ

It was probably 1963, give or take. Student Mike Decker turned in a good essay on his dream to become a railroad (steam) engineer. It was probably his best work up to that time.

It wasn't long before Mike handed in a second paper on the same topic. It was as good or better than the first, and I went out of my way to compliment him. When he submitted a third paper, and graduation was near, I tried to counsel him.

"I sure don't want to discourage you, Mike, " I said, "but could you be in for some disappointment? I mean, do you know how long it takes to work your way up to engineer? You usually start much lower, and have to serve as fireman, first. There was a time when it took twenty years or more."

"Yes, I know," he replied, "but that's my goal."

All I could do was wish him luck in that era of rapid conversion to diesel engines.

About ten years later, I took the family to a place called "Wisconsin Dells," north of Madison. As we strolled around the various amusement offerings, I heard a train whistle and suggested that we look into it as a way to ride around the park. As we approached the miniature engine, who steps out but Mike Decker, complete with engineer's overalls and oil can!

I must admit that the engine was not at all as small as some, and it was putting out steam, all right. It was a genuine steam locomotive! I told him how pleased I was to see that he had "made it." He told me that it was kind of tough at first, because he had a lot to learn, but the worst part was that the train didn't operate in the winter, and winter jobs were hard to find.

However, he told me, he had recently been able to work there in Wisconsin year around because they were getting other engines sent in for repairs and so that part of the business was really picking up. Mike Decker, Niles West High School, thy name is perseverence!

Movies in View by GJ

Nancy and I drove Jean down to Tampa for a MOPPS convention in the summer of 1993. To pass the time, we went to a museum and then decided to take a chance on a movie, which just happened to start at a convenient time.

The film was “Groundhog Day,” starring Bill Murray. (As it happens, GD is Jean’s birthday, 2/2.)

It wasn’t long before we both began to really enjoy the picture. It seems, in retrospect, that each new morning became funnier and funnier to us. (That is, of course, the film’s goal!) The movie is also an excellent example of “the suspension of disbelief.”

Pretty soon, we found ourselves laughing quite heartily, maybe even to the point of tears. Afterwards, we talked about how we had both been so tickled at this slap-stick, rather ridiculous picture.

And then we realized that the laughter was something we both needed…a catharsis. It was just a few months before that the missionaries were taken, and the pressure had been building in both of us.

***************************************

Movies in General

Is it politically correct for an old man to confess that certain movies have brought tears to his eyes? Well, they do, and I can’t help it.

I don’t want to go back too far or too deep here, but I do want to mention a few examples. “Based on Fact,” or “True Life” stories get to me, most. “Stand and Deliver” is the first that comes to mind. At the very end, just before the “credits,” the ultimate results of future classes scrolls up the screen. They are so spectacularly successful, that I am deeply moved.

Another example is “Places in the Heart,” even though it is strictly fiction. The performances by Sally Field, Ed Harris, Danny Glover, and the children, et al, is so great that I don’t want it to end!

As many times as I have seen it, “The Glenn Miller Story” is still so touching that it almost hurts.

Comment on "Conflicts" by Charlie Carpenter

When I was a brand new math teacher, September 1965, I was given a grade book, and six classes--two Algebra I, two Geometry, one Algebra II, and one Senior Math at a small downstate Illinois school with about 350 students.

When I was hired in the spring, I was given the job of ordering new text books for my premiere year. I ordered the series from Houghton Mifflin referred to as "the Dolciani Series."The grade book was set up for six-week grading. All of my students passed the first six weeks. At the end of the second six weeks, one of my freshman girls had not met the course objectives--primarily, daily homework and passing the exams. She had earned an "F".

I did not want to give her an "F'. It was a hill that I had never climbed and I was reluctant to do so.The problem was not her intelligence. It was her focus. She was much more interested in upperclass boys than she was in Algebra I. I think she came to school to lollygag around with them at noon hour, also before and after school. She seemed awestruck by them.

When I had computed all my grades, I asked her to see me privately. She came in after school. I told her that she had earned an "F" grade in Algebra I. Before she could say anything, I added: "In my still-young teaching career, yours will be the first "F" I will ever have to give."I wanted so much for her to protest: "Please, Mr. Carpenter, don't give me an 'F'. My folks will kill me. I'll do better next six weeks, you'll see!"

She disappointed me and taught me a great lesson all at the same time with her reply: "It will not be the last." I felt like a big stone had been lifted from my shoulders."Thank you," I said, dismissing her with a wave of my hand. And I never ever had trouble when it came time to give an "F."As I remember, however, she did pass the course.

Back then students in Illinois were only required to take one year of math; I do not remember her being a student of mine the next year. She would have been in my class, since I was the math department of one!

Some Thursday Musings by Grandpa Jim

The following are the latest posts under the "new regime," Thursday contributions. I try to recall topics and enter them into WORD at my leisure. Then, I re-read to see if I want to use them, and finally, I edit and post on Thursday. Saves a lot of Thursday time.

Great Grandfatherhood by GJ

For about ten years, now, I’ve enjoyed being GREAT grandpa Jim.

At first, it was the novelty. I never knew any of my four grandparents, let alone anyone beyond that. (I once SAW my maternal grandpa, but I was quite small and he was on his deathbed. I always carried the memory of his feet sticking out of the covers! Beds were shorter in 1920’s, and he was tall.)

After the novelty lessened (with arrival of second baby) and then all but disappeared when we were blessed by three more through marriage, then two more by adoption) I tried to be more observant.

Only one observation stands out. I don’t think any of the youngsters have any concept of our generation. I’m not sure that any of the parents bother to stress the “great” part of the title, maybe. I don’t recall ever hearing their parents say that we are THEIR grandparents! Nor do I think our children remind their grandchildren that we are their PARENTS.

In order for the children to comprehend, then, each generation almost has to point it out and remind them and motivate them to be curious. Do kids ever ask many questions, these days? About anything? Hmmmm.

Finally, of course, there is the matter of today’s society. I worry that millions of grandparents are destined never to see grandchildren in the process of growing up, and scores of millions will never live to see a GREAT grandchild. In reverse, millions upon millions of people will never know past generations as they ought to be known…lovingly, closely, and familiarly. How else can they truly grasp their heritage?

Two conflicts: worlds apart by GJ

The scene was 1975 or so, in our large (2500) suburban Chicago high school. At the end of first semester (January) I had to assign an F to a term paper in composition. The rules at that time required a pass (D) on that paper in order to get credit for the semester. The student, a girl, came to me to protest the F. Expecting just such a response, I tried to be as tactful as I could, but she pushed me into telling her that I knew it was not her work.

I told her that she had a second chance available. She could have six weeks in which she could start over and write a new paper. The most important part of the opportunity was to follow instructions. My instructions, the same as the original ones, were to make an appointment to show me each step of her work, normally weekly steps. (She had been lax about this.)

Unfortunately, the girl remained defiant, insisting it was her own, original work. (Note: when a teacher has had a chance to see a sufficient amount of a student’s work, he/she soon learns that student’s strengths and weaknesses. An example would be the student who consistently uses very short sentences. This can mean that they are struggling with the concepts of co-ordinate and/or sub-ordinate clauses.)

This girl’s paper (using the above example) suddenly revealed longer, more fully-developed sentences, utilizing a stronger understanding of supporting clauses. Out of nowhere, the writer “saw the light,” and that’s good. It wasn’t, however, the light, but the extent of the light that raised a red flag. Miraculously, there was hardly a too-short sentence to be found.

A short time later, my department chairman told me that the girl and her father were coming in for a three-way conference. We met. It was only a few minutes into the meeting when papa offended the administrator, and they began to “go at it.” (I was amused and let them do so.)

My chairman finally told papa that he and the girl should, instead of complaining, be thankful that I had offered her a second chance. (He added that he probably wouldn’t have been that generous!) On his way out of the office, papa declared that they would let the F stand, that she had been accepted to her choice of college anyway, and that, for our information, her boy-friend, a college student, had written the paper.

Conflict two: deja vu by GJ

The scene was Jacksonville (FL) University in 1992, about 17 years later. The class was Rhetoric 101, a composition class for freshmen.

To my surprise, one term paper for the course really deserved an F. I tried to re-evaluate, wondering if I could have made a mistake. I put the paper aside for a day or two and read it again. No, there was no mistake. It just “didn’t cut it.” I asked the student to see me during office hours.

The student was a young man, perhaps a couple of years older than most, and who was a citizen of a foreign country. His grasp of English was adequate, but some finer points were a struggle for him. He had not come in for extra help as much as I had hoped…and had suggested.

When the student did come in for the appointment, I handed him his paper and told him I was sorry, but it missed the mark by quite a bit. He acted shocked. Like the high school girl in my last post, he wanted to argue the paper’s merits. I finally had to show him that parts of the paper were not his work, and that the main problem was that he had failed to put quotation marks around those parts that weren’t his own words.

The boy protested more. I assured him that I was familiar enough with his work to tell which was his and which wasn’t. He began to plead, then, that to fail the course (passing the term paper was a requirement for credit) would be to jeopardize his scholarship.

I offered, again, to give him an “incomplete” and six weeks to submit a new paper. He left my office angrily but discreetly. Later, I was asked by the dean of the department to drop in. I did so. The woman confided in me that the boy had been in to appeal my decision, but that she gave him very little hope. Knowing why she had summoned me, I took along the boy’s file complete with some marked passages to show her my rationale. She declined to look at it, saying that she didn’t question my judgment for a minute. She then informed me that the boy had withdrawn from the university, because his grades overall were inadequate to support his grant.

Two very similar experiences; years and miles and schools apart.

Can't Quit, Cold Turkey...by Grandpa Jim

We have a great grandson who was three when he and his folks came to stay with us for several months. Because we share our house with our youngest daughter and her husband, it means that little Elijah found himself with two parents, two grandparents, and two great grandparents all in the same house with him and his younger brother.

I think it was the abundance of adults in his life that caused him to be a little slow at bonding with Jean and me. He was getting a lot of attention from grandma and grandpa, and we tend to stay in our quarters a lot, so where was the need?

The only regular contact we had was at breakfast. It was our custom to ask, “How are you this morning, Elijah?” For a long time, he found it hard to respond, because we just weren’t that familiar to him. Finally, there came a morning when the boy’s dad (our grandson) told the boy that it was polite to answer when asked a question.

For a while, then, he’d say “fine” or something like it.

Then, one fine morning, he looked at me, rather curiously, and asked, “How are you, Grandpa Jim?” He caught me unaware, so I thought I’d “play along” a little, and said, “MmmmmmmmmAR-velous.” He laughed. After that, he couldn’t wait to ask, so that I’d repeat my long, overly dramatic answer, and he’d laugh heartily at such a predictable response.

Soon, of course, when I asked HIM how he was, he’d mimic me and say “marvelous” in the same way, and we’d both laugh. Months later, after the family had gone home to New Guinea, Elijah, now four, was given the phone to speak to us. I asked him how he was, and he quickly answered in the same old, exaggerated fashion.

His mother reports that she took Elijah to the market one day, and a stranger (woman) asked Elijah how he was, and he gave her the old MmmmmmmmmmAR-velous routine. She told his mom that she sure wished her boy had that kind of enthusiasm! Is he now a “marked man?”

A Compromise by GJ

Son Charlie suggests that I cut back to posting once a week. What a great idea! I think I can handle that. Allows me to do a little reading, and tending to Jean, and posting! Wow! There's something in me that got caught up in the blogging, and caused me to think it was more of a journal, I guess. Now, which day shall I devote to it? I think I'll "coast" for a few days and see if anything comes to me. And, as a bonus, I can now reach out and correspond with some people I've been neglecting! The best of all four worlds. Wow!

Coffee, Tea, or Flee? by Grandpa Jim

A White Knuckle Paper

Those who know me well often chide me about my aversion to airplane travel. They think, I guess, that I have a phobia about flying. But that is not altogether true, for if I had such a phobia, I couldn’t fly. On the contrary, I have flown. Some may think that I am afraid to fly, but they are not aware that I have flown ten or so times and that averages out to once every eight point one years! So I’ve decided to describe for them (and you) a clearer understanding of my “aversion.”

Let’s start with the departure. I think it would help me a lot if I could, miraculously, just walk up to the gate, into the plane, and take my seat without any delay. This way, I could prevent that stage of anxiety brought on by (A) waiting, and (B) the IMAGINING that is so alarming. You must understand that time is definitely against any chance I might have of feeling comfortable.

Then, there’s the take-off. To me, that bumpy, loud, long, suspenseful surge down the runway is not at all pleasant or comforting. I don’t know why they can’t smooth out the concrete, muffle the engine, and just CATAPULT all 200 of us into the sky.

Once into the air, the climb to 35,000 or more feet seems to take forever. If I had the nerve to look out of the window (I tend to stay as far away as possible) I just know I would be nervous about our angle of ascent. Even the engine sounds as if it were struggling.

Arriving at our proper altitude is a mixed blessing. On one hand, there is relief. On the other hand, there is the knowledge that we are seven to ten MILES above that terribly hard earth.

Now that we are cruising along at a smoother, but faster rate, I can concentrate on the sound of the engines. You wouldn’t know it to look at me, but I COMMUNE with jet engines! I think, sometimes, that I may have extra-sensory awareness of every one of the trillions of strokes, or revolutions, or whatever goes on in those monsters. I just know that I’m going to hear a missed stroke, and that that will mean we are in trouble. It is the waiting and almost expecting it that is so troubling.

I can read a book, eat something, try to nap, or listen to music, but always I am keenly alert to the rhythm of those whirring blades.

One of the real comforts of a flight is to see the seat-belt sign go on and hear the announcement that we are beginning our descent. Well, maybe not a COMFORT, I guess. It does mean that I can relax my sensitivity to engine sound and now all I have to think about is the landing that will take forever, no doubt. To me, the landing is the worst part. Will a tire blow out? What does a plane do if that happens? Tires seem so fragile as we drop millions of tons of plane and people and cargo onto a tiny, concrete slab. I don’t think airplane tires are anywhere near big enough to support us.

Then comes the touch-down, always somewhat of a jolt and a bang that I can’t identify, a deafening roar as the engines are thrust into reverse, and my heart as it is also thrust against my ribs when the brakes are stomped on, and then my final concern; is the runway LONG ENOUGH? “Thank you, Captain…fine flight.”

Another Road by Grandpa Jim

Looks like it's time to take another road, maybe. For one thing, I need to pay more attention to Jean. The hours I spend on blogging are pretty much the same hours she might profit most from my attention. Those hours, later in the day, when she is better occupied, are hours that I have trouble concentrating on my purpose...sharing memories.

I believe I'll quit the blog in a few days and go back to reading more. (I've neglected that for almost six months!) For now, I'm thinking of this coming Saturday as my last post. (Maybe I am influenced by all these claims of "change?" ) Until Saturday, Love, Jim.

Election Day, 2008 by GJ

There have been 14 different Presidents since I was born. I was too young to vote for the first three, so this will be my 12th chance. (Not counting re-elections, etc.) I won't go into all that is different, today, as the media has covered that quite thoroughly.

In the early days, we stayed up quite late for results (on the radio) and often went to bed without knowing much. One of the biggest shocks came in 1948 when (1) the Chicago Tribune's headline said "Dewey Wins," (2) and it turned out that there was a slight error, as somebody named Truman had won the most votes. (Joke.) He had been president for three years, having taken over for FDR when he died in office and HST was VP.

There were times during the 60 years I've been voting that I wondered if we should all consider moving to Nicaragua or the Antarctic. It wasn't long, however, before I realized that there are so many "checks and balances" in place, that our country always manages to survive. Could the losers have done better, on occasion? Probably. Have we always made the most intelliegnt choices? Probably not. Have we always voted for the right reasons? Definitely not.

What I now look forward to is the choices our next President makes in the people who help him lead us. (Carter is known for poor choosing as was Nixon.) Quiz: which cabinet member is famous for not knowing who would be next in line when one President was shot? (Hint...but not killed.) (Prize for first correct e-mail response.) Tomorrow will be quite interesting...maybe even tonight?

Pleasant Dreams, by GJ

Now that we are no longer able to travel much, I find myself missing it a lot. I especially miss the Rocky Mountains. There is a corner of Colorado, the far southwestern corner, near Durango that we always loved. For one, you can take a train north to Silverton, an authentic old mining town. For another, you can drive north and enjoy a truly “white knuckle” drop into the town of Ouray. Mainly, though, as you take that narrow highway north, you’ll feel a genuine sense of “being involved” in the Rockies. You’ll see peaks of 10, 12, 13 thousand feet all around. You get a sense that you are riding a crest of them, and, while that’s not altogether true, you do touch the continental divide.

If you are ever in the area, and if it still operates, you must take in the “Chuckwagon Dinner.” (I think it’s called.) It’s outdoors, at the foot of a steep cliff, with a portable tarp that can be used in case of rain. With your meal, you get good, old-fashioned, western music, like that of “The Sons of the Pioneers.” (“Cool Water.”) They serve you on a tin (?) pie plate and you are warned to keep your thumb where they can put the cold apple sauce. Any other place will be too hot to hold.

There is a reservoir not far east, and you can stay there, enjoying a great view and making many uses of the water. ( (Boating, fishing, etc.) One motel has huge flowers in front, and dozens of hummingbirds gather there. This whole area is called “The Four Corners,” where CO., NM, AZ, and UT come together. Supposedly, there is a spot where you can stand with one foot in any two of them, or in all, if you happen to have four feet!

We have visited Durango a number of times and can’t seem to get enough of it.

Gifts by Grandpa Jim

You gave us eyes to see the mountain
and vision to see beyond the range.
You gave us ears to hear the music,
an imagination to know a composer's heart.
You gave us tongue to make needs known
and words of power to affect the masses.
You gave us brains to create great things
and minds to harness their course.
You gave us air that we might breathe
and the freedom to poison it.
You gave us vast spaces to roam
and a will to pack them full.
Oh would that you had given us
the will to get along.

Keeping Score, by Grandpa Jim

As we creep up on our four score,
We sometimes wonder how many more.
The little ones, and some are 4,
Frolic unaware of all that's before.
Their parents near a mere two score
And give us hints of what's in store.
Their parents, in turn, near score three
And look back now to return our care.
As we approach the thought of five,
Arm in arm, with far less drive,
We see quite clearly, we've been alive.

Mea culpa by GJ

OK, I'm ready to plead guilty. In my ranting on the multiplication table, I was doing so without awareness of alternatives present today. I've heard from several people (who, thankfully, have been ever-so-polite about it) that such programs do exist. I'm glad. Why aren't these "winners" more available? Do FCAT's and NCLB's testing look like successes? Not to me. I met a new cashier at a local buffet recently, and he is GOOD. Knows how to make change, is quick with his facts, and a pleasure to deal with. (Keeps his line running smoothly.) If there are alternatives that eliminate the need for rote tables, somebody is keeping it a secret. Are a LOT OF KIDS being left behind because of "turf wars?" Are our educational institutions, K through PhD too fragmented? I fear for public education, I really do.

"In This Corner..." by Grandpa Jim

The Challenge

I want to challenge your imagination. First, close your eyes and picture an eating place. See one that is a cross between “rustic” and “dilapidated.” Over in the corner, a two-man band plays country music. It is crowded and noisy.

Jim, wife Jean, and daughter Donna sit at a table, waiting to be served their late-evening dinner.

Jim and Donna are talking about the band. They are both impressed by the ability of each man to alternate playing several different instruments. Pretty soon, father and daughter find themselves trying to recall the name of a musical group they had admired in the past.

Jim’s trouble is the name of that group which he and Jean had followed with great interest. Donna’s trouble is the effort to help her dad recall the name of a group composed of students he had known. Jim is listing some songs “his group” used to play. Donna is listing some talents that “her group” revealed.

The real difference between these two is that Donna KNOWS the name she refers to, but Jim cannot, for the life of him, think of the name HE seeks. Donna feeds Dad clue after clue, and Jim is under the impression that she, too, can’t recall the name. Donna grows a little frustrated that her tips and clues and “leading” just aren’t working. Jim grows a little frustrated that, together, as hard as they are trying, this name continues to elude THEM.

Meanwhile, Jean sits, quietly amused, listening and hoping that the search(es) will soon be resolved. Dinner is finally brought to the table and only once in a while is the subject resumed. Donna cannot stand it any longer. Having exhausted all clues, she makes one last stab: “Well, DADDY, you even encouraged the kids to get union cards!”

Jim’s mouth drops open. “You mean, “The Siesta Brass?” Donna is dumb-struck. She asks, “Have you known it all the time?”

He says, “No, of course not. I’ve been wracking my brain over that group that used to play over at the Holiday Inn.” “You mean “The On-Stage Majority?”

“Of course, that’s it, The On-Stage Majority!”

All three diners laugh. They laugh almost to the verge of tears. Two people have tried desperately to reach a goal; one who knows a name and one who is convinced he will never recall a totally different name. Two people locked into a mortal struggle to reach what they believed to be the same goal. Thirty or forty minutes, perhaps, of blood, sweat and tears, ending in a long, hearty laugh.

Memorizing, anyone?

I feel a need to get on a soapbox, or behind a podium, or something. Doesn't anybody demand the memorization of the multiplication table any more? How can one move on to long division if they don't? With all of the visual aids today, with flash cards, etc., WHY NOT have it memorized? There are contests you can have, and a lot of ways to challenge kids, and even some fun to be had with the skill. Am I wrong in guessing that there are teachers who don't want to spend the time on it? Who think it is tedious? (And, who may not have had to do it, themselves, thus are unaware of its value?) Number one value, I submit, is ESTIMATING! (Square footage, for one example. Average bedroom of 11 X 11 = 121SF.)

My "primitive times" education held that basic arithmetic (add, subtract, multiply, divide) was the NATURAL foundation for those "higher maths," of algebra, etc. How can anyone skip over any one of the four and expect to keep pace with those who didn't?

Dare I ask, "Let's see...whatever happened to that 'new' math?" Maybe it went into orbit in order to keep company with the metric system? Tell you what. I haven't had a math course in about 65 years, and I'd welcome the opportunity to match that skill (the table through 12's, in our heads) against any arithmetic teacher who disagrees with me. From what I read about the FCAT, I don't think I need to worry about a taker.

Howie, Bob, Bob, and me...by GJ

I'm guessing that it was about 20 years ago. At a HS class reunion, former student (debater) Bob ran into classmate Howie (debater.) In talking about old times, coach Jim's (mine) name popped up. Bob tells Howie that he heard that the coach was "gone." Howie is sorry to hear that. Howie just goes on about his life until the next reunion, five years later. This time, Howie runs into another Bob, a former teacher and close pal of coach Jim.

They get to talking and Howie says, "Gee that was too bad, hearing that the coach had died." Bob couldn't help but laugh. "What do you mean gone? I had a letter from him just lately!"

Howie proceeded to get my phone number, called, and told me the story. It turns out that he is married to a woman who has relatives here in Florida and they try to get down to see them every winter or two. Needless to say, we (Jean, myself, Howie, and Maria) got together for lunch at a place about half-way between our towns. We did this several more times, as well, and talk on the phone, too.

Yes, it is just like Mark Twain's quotation, that "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated." It sure can happen, can't it?

A "Charlie Story," by GJ

It was over 30 years ago, I'm sure. I took a HS chess team to a state tournament in a city about 50 miles from school. I did this solely because a colleague had taken my debaters to a tournament, and I was repaying him, the chess coach.

I'm standing in the cafeteria listening to instructions for the chess players to begin, when two arms come around me from behind and someone picks me up a foot or two off the floor---and that was no small feat! (Pun?)

When safely back on floor, I turn, and it's CHARLIE! (He who was there because he was the chess coach at HIS school. We have a brief reunion and get the bright idea to go out for breakfast while chess kids do their thing. We weren't allowed in the room with them.) We drove down the street, maybe a mile or so, and had a nice, leisurely breakfast. As we returned to the site of the tournament, we saw dozens of police cars, fire engines, ambulances, and even a helicopter in the parking lot.

Our hearts sank! Here a disaster had struck and we were AWOL while hundreds of kids were in danger. How would we ever explain or excuse our absence to the distraught parents. Above all, how would we notify everybody? Yes, there were dozens of teachers who had stayed on the scene, but WE HADN'T! Would we both be fired? Disgraced, obviously.

We went around back to where we could park and discovered it was that town's annual disaster "drill!" One of our kids even volunteered to be taken to the hospital, because he wanted a helicopter ride! (By the way, Charlie, I sure hope we remembered to tell somebody where we were going???)

"Son Charlie," Mover and shaker, Part 1.

I was born in a house on Third Street in Charleston, Illinois in 1943. My folks bought it in 1922 for $600. When my Mom, at age 91, died in 1994, I bought 1/3 of it with two sisters (from the other five siblings), and then, over time, I bought them out. My oldest sister, 87, lives there now (rents from me) and when I move back to Charleston that will be my home too. I already have a room and an office there.

Her move back there is 66 years after she moved out after getting married in 1942. She loves the home. Of course, it is a lot different now than when she first lived there. Then it had coal heat and was uninsulated. Insulation, siding, lowered ceilings, gas space heaters (upgraded to gas forced air furnace with heating and air conditioning), and remodeling have occurred. The plumbing was upgraded in 1977 when we put on an addition for Mom with a big bathroom and a utility room for her washer, dryer, and freezer.I lived there including through college and moved to an apartment when I started teaching in Milford, Illinois. I was there one year before moving into a small house for two more years.

I transferred to another school and lived in three places that year: a sleeping room in West Chicago, a hotel in St. Charles, and an apartment in Batavia.I got drafted for leaving the first school (they declared me "essential") and put into the army. The army moved me around a bunch. First I lived a few days at what they call USARECSTA--United States Army Reception Station. There they give you your army clothes before shipping you out to your basic training barracks. I was in basic training with two groups (Company C-1-1 and then Company B-1-1); I did four weeks in each company, with a week in the hospital with pneumonia in between. The USARECSTA, C-1-1, hospital, and B-1-1 were all at Ft. Polk, Louisiana.

"Son Charlie," mover and shaker, Part 2

For my MOS--military occupational specialty--training, I was sent to Ft. Sam Houston, Texas. For two weeks I was trained to be a medic. Then I was sent to my school at Company F which was going to be Prevention Medicine Specialist. They are the army's inspectors: meat inspectors, VD people, and mosquito abaters. VD and mosquitoes were rampant in a place called RVN--Republic of Viet Nam. But, by virtue of spending the week in the hospital, I was one week late for the school. Rather than wait nine weeks and be a "casual" (we painted bathrooms, mowed lawns, etc., while waiting). After one day of that, I took the First Sergeant's suggestion and went to personnel to see about getting into another school.


They accepted me into x-ray tech school. So I moved from Company F to Company G. AFter x-ray school, I was sent to OJT--on the job training--at Brooke General Hospital on Fort Sam. It was there in my room that they x-rayed then ex-president Johnson when he had a heart attack. He thought he had hurt some ribs playing golf.After OJT, which had involved moving to a different barracks, I went to Letterman General Hospital and moved into a barracks there. I lived in one cubicle before being named "barracks sergeant" and got a private room.


When I got out of the Army, I taught in Northlake, living in an apartment; for the next three years, I bought a house with a friend in Oakbrook Terrace, Illinois. I sold my half to his girlfriend and they married; I went back to college and back to "home" on Third Street in Charleston. After a master's degree was earned, I moved to Cerro Gordo, Illinois and taught in Bement. Then I took a job in Farina, Illinois for two years. It was a small, small town and I hungered to be back in the suburbs in big schools and moved to Waukegan. For almost three months, I lived with some people named Jim and Jean Van Delinder. Jim charged rent: "Take us out to eat each time you get a paycheck." I was there for six paychecks.


I think the largest bill for the three of us--in 1980--was $77, including tip. We ate well.In November, 1980, I closed on the house where I still live. It will soon be 28 years of living here. My nephew lives with me and he is going to retire this year. We will sell this house--I may live here a year or two longer to let home prices stabilize--and then move back to Third Street in Charleston. I'll probably die living in the house where I was born. Not many folks can do that. My nephew intends to move to a condo that we bought from my cousin. Her Mom--also my cousin--had bought it in 1984 and lived there until she died in 2005 at age 89."Dad"


Jim said that "You've met Charlie." Now you know him a little better. He has lived in 22 places over 65 years.

Palmer, anyone? by GJ

Does anyone teach the "Palmer Method" of handwriting anymore? The major premise of this approach is "practice, practice, practice." You wrote each letter of the alphabet until your teacher was satisfied that you had mastered the correct form. Any letter that was still weak was to be written until it was strong. Tough letters were capital O's, D's, F's, G's, etc. Homework was composed of filling pages with these capitals.

As I recall, this method was begun in third grade, + or -, and hit hard in fourth. At my new school in Elgin Illinois, in 1938, I met my sixth-grade teacher, Miss Perkins. On the first day, she made it clear that we were now expected to demonstrate, daily, that we had learned Palmer. She meant it, and she stuck to it. On any given day in that grade, if you hastily, or forgetfully made a sloppy capital O, your remedy was to fill a page of CORRECT capital O's before you went out for recess. Knowing this made you quite careful as you worked on that page.

For most of that year, I thought Miss Perkins was the toughest, meanest old witch. (And she was elderly!) Later in the term, I began to mellow toward her as I found myself with fewer and fewer demands to re-do those pesky capitals. Today, I thank the lady. I really believe that very few sixth-grade teachers bothered to stress Palmer once they got the kids who were supposed to have mastered it two years before. I thank her even more for the fact that all of my life since then, I have been complimented on my handwriting. How many other human skills can we expect to trace back to a single teacher? Not because she taught it first, but because she made us practice what we had been taught. Next---memorize, anyone?

Contests, but not for the birds? by GJ

Got an e-mail from a reader named Julene about the osprey. She says she saw an osprey nest on a pole in a parking lot in Menominie, WI. Says she was also told they can be mean if disturbed. The more readers I hear from, the dumber I feel. This leads me to wonder if anyone knows of any college team called "The Ospreys?" The U. of WI? (I don't think so. FSU? Nah.) I'm really just kidding, because I do know! I feel a contest coming on. The first one to respond with the correct answer gets a free book.

I had to look up Menominie, as had a hunch it was not too far from Milwaukee. How could I have been BOTH right and wrong? (Careful...it's a trick question.) Aha! Another contest? First one in with this gets a book, also.

Standing corrected by Grandpa Jim

My most loyal reader, a woman who calls herself "Mrs.," and who also has a blog, tells me that ospreys are quite a bit larger than doves. (I'm not one iota surprised that I'm wrong.) Obviously, either they are not ospreys, as Mrs. Points out, or, the distance from roadway to top of poles is enough to make them appear smaller. Keep tuning in to see if their true identity ever pops up.

As to those doves...GJ

Two readers say that they are called mourning doves because of their mournful song. It is just a coincidence that they gather mainly in the morning here in central Florida, I guess. Google confirms the fact, too.

There is another bird here that may not be as numerous outside of Florida, I don't know...it's called an osprey. I've never seen one very close, but I'd guess its size as close to that of the dove. A few years ago, Jean and I used to cross a long bridge over a lake near us, and the divided highway has a long string of light poles on each side. We used to see a few ospreys perched up on top of these poles and sometimes we'd count them. The average was probably three to five, but one day we counted twelve and were amazed. These birds apparently perch up there and look down at the water for their supper. They never appear on light poles away from the lake, even though there are plenty to choose from.

I know very little about birds, but I do have pleasant memories of canaries in our house when I was small. Dad built a "window cage" for them, and the house often rang loudly with their songs. When they were in "good form," Mom would have to sing, too, and the house sort of pulsated with joy and celebration. I was nine when Mom went to join a heavenly choir, and Dad gave the birds away. No future house would ever seemed as cozy.

BIG big birds... by GJ

We have a good-sized pond in back of our house, and there is also a bird-feeder between the house and the pond. The feeder attracts mourning* doves, mostly, and their behavior is interesting to behold. The whole “bird scene” is of great interest to Jean. She notices when there are three on top of the feeder, or two inside, or whatever. Her view from her seat at the dining-room table is perfect for her notice.

Every now and then, we get a visit from sand-hill cranes. (Son-in-law Gary says these large creatures are a problem in North Dakota, or somewhere close to Minnesota…I forget.) It seems that large flocks of the cranes will decide to land in farm fields, and due to their size and weight, cause a lot of crop damage.

I have stood as near as three or four feet from one, on occasion, and I’d guess they stand close to four and a half feet tall. (They are “all neck and legs, mostly.”) For about a year or so, three of them came to call. (They eat the seeds that fall from the feeder.) Looked like a mom, pop, and baby. Now, they appear less often, and by ones and twos.

It seems that we are on their “route” from east to west, or vice versa. They sometimes show up at a Perkins’ Restaurant almost due east of us, where a waitress tells us that they approach customers for hand-outs from time to time. About two years ago, the trio of cranes performed for Jean and sister-in-law, Leona. They “danced,” and leaped up and down, and “honked,” for what the ladies say was a long time. (Could have been a mating ritual?)

*Anybody know why they are called mourning instead of morning? We can understand why it is that people get interested in bird behavior.

May I share my family? By GJ

First, I want to share my sons! Okay, so my wife gave birth only to two daughters. That's all right, because I miraculously added some sons as we went along. You've met Charlie, an alumnus of Charleston, IL High School, class of 1961. From time to time I'd like you to meet the rest of these men.

Most recently on my mind is Carey, class of 1972, Niles North HS, Skokie, IL.

Carey called me last night to wish us a "happy day-after 61st anniversary." We call each other, I'd guess, 4 to 6 times a year. Carey is a physics professor at a South Florida college and working on his PhD. (He hopes to earn it this year.) He and his wife, Osa, have a two-year-old boy, Benjamin.

The tie that binds us is that Carey was on my debate team of about 1969-72. We probably went to 25 or 30 tournaments, almost all of which were "overnighters." This means that we spent about 30 hours per weekend together, counting travel in my car. Even if I'm off by 20%, we spent a conservative 400 hours of togetherness. There were often three of us (Carey and his partner, Allan) and sometimes five of us. (A second team of two.) We often had four meals per weekend, thus about 80 of those. If I count the hours we spent in practice sessions, or "work" sesions outside of the actual competition, well, I won't even start on that.

I was told more than once and by more than one rival coach that Carey was the best debater in the state, probably as early as his junior year. What impressed me most, and still does, is his utter self-lessness. For one thing, he actually gave help and advice to younger debaters, those from rival schools! When he became a hired judge for me while at Northwestern U., he took the time to teach the debaters he was judging. (He was also blessed with instinctive tact...so much so that he could teach a lesson without revealing who had won or lost!)

For another thing, Carey voluntarily relinquished that position (first affirmative) which almost always won an individual speaking award, separate from team wins or losses. Just because a partner wanted that position was plenty good enough for Carey.

The greatest joy I ever had as a coach was when we were both appointed judges at my alma-mater's annual tournament at U. of IL. Here we were, just a couple of years after he graduated, peers. It was terribly gratifying to me. (I was to have that honor again, when another son became a coach/judge, himself. More on Howie in another chapter.)

Finally, there is the almost spiritual nature of our phone calls. We seem to communicate well beyond time and space. (The many months between calls, and the 200 miles we are apart.) I get a sense that we can almost complete each other's sentences at times. For one thing, we enjoy discussing concepts, like "propensities," for instance. Now that he is a papa, Carey seems more than ever interested as he watches his boy grow up. If we lived 190 miles closer, I have no doubt that we would have collborated on a book by now, quite possibly on education.

Here's to you, my boy. May we have many more of our wonderful chats. Love, "Dad."

The Wanderer by Grandpa Jim

It's the day after our 61st wedding anniversary, and of all the things that might cause me to reminisce, I'm struck by how often I've moved my family. You will find this hard to believe.

Let's start with statistics and what can be done with them. On the surface, we moved 37 times in our 61 years. That comes out to a move every 18 months! But that can't be. We lived in one place for 10 years, two places for 7 years each, one for 4, and one for 3. That takes away five moves and 31 years. Now we've moved 32 times in 30 years for once every 11 months!

Now let's subtract all stays of approximately 2 years. I think there were 6 and that leaves 26 moves in 18 years, or about every 8 to 9 months. The truth is, that in all these numbers, there is no way to comprehend that we lived in some places for a very few months.

Now for cities. How about 19 in 61 years? (is that 3 year's average per city?) How about 4 states? That's about 15 years per state. Subtract 30 years from Illinois, and it's 10 years per state. Subtract 20 years from Florida, and it's about 6 years per state. Ah, but numbers never lie, right?

If a person is on the outside looking in, the whole picture is incredible. But I was on the inside, and there was ALWAYS A REASON! Were all 37 perfect reasons, that is, a cause for anyone to move? Of course not. Example number one. Our first move was from Portsmouth, VA, to Elgin, IL. Our address had been a one-room, efficiency apartment (with bath.) We moved in a 15-year-old car that held all our worldly possessions in the back seat. I was getting out of the navy and there was no reason on earth to stay. My dad and brothers and some of Jean’s family lived in IL, so that was one of the rare “perfect” reasons to move.

Another example comes to mind. We had been living in a basement apartment in Evanston, IL when the place was flooded by a tremendous rainfall and the city had neglected to open some street drains. (I woke up for some unknown reason, swung my feet out of the covers, stepped down and was greeted by 9 or 10 inches of cold water!)

When all was said and done, in too long a follow-up story, Jean was seriously bothered by the darkness of the place after that. So, discovering that there was an empty apartment just upstairs, we were allowed to move up there. (From my view, it was another perfect reason.)

Interestingly, I think, is an incident that had occurred about ten years earlier. We were looking into the purchase of a townhouse in Wheeling, IL, in 1975. It was a very nice place, with full basement and two floors. We were empty-nesters, and didn’t need three bedrooms, but wanted space for family visits. (There were two grandchildren, already.) Jean was sitting on the stairs that led up to the second floor, and the realtor was talking about something or other.

Finally, the man turned to Jean and asked her what she thought about the place. Jean was reluctant to say much, but finally admitted that she was bothered by the “darkness of the living room.” (It had dark brown carpeting and windows in only one wall.) When the salesman finally got her to admit it was the carpeting, he said the owner would take $500 off the price, to allow for replacement. Jean still wasn’t jumping for joy, and sensing this, the realtor added, “Oh, yes. We’ll allow $400 for a refrigerator, too. I forgot that it’s supposed to be furnished. This means you’ll only need $100 down, instead of $1,000.”

Thus, Jean’s feelings about dark rooms goes back before our flooded apartment. It merely resurfaced as a result of that trauma, I guess. Anyway, we bought the town house and lived there ten years, and enjoyed the place a lot. For one thing, we held some grand parties there. That’s now two good reasons to move and only 35 to be accounted for.

Is it time? By GJ

To hang it up, I mean? It appears pretty clear to me that people don't want to write, anymore. And that's okay. Now I need sombody to tell me if I'm doing something wrong, or offensive, or put-offish. (?) And that's okay, too, for I'm confident that I tried hard to make it work.

I've been told more than once that I'm a dreamer. Some have meant it well, and some have meant it with a little sting, I think. And that's okay. What do I dream of? Of people "connecting" better in today's society... an environment that seems to work against such ideals. Of people able to disagree without rancor, when an aquifier of rage seems always just below the surface. Of a desire to be courteous when so many won't act out that nicety.

Am I too tied to the past? Golly, at my age? Would I be the first? I've got to consider it, I guess.

Other pursuits are beckoning. I have a list of recommended books to read, for one thing. There was a time when I considered a book of my own, too. In several contacts with internet publishers, I am not encouraged. First, they want me to commit to a contract before they even see what I have, and that's suspicious, isn't it? Secondly, they want a hefty percentage of any profits. And thirdly, they won't be very specific in how much marketing help they can provide.
In other words, they want a lot to do what I could do for myself if I were brought up in this computer age. So be it.

I'd really appreciate responses of any kind. Love, Jim.

#61? Seems like yesterday by GJ

There are people who say that 61 years of marriage is rare today. Maybe it is. I never really know how to deal with such statistics, but it sure looks like fewer people marry and more people marry more than once. Statistics aside, I think it's a matter of the times we live in. If someone were to ask me how we did it, I'd probably answer it with a little tongue in cheek.

Don't get married too young, like we did. (I was 20 and 1/2, Jean was almost 18.) Don't quit school, like we did. (I at end of junior year, she in mid-senior year.) (Now, don't jump to any conclusions, like Jean's parents probably did!) Don't marry without a job, without any money, and without any marketable skills, like we did. Don't marry if you come from different faiths, or ethnic backgrounds, of course. And, wait until you have a home to go to after the wedding!

If you are a woman, make sure the man doesn't want to move a lot, knows what occupation he would like, and has some goals. (We have moved so many times that Jean is always afraid I'll tell how many!) Yet, she agreed to them at the time, bless her heart, worked like a trooper to make the moves go smoothly, and once made sure we were settled enough to have company the very evening we moved into a new house! Jean also was patient with me as I struggled through a series of jobs (8 or 10 in 18 months, before waking up to need for college.)

In a nutshell, I think there is evidence that our particular secret was that we grew up together! Sure, it meant learning many, many lessons the hard way. (Like, how to survive a week or two on unemployment benefits, and how to survive the two weeks before the first check on a new job, etc.) (I really had to learn how to work with a variety of bosses. The navy taught me to obey, but most bosses had poor methods of giving orders. No officer ever treated me like an idiot.) We were ignorant and naive about many things and had to "bump into" the others head-on. Somehow, through it all, we never, ever, gave the other any reason to doubt our undying love for each other. It is a 61-year-old given.

Now, about Jean's parents. It's too long a story to go into detail, so read between the lines. I was in navy electronics school, summer of 1947. Jean was back in Chicago to see her sister. We were seeing each other week-ends. I was pleading to get married, she wanted to wait until she went back to California to finish senior year. Finally, to appease me, she wrote and asked for their permission, positive that they'd never consent. But...they did! So, we married. Many years later, and I mean 50 or so as we were reminiscing, it dawned on us, "Do you suppose they thought that we had to...?" (Donna was born 14 months later just to show them how wrong they were, by golly.) That was, indeed, another era, wasn't it.

Blog in Recess by Grandpa Jim

I'm taking some time off. I'm sulking because I won't be around to see the Cubs waste another century. Think of it...I'll miss the 125th, 150th, and 175th anniversaries, too! Is there any other human endeavor where your so-called "team" of 25 young atheletes can play marvelously for 162 games and then miserably for the 3 that count?

Don't let me go one bit further. (Did you ever wonder about the rule that governs farther and further?) This was one of my favorite concepts as I worked with 9th graders. In a nutshell, if something is measurable, like in numbers, of yards, dollars, hours, altitude, or degree, you use farther. If, on the other hand, you intend something that is not really measurable, you use further.

Example: "The quarterback could not throw the ball any farther." (73 yards, rather than 72, since football is measured largely in yards.) " Or: "The attorney did not pursue the matter any further." (Did not spend any more effort on it. Pretty hard to measure effort.) Are there gray areas? You can believe it. (It's English, remember?)

I'll try to get back on track in a few days.

"Care to dance?" asks Grandpa Jim

I’d like to tell you the story of a “miracle of memory.”

I call it a miracle, because I have always thought that my memory for names and faces has been below average. The aging process has not helped what was flawed, and has only made it worse, I keep thinking.

It was early spring, 1946. I was 19, just back from the Pacific, and a little depressed, because I still faced two more years in the navy. I had enlisted for four years on my 17th birthday and (A) thought the war would be longer, and (B) received a “perk” by getting to choose my boot camp location. I chose Great Lakes, about 35 miles from home.

A shipmate and I decided to attend a San Diego dance palace called the Mission Beach Ballroom. It was a huge building with two stages, as I recall. Young people went there to dance to the “Big Bands” of that time…and there were dozens. We spotted two girls and asked them to dance. My choice was a freckle-faced redhead named Jean. My buddy’s choice was a brown-haired girl named Marilyn. We ended up dancing quite a few numbers with these girls and asked to take them home. Turns out they were in a group that included Marilyn’s mother, aunt, and their escorts, who were also sailors. The older women did not give their permission to me, but did grant it to my shipmate. (I believe that they didn’t want to take the responsibility for Jean, who was their guest.)

My buddy said he’d get the vital phone numbers and addresses and went with the group to catch a bus. I went back to the ship. Soon, and I mean TOO SOON, my so-called pal turned up on the ship. Seems that he and Marilyn had had a little “tiff” and he got off the bus without the vital data he was supposed to get. How am I ever supposed to find “my Jean?” “That’s easy,” I figured, “I’ll just go back to that ballroom and look for her.”

So, I began to “haunt” the place. Yes, I was a little obsessed, I guess, but I had met the girl next door, the girl of my dreams, my one and only, I felt. (She was, by the way, from Elmhurst, Illinois, just a few miles east of Wheaton, where I had lived.) Meeting such a neighbor so far from home was a strong plus. For the first two or three weekends, I paid to go in and look and wait for Jean. I May have danced a couple of numbers, but I just kept thinking about finding HER!

Then, it dawned on me. Why continue to spend precious dollars when I could just as well wait outside for her to show up? For the next three or four weekends, my confidence sure did sink lower and lower. Had they (the group) found another ballroom? (There were a couple of others….one I recall was the Aragon.) And then it happened. Not at the ballroom, not in Mission Beach, but in downtown San Diego.

I was walking past a movie theatre on a sunny Saturday when the movie let out and several hundred people flooded out of the doors. Most of them were sailors, in uniform, which was still required. One of them looked familiar. Could it be a shipmate that I just didn’t know too well? Or somebody I had once met? Like an ESCORT? LIKE AT MISSION BEACH?

I approached the man and asked him if we had met at the dance hall with a group that included a Marilyn, a Jean, etc? He said, yes, we had. He gave me the phone number of Marilyn’s mother. I called her, and was invited to her house where Jean would be that Friday night, and we will have been married 61 years on the 17th of this month. To have picked out that face in a sea of sailor’s faces (so to speak) was a miracle granted to this lonely veteran, far from home, and with a weak memory.

Another guardian angel?

Ah, this thing called memory by GJ

I received an e-mail from a former student (class of 56) that caused me to ponder the matter of memory (or recall.) Here are some questions that kind of "bug" me. Why do I recall the names of certain former students, and not others? Why do I recall the work of some students and not others? Why do I recall the faces of some better than others? Why wouldn't I recognize one teen's face after 50 years, yet know another instantly?

One factor jumps out at me, and that's context. I was hailed by a young woman in a restaurant a couple of years ago, and as I drew nearer, I knew that I should know her, but no name came to my rescue. Here was a woman I knew when she was 8 or 10 up through early 20's and she had not changed a bit. But the context was not right. It was a motel dining room that we were in for the first time, in a town we rarely visited, in an area we had only lived in a year or so. IF we had been knocking on her mother's door, and this girl answered, we'd have called her by name, hugged and kissed, because we had that kind of relationship.

We attended a class of 1961 reunion 45 years later and so the context was pretty good. We had also attended '61 reunions on and off several times, having an opportunity to see how faces had changed. I was even on the lookout for one woman who was then age 63 or so, but when we had a chance to talk, I didn't recognize her. At that same reunion I saw another student whom I would have recognized anywhere because she had changed so little. Thus, we have the factor of how people change. When I knew these students, I was about the same weight, but as yet no glasses, black hair, lots of it, and curly! It's been replaced by white and a beard, and mostly gone!

I could cite the case of where I recall the names of five or six professors* from the U. of Illinois, 1949-1952, yet daughter Donna says she doesn't think she ever HAD a professor there, years 1967-70. Yes, by then the use of "teaching assistants" had grown...but that much? Or, is the difference in part because I was 22-25, and she 18-21? Or that we were all men? Or that I had been to war? Or that we are different in personalities? (Oh, yeah...all of the above?)
*Jimmy McCrimmon, E. Thayer Curry, Lee Hultzen, Richard Murphy, and Prof. Scott.

I think it would be great fun to sit down with a group of people fascinated by memory just to exchange experiences, views, and theories. (Central Florida would be suitable. Maybe a college?)

P.S. by GJ

Got to thinking about yesterday's post and wondered if my last line were ambiguous. To clarify, when I said "succeeded," or "failed," I referred to passing the navy test. Obviously I succeeded in failing it! And obviously I was the winner, because we did marry...61 years ago next month! (As I recall, I scored something in neighborhood of 60 - 62% when 70% was passing. I think my average before that test was in 72 to 75% range. See what I mean by "hanging on?") (And remember, I was trying to fail it!!!) Scary.

This Ole Dog By Grandpa Jim

It's a sleepy, early, Sunday and I don't have a "story," as such, but I am feeling a tad proud. Not overly proud, mind you, just a tad. Why just a little? Because, compared to all you "youngins," I am a "late bloomer" in the PC business. Seems like only yesterday I learned to turn it on and off and very little more. (Yes, teachers can be slow to learn, too. We, too, need time and tutoring in things that are new, and we oldsters need even more time, patience, and repetition! But now and then we "learn a new trick.")

My wife, Jean Marie, recalls the time she ran into a student (maybe five or six years old) and the child was amazed to discover that a teacher ALSO had to buy groceries! Do any of you remember the time you learned that teachers are just PEOPLE?

But getting back to my proudness...I was faced with a blogging challenge Friday. I had accidentally posted Ted Mangner's part 1 first, and part 2 second. I overlooked fact that when people visited the blog, they would see part 2 first, because it was LATEST! (Now for me and my limitations of late, this is a tough concept.) Could I have grasped this and allowed for it back when I was 10, 15, 20, 25, etc? Well, I'd sure like to think so, but I'm not boasting about it.

Anyway, I had to do quite a bit of editing, deleting, and re-composing in order to get the proper sequence of Ted's very long memoir. It taxed everything (and more)) of what I have had to know in this blogging stuff. (Be advised...I have a "live-in technical aide"...daughter Nancy...who is of wonderful help when I'm stuck.) Between us, we came up with a means to solve the matter.

Then there was the time that I wanted to FAIL a test! Did you ever think about how hard it is to think of a wrong answer when you don't know any right ones??? I was 20 at the time and actually perspired a lot before that test was over! In a nutshell, I wanted out of a Navy school so that Jean and I could marry and I would be out of the service. I had agreed to sign over (now called re-UP) if I completed electronics school and I was just "hanging on" with barely passing grades. (A certain sweet and lovely red-head was my distraction.) Wouldn't you know it, but I almost passed that test? It was too close for comfort, but I succeeded...no that can't be right...but I failed...no, that's not right, either...

Introducing Ted Mangner by GJ

Ted Mangner was a steady contributor to my newsletter, “Memoirs,” in mid-1980’s. Because he started teaching in 1926, I would guess that he was born in about 1906+/-, and therefore about 75 when we met. I recently found a note that Ted passed away on June 18, 1984, making him 78 if I’m correct. My records also show that he worked on Radio WILL (Champaign, IL,) KMOX (St. Louis,) and KMOX-TV. His radio show was called “The Country Columnist.” I have another memoir stashed somewhere and I hope to be able to post it soon. I wish he had written more for us.

From Ted's Typewriter by Ted Mangner

In all probability you may have heard about the fellow who attended night school one evening when they didn't have any lights and the teacher didn't come. True or not, the same thing happened to me but in reverse. I showed up to teach my first term of country school in the fall of 1926, but no pupils were there most of the time. The reason was simple. There weren't any pupils. In fact, I could well be the only person dead or alive who ever taught a school with no pupils. If you say that can't be done, somehow I man­aged to do it. At least I was called the school teacher and got paid for teaching nobody anything.

I was fresh out of Eastern Illinois State Teacher's College at Charleston where I had been primed to the gills in the art of teaching by Dr. Livingston C. Lord and his most capable staff. He preferred to be called Mr. Lord, but I could never buy that as I was called Mr. Mangner by all my teachers. So, to me, that was putting me on the same level with one of the greatest teachers I ever knew. He took great pride in mention­ing that there were only two places in the United States where students were referred to as "Mr.," and they were Harvard and Eastern Illinois.

Nevertheless, after one year at Eastern I was qualified to teach any of the first eight grades in the State of Illinois. I had applied for my home school in the fall of '26 and was hired. In those days it was considered quite an honor to be hired to teach in the country school where you attended. So I strode out from town two and a half miles away as proud as a rooster with his first spurs.

When I arrived at the school house and rang the bell, which was the signal that school was now in session, the sea of faces I had planned on seeing seemed to be missing. I could only count five pupils: three boys and two girls. I figured what I might lack in quantity I would make up in quality. As it turned out, nobody stayed long enough for me to find out. Before the day was half over, the oldest girl had an attack of appendicitis. She was taken to the hospital for an operation, and when recovered she was past the age of sixteen and was no longer required to attend school. While I had lost one pupil the very first day I lost another by the end. of the week.

It happened because one of my three directors moved into town and quite naturally took his little boy along. I didn't become too alarmed until the end of the second week when another director moved to an adjoining neighborhood in another district and likewise took his son with him. I was now down to two pupils and one director, the Clerk of the Board.

(PART 2)

Faced with the grim reality that I had lost three pupils and two directors in the first two weeks, I be­gan to wonder whether or not I might have something that even my best friends wouldn't tell me about.

I still hesitated to take any action when my one remaining little girl simply up and quit. She didn't iike school in the first place, and lived two miles away, so I could appreciate her position when the rainy fall weather started. Now faced with one pupil and one director I wondered if it weren't high time we discussed school matters with the powers that be. I still hesitated, figuring like General Grant, that it might be better to fight it out on this line if it took all winter.

So teaching went on as usual at Prairie Grove, District 13 in Marion County, Illinois. When my lone pupil showed up, which wasn't too often, I sat up at my desk in the front of the school room and taught, while he sat in the back of the school room and learned, I hope. He was much bigger than I, but I was wider and stronger. At recess we went out in the school yard and wrestled to work off surplus energy.

As winter approached and the weather became worse, my lone star pupil failed to show up on sev­eral mornings. He also had two miles to walk to school across frozen fields. When he failed to show up morning after morning, I thought it was high time I had a conference with my only remaining school dir­ector, the Clerk of the Board. It had been a couple of months or so since he had had a meeting. It was so nice to get together and show one another that at least somebody cared; the Director, me and myself, Ted and I.

I explained to him that perhaps it might be best to call the whole thing off. It was a waste of my time to walk five miles round trip each day to teach nobody anything. Furthermore, it was a waste of the tax pay­er's money, not to mention the coal bill that could be saved from heating up a big building all day long. So I suggested that if he'd release me from my contract there would be no hard feelings and I'd get back to town and stay there.

(PART 3)

An old country school teacher himself, he thanked me for being so considerate. But he was quick to add that once the school was closed officially, it might be difficult to reopen it. A new crop of first graders would be starting the following year, so he suggested I continue to keep the school open until one o'clock five days a week. I complied. Each weekday morning I walked out from town and stirred up the fire that I'd banked the night before. At nine o'clock I rang the bell. Then I pulled my swivel chair near the big stove in the center of the room. I propped my feet on its big black jacket, munching an apple while I read a book.

At 10:30 I took fifteen minutes time out while I walked around the building to stretch my legs. Besides, since I'd lost two of my three directors and all of my pupils, I'd better not take any chances of anyone running away with part of the school house. At a quarter of eleven, I rang the bell again signify­ing that recess was over, and also to let my lone director know that I was following orders and still holding the fort. Then I returned to my place by the stove with another book and more apples. I never read so many books nor ate so many apples in my entire life as I did during that school term.

At twelve o'clock I ate my lunch, marked everybody absent, brought in kindling in case the fire went out over night, brought in coal, swept the floor, rang the bell once more, and headed back to town at one o'clock. I attended Teachers Institute at the County seat to take home piles of information and booklets for my pupils whom I did not have. When my fellow teachers inquired how my pupils were getting along with "Evangeline," I told them she hadn't even arrived yet, but I was hoping she'd get there as fast as she could. The County Superintendent of Schools was a woman who was supposed to visit all schools in the county twice during the term. She never, however, came to see me. She was fully aware there was no use. What could we have done? Held hands?

The only visitor I ever had was the neighbor's dog that would come slinking through the schoolhouse door, left open on balmy days. I would have assigned him a seat had I been sure he would stay. I was ready and willing to teach anything that might have flown through the window. When friends in town would inquire what I was doing and I replied, "teaching school," they didn't be­lieve me when I told them I had no pupils. At the close of school a new family moved in to the neigh­borhood; two little boys and two little girls, while my remaining male pupil returned, leaving me with five pupils again which was the number I'd started with.

I taught six more terms of country school before I returned to the University of Illinois for a degree and a place on the staff. My second term made a bit of interesting history as well as the other four. But that's another story. If there's a moral to this story, it might be that you can teach some of your pupils part of the time, or part of the pupils some of the time, but it's extremely difficult to teach anybody anything any of the time when they aren't there. Believe me, I tried it.

The Navy Revisited by Grandpa Jim

Jean and I moved from Evanston, IL to Jacksonville, FL in the spring of 1988. In the fall, I got a job as adjunct professor of freshman English at Jacksonville University. Later, I began to feel a call to attend church, again. (It had been many years and a variety of reasons for the long absence.) So, our search for church began. We tried several "mainstream" denominations and just couldn't find one with the "right feel."

Then, one day, I was looking for something in the yellow pages, could have been anything. My browsing happened across a large section devoted to the Mayport Navy Station, which is in Mayport, a suburb of Jax, out on the beach adjacent to Atlantic Beach. I couldn't believe how many telephone numbers were assigned to the navy...even a lot of them to ships! It seemed to me that almost every department on every ship had a phone number! (When I was in the navy, 1944 to 48, I had to go out on the dock and use a pay phone.) See what 50 years can bring?)

Next, I see a listing for the Navy Chapel and its four or five numbers. I called and asked if civilians were allowed to attend services. The sailor taking my call asked me to hold while I searched for a chaplain. He came back and told me that "...if you can get on the base, you're welcome to attend, sir!"

We wound up attending for eleven years and became surrogate grandparents to a whole tribe of sailors' kids. We loved that relationship and still have occasional contact with a few. (While in a teacher's supply store one day, I discovered a treasure trove of stickers. I bought a supply and some small envelopes and rationed out enough for eight or ten kids and took them to chapel.) Jean and I had also started to teach the "children's church" which ran at same time as one of the services. Jean read Bible stories while I sketched relevant pictures on the chalkboard.

On one occasion, we led a very small "caravan" of navy wives and kids to a city inland where I booked four or five rooms for the group so that we could escape a potential hurricane. (All ships together with the dads had been ordered to sea.) We stayed there a couple of days and I spent some time with the kids in the pool. One game I recall was dropping my room key into the deep end and letting kids dive down to see who could retrieve it. They seemed to get a big kick out of it. One parent reported, later, that her kids told her they hoped there would be another hurricane!

We left Jax in 1999 to move to Sanford, FL to be nearer daughter Nancy and family. But that's another memoir.

Don't Quote Me by GJ

Got to thinking about something called "The Haymarket Riots." (Don't ask why.) That incident in 1886 (when my Dad was 4 years old!) was a world-wide event. Eleven people were killed, four workers and seven police. Eight workers branded anarchists were executed, but Governor John Peter Altgeld commuted (or pardoned?) several others. The workers were on strike in a neighborhood called Haymarket, demanding an 8-hour day for their labor.

Because of his decision, Altgeld was terribly demeaned and defeated for his next term, even though it was a fact that he studied documents and pondered his decision greatly. He knew that his act would most probably cost him the election, but he felt honor-bound by the evidence, feeling that eight executions were already too many. (Nobody knows who fired the first shot!)

The most damaging claim against him was the totally false accusation that he had designs on the White House, when in reality he was ineligible, having been born abroad. Do not quote me on these beliefs of mine...I never claimed to be an historian...it's the best I can do. The pertinent facts certainly mark Altgeld as an altruist, no matter how you look at it. (Not many of those run for office in our times, do they?)

It might be of some interest, that a lot of the Illinois state colleges and universities have one building that was erected during his term(s?) and named "Altgeld Halls." (One is at Eastern Illinois U., Charleston.")