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.")

Help Wanted by Grandpa Jim

In 1985-86, Jean and I traveled the "lower 48," at least 12 to 15 of them, pulling a 40' fifth-wheel trailer. I was 58, Jean 55, both recently retired from teaching. We met some very nice folks by staying in camps provided by a camping club we belonged to. (Two dollars per night, one week per visit, two weeks per year.) The camps were all quite nice. Power, water, sewage always included. Some had "pull-through" parking which was always welcome, and some even had concrete parking pads, a phone line, TV cable, etc. The lifestyle was quite pleasant, "laid-back," and economical.

When we started, in May of '85, we more or less believed that we would "camp" for maybe five years or so, but we didn't really commit to any specific term.

The only real disadvantage we discovered was a bias against TEACHERS!

Now, here's the crux. We were about 7 to 10 years younger than average, I suspect. Let's say, then, that our acquaintances (mainly at some great "pot luck" meals) were 65 to 72 or so. That puts their births at 1913 to 1920 or so. This would put their children in school from 1938 to maybe 1968 or so. (We soon started avoiding any mention of our professions.)

Would Viet Nam have accounted for the bias? (The political split, draft, "hippies," or civil rights, for example?)

We eventually quit "camping" at end of a year. (Miraculously found a buyer willing to purchase our rig for what we had paid!) Jean was not comfortable with the stress of finding our destinations, hooking and unhooking, etc. I was unhappy with mail and phone problems even though Charlie was of great help in forwarding our mail, bless his heart. One other problem helped us to decide. We had spent almost entire summer in one camp because it was only a few miles from daughter Donna in PA. When we left to start our journey, we found that they had promised our spot to someone else without telling us. We had been under impression that that was the proper thing for both sides. This left us without a sure place at start of following summer.

We had some great times, too. (For one, we discovered that campers are not all that large a "community." We reunited with some at strangest locations!) (It was a tad embarrassing to call ourselves "campers," too, with two TVs, VCR, washer, dryer, queen bed, 6' ceiling in bedroom, microwave, and a beautiful bath-dressing room!) We'd recommend it, today, as we doubt that the bias still exists. Oh, one of our favorite spots was where the rear of our trailer almost hung over a cliff beside the Pacific Ocean at Baja, CA. Super sunsets!

Intermezzo by GJ

Jean and I were watching a movie today, "A Song to Remember," about the life of composer Frederick Chopin. If you like Chopin, or similar, light classical piano, you'd enjoy this. Quite old, made in 1945, black and white, stars Cornell Wilde, Paul Muni, and Merle Oberon. The featured musical piece, not at all "light," is Chopin's Polonaise, which is either Poland's national anthem, or quite akin to it. Franz Liszt is quoted in the film as saying that Polonaise means "the spirit of Poland."

Movies about famous composers, no matter how distorted from truth, or "Hollywood-ized" are among my favorites. (I once dreamed, in adolescence, of playing the piano. Tried a few lessons, was told that playing by ear is bad, bad, bad, and that my finger-span is too short. (I measure it at 8" but that would only permit however many black keys that requires, of course. The white keys require a little downward curvature of the finger, right?)

I think that my love of a lot of classical music may be rooted in early childhood memories. My Mom had a wonderful, contralto voice, we had a "Victrola," and a lot of canaries in the house. I really believe that I must have heard her singing as she worked about the house. I lost her at age nine.

I especially love all of Beethoven's symphonies, those of Brahms, and a whole lot of musical com-positions called "Overtures." I believe that there are two kinds. One refers to the music that introduces a musical program, such as "Cats," and usually contains brief passages from the tunes one is about to hear, like a medley. The other appears to be a stand-alone work, such as "The 1812 Overture," by Tchaikovsky. (I must remember to dig into the difference, moreso, one day.
(Beethoven wrote one called "Egmont," which is deep, and dark, and heavy.) (Then, there is the "Light Cavalry Overture" we all know as the theme from the "Lone Ranger.") (I once played it for fifth-graders who immediately recognized the cadence of horses.)

I also believe that good music stirs the emotions like no other sound, unless we count the cries or laughter of children. ("Our song," from 1946, is "To Each His Own," by Eddy Howard." Do you and your spouse have a song? Write a memoir about it.) There is a cafe not far from here where an accordionist/singer plays while customers dine, and whenever Jean and I go in, he plays ours for us! Sort of "makes" the evening!

REPRINT #1 by GJ

The following post was sent by "surrogate son/former student/class of 1961, Charlie Carpenter," the editor/publisher of "Carpenter's News," a quarterly newsletter. In our frequent correspondence, it was agreed that I would write a column to help "fill in" Charlie's new venture. I called the column, "Mr. Van Recalls," as that is the name I was called almost always, because, at first, the whole four syllables of VanDelinder can be a mouthful. "Lute Song" refers to the first play I chose, a classic, ancient Chinese drama with a cast of 30. I chose it merely because of the cast size, because the drama program was so down in numbers. Our second play was to be "You Can't Take It With You," that had a cast of 19...but...I now had 30 people with experience plus any newcomers who might win a role. The play had been a smash on Broadway and a good film, winning both best director and best film, 1938. "Lute Song" drew crowds for us because of size of cast, the uniqueness of the play, and my debut, maybe. The spring comedy then drew crowds because of familiarity with the film and our fall success.

###

---Mr. Van recalls---

It was during "Lute Song," fall of 1958. First, you have to remember that the faculty lounge had two entrances; one at each end of the long, narrow room. I was in the lounge, a brand new teacher to CHS, just finishing our first play, not knowing many people at all. The girls’ counselor called me aside and said there was a girl who wanted to be anonymous, but who was upset that she wasn't invited to the cast party. I told the counselor that there had to be a misunderstanding.

I left the lounge by the south door, turned right and almost bumped into Larry McGuiness. I said, "Who might be complaining to the counselor that she hasn't been invited ..." And before I could finish, Larry said "(X),” and kept on walking to class. By the time this exchange took place, I was at the north door, so I walked back into the lounge, found the counselor, said "Please tell (X) that there has been some mistake and she is certainly welcome, as is all the cast."

By this time, I was in position to exit the south door, so I did so, leaving the counselor with her mouth quite wide open. Two important facts, here. Number one, I discovered that Larry was "the man." Number two, I never even thought of asking him how he knew it was (X,) simply because I figured he wasn't about to tell me. How else do you become the man?

(By the way, (X) was not in the class of '61...possibly that of '59?) I have often wondered, how long did it take the counselor to discover my source? I'll be nice and guess that maybe it was a day or two. Next issue: CHS's own Laurel and Hardy?

###

Comment by Mrs.

Mrs has left a new comment on your post "Before Liability by GJ": What a fun game! You're right, they wouldn't let you play today. I took my kids to the Y and since I didn't feel like getting all the way in the water, I was sitting on the edge of the pool with my feet in while my youngest played on the steps. Mind you, I had my full attention on her (wasn't chatting with anyone.) I was told I had to be IN the water with her. I stood up and said I WAS in the water, but that wasn't good enough. They wanted me completely IN the water and not on the steps. Ridiculous. I took my kids home and canceled my membership.

Before Liability by GJ

The summer of 1943 is clear to me. I had just turned 16, was going to be a junior at Wheaton, Illinois H.S., and I was worried about the war. (Brother Scotty was soldier in Europe, things were not going well there, and "the war effort" was in full swing.)

Because we lived only a couple of blocks from the city swimming pool, that seemed a logical place to hang out. There soon arose an informal "gang" of us at the pool first thing in the morning and often until closing in the evening. Some of that time was napping on the deck. (When the concrete is hot, you splash pool water on it until it forms a puddle which you can lie down in.) The rest of the time was "fun and games." One that we spent a LOT of time in was "corner tag." The rules demanded that you could never walk around any of the four corners. You had to go into the water at every corner. This meant that if you were being chased by the guy who was "it," he had to go into every corner behind you, which slowed him down enough to even the odds pretty well.

Furthermore, once you placed a foot on any step of a diving-board ladder, you had to go all the way off the board...diving or jumping, either way. There was a one-meter board, which was the riskiest, because there were only ten or twelve feet between you (on the end) and "it" one step away from his end. There was also a three-meter board that gave you lots of time to jump or dive just as soon as "it" put his foot on lowest step.

Now, there was one little catch. No more than one of us at a time could be anywhere on any board. Some of us were three-meter "hogs" and liked to stand out on edge and rest a little. This forced others to bypass us for one-meter, or keep running to the next corner. Most of the time, there were boys inbetween all corners, one on each board, and he who was "it" scrambling to catch up to nearest victim. (Usually six or seven of us.) When an extra person joined in, it really got hectic, and we needed more naps!

A bottle of Royal Crown Cola and a Powerhouse Candy Bar (both the largest on the market...as Coke was in a very small bottle, then) for lunch and we were ready to begin another game. I learned to love diving so much, that when I was in the Navy, a year later, I used to dive off the conning tower, about 35+ feet. That can be quite a thrill. Often I could see under the ship and wonder if I should try to swim under to the other side. Fortunately, I was never so foolish. If I failed, I'd be quite dead.

Today, of course, no public pool would permit our games. Much too risky, liability-wise.

Just Wonderin' by GJ

Happened to be watching an old, "Walton's" TV re-run, and saw a scene where a mother was saying goodbye to her son as he departed for navy service in WWII. The boy said he'd be going to strange countries "with Kings," and islands "where people wear flowers around their necks." He wanted to know, "What can I bring back for you?" His mom said, "Yourself!"

This made me think that mothers take it terribly hard when their boys go off to "war." I don't know if they find it harder than fathers, or if fathers take a more fatalistic view, or if fathers are less open about their feelings, or what. My observations are colored by the fact that my mom was deceased when I left, in 1944. My own dad was not very open, and he had raised me since 1936.

This leads me to think about how parents, others, maybe everybody sees war. I can see three distinct views, and there are probably more I don't see at this juncture. First, a lot of people may see military services as equally "risky." Second, a lot of people know the differences in the "risk factor," and third, a lot of people are probably like I was at 17, naive. My 81 years tell me that each service has its risk, and much, if not all, depends upon where you are and, equally, when you are there. (Marines at Iwo Jima, and GI's at "Battle of Bulge" were at risk, BIG TIME. Air Force people were at risk every time their planes were aloft, therefore FREQUENTLY, as examples. Sailors in the "Merchant Marine" saw vast numbers go down in their ships. The Coast Guard was actually at risk from submarines right off our shores!) Members of all the branches were at minimal risk away from the "front," whether stateside or wherever, but who knew when the "front" might come to them? Being in uniform was being "at risk," just as being draftable had its risk. Factory workers building ships and planes were also at risk. Almost all were at risk!

There is, today, a custom for people to thank those who are in (or were in) service. It's a great custom, and when I'm on receiving end, I'm very grateful. I'd like to think that today, moms may have a better idea of risk and maybe they are fortified by this. Yet, I doubt it. Moms will probably always fear the potential risk more intensely than anyone else can. It comes with and from motherhood, doesn't it? It's a reason why "War is Hell," isn't it?

A Road Not Taken by GJ

Yes, it's the title of a famous poem by Robert Frost...who, by the way, was called "America's Poet Laureate" by President John F. Kennedy.

It was 1957 and I was at my life's "low," I think. If it hadn't been for two, bright and cheerful and darling daughters plus a bright and cheerful and darling wife, I would have been depressed. Their gifts (of support) kept me from thinking about lows much at all. I had resigned from my third teaching job in a fit of vanity, which is a long story in itself.

The first thing I did was send out resumes for a new teaching position. I got a call from Sterling, Illinois, and went for an interview. The good news was that the opening was for speech, English, and drama (director.) I had been waiting for the theatre opportunity for five years. The bad news was that the "stage" was set into one wall of the gymnasium! (This means the seats are folding chairs, and rehearsals would take second place to sports.) I thought the interview went well and relaxed a little and waited for the contract.

Several weeks went by and no such mail. It was getting extremely close to Labor Day (school opening) and I figured that I had been wrong and that they had found someone else. I had even started looking for other work and decided to apply for a job as personnel manager at a "sash and door works." I got a call that said I could start the day after Labor Day, and I was relieved that at least it was a job, and one that paid more than teaching. On the Friday before the holiday, I got a call from Sterling. "Where have you been," the superintendent asked? "What do you mean," I asked? "School starts Tuesday," he said. "But I didn't get a contract, " I said. It seems that his secretary forgot to mail it! (Or, he forgot to tell her, maybe.)

I couldn't very well renege on the factory job, so I told him I was sorry, but it was too late. The
personnel job lasted about four months. (Another long story!) I was to try running a diner, fail, and began to think it was an even "lower low." But Jean and the girls took it in stride, so how could I not do likewise? (Jean got a job and so, for a while, I was a "house-husband." The girls wanted nothing but fried-egg sandwiches and to watch "My Little Margie" on TV.) (My secret recipe, now revealed for the first time, was to add a dash of oregano.)

A new round of job-searching led to landing a fine job in Charleston, Illinois as speech, English, and drama director in a university town. This move enabled me to get an M.S. and Jean to get her B.A., which, in turn led us, three years later, to triple our income with a move to Chicago suburbs. That move made our whole retirement a lot better. If that contract had arrived on time, and if I hadn't agreed to the factory job, we might have been "frozen" into the Sterling job. I say frozen, because after a couple of years, it would have been nearly impossible for me to get another job in teaching. (By about one's eighth year or so, schools feel that you are too expensive to hire.) Jean would not have gone to college, most probably, and teaching would have lost a fine educator. To quote Mr. Frost, "Two roads diverged in a wood , and I ---/ I took the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference."

Is "dingy" same as eccentric? (GJ)

Show Original Post

Mrs said...
I love these posts about teaching. I homeschool my own children, but I also teach English composition and AWANA JV. Is there a student who sticks out as a real hero, or one that sticks out as a real zero?When I was in high school there were two freshman English teachers who happened to be sisters. One was strict and harsh and the other, Mrs. J, was a bit dingy.

A favorite prank the high school boys liked to play on Mrs. J was to take her VW Bug, lift it up, and turn it sideways in its parking space as much as they could. She would then have to wait until the others around her left before she could get out.I was walking to her class one day when I saw her pressed up against the side of the building, trying to see around the corner without being seen. Suddenly she burst from her hiding spot and yelled, "I've caught you! I've caught you! HAH!" She had finally caught the boys lifting her bug. Two of them got away, but the other two were marched off to the principal's office.
September 14, 2008 7:11 PM

REMINDER BY GRANDPA JIM

For those who may have "tuned in late;"

This blog is intended for folks who want to share a memory or two. Such stories are usually called "memoirs." If you are seriously curious, scroll through those already posted. Such a "journey" will give you a vast variety of the topics that memoirs might include.

I host this blog to illustrate how, when you reach my octogenerian state, you may wish someone had written a memoir for you! There is a rumor that I have Native American genes, but I'll never know for sure. Why? Because a court-house full of records burned to the ground, and there is nobody alive who can help me.

It is a fact that my grandfather SOLD two families to a neighbor! (My mother, therefore, was an indentured servant on a Michigan farm.) Why did he and HOW COULD HE do such a thing? Believe it or not, an encyclopedia once printed the statement (to the effect) that THERE IS LITTLE EVIDENCE THAT SUCH A PRACTICE WAS HARMFUL!!! Slavery not harmful???

My dad served his navy apprenticeship aboard a four-masted schooner in 1897 or so. He became a gunner's mate, third class, and therefore had to know every job on the ship. How I wish he had kept a JOURNAL, WHICH WOULD BE LIKE A WHOLE COLLECTION OF MEMOIRS!

Please don't let the experiences, the history, the wisdom of past generations escape from your heritage. Encourage those people to put it in writing. Send it to me and I'll post it. I have posted enough of my own, already!

Looking Back at Myself by GJ

In today's posts, I am reflecting upon three views of my career. From 1954 to 1957, I taught in a medium-sized, Iowa high school of about 500 +/- I think it was. During those three years, I discovered an exceptionally large number of good writers. (I'd like to think I helped in their development, but I really have to say that their foundation was far more responsible. They were prepared for me by some fine instruction, somewhere.) This is view number one.

I've often looked back on that school and those three years as the period in which I did my best work in teaching composition. But was it the teaching, as such? No, it was something in addition to the art of teaching. It was my "persona." I suspect that a lot of students thought I was a genuine "eccentric."

What IS an eccentric? Rojet's Thesaurus says it is "curious," "odd," "peculiar," "quirky," strange," "wacky," "odd-ball," " off-balance," etc.

Now I'll let you judge for yourself. A large part of the first semester of American Literature was devoted to Edgar Allen Poe. I loved Poe and I loved teaching his work. (I knew that he was probably addicted to drugs, but I more or less tried to deny this. I "suggested" that maybe they were wrong to accuse him.) I tried to cover for the fact that when he died, it was said that his body was found in an alley behind a tavern, or some such thing. Like a defense attorney, I tried to create reasonable doubt.

Now, I'd like to think that all of my efforts to "cleanse" Poe of negative images was done with a little smile on my face, or an expression that telegraphed my true knowledge. I wanted the students to "see through" their teacher, to share his secrets. I'm not sure I ever really did this, but I sort of recall saying, "Have you heard this rumor that I have a pet raven?" ("The Raven" may be Poe's most famous poem!) If somebody raised his hand, he was probably playing my game, and beautifully! Or, maybe I'd wear something black to school, and ask if anyone had heard the outrageous rumor that I ALWAYS dressed in black on the anniversary of Poe's death.

One thing is fairly certain in my mind, and that is, that I pretty well convinced about three classes full of juniors that I would be unhappy if anyone said anything bad about Poe. I think that most of them went along with my eccentric "act" because it was more fun than taking me seriously.

I do know this. The vice-principal at that school confided in me that several sophomores had been in his office, at one time or another, asking, "Does anybody else teach junior English?"

Some younger siblings had obviously heard about "wacky Mr. Van."

When I left that school in 1957, I went to a school of about the same size in another state about 15 months later. (I took time off from teaching, but that's a long story.) In short, I was so glad to get back into teaching, that I became more serious. Either in the "lay off," or the experiences during that time, I guess I lost most of my eccentricity. To tell the truth, I miss it. "Quoth the Raven, 'Nevermore.'"

Try to understand, OK? by GJ

I'm going to ask and need your understanding. My tale goes back to about 1955, + or -. This is retreating over 50 years, you realize. The story shows a bad lapse in judgement...my judgement.

Understand, first, that society was a great deal different. Understand, second, that much of life has undergone radical change in these particular 50 years. Third, I need some consideration for the fact it was only my third year of teaching, and the first year in a REAL high school. I had not learned a lot in the first two years in other schools for a variety of reasons I don't have room to go into here.

Fourth, this was a hasty utterance that could happen to...well, a lot of folks?

It was freshman English and early in the year. A new girl had appeared as a recent transfer from another town. In the middle of this particular period, I asked the new girl to please stand and read from the text. She didn't respond. I asked again, and she remained seated and said, "No."

I said, "What?" She said something like, "I won't." I said something like, "You had better, or..." She remained defiant. She said something like, "Or what?" "Or I'll have to spank you," I stupidly replied. With this, she jumped up, turned, and ran around the back of the room in an attempt to reach the door which was in the front of the room. (I probably told her to return to her seat, or something, I hope.) As she flung open the door, and only having to take few steps to the side, I was able to grasp her trailing arm with my left hand and give her a glancing, gentle swat on her behind as it left the room. Fifth, one should always follow through on a threat!!!

She did go back to her seat and fought the tears of embarrassment. I called on somebody else, or the bell rang, I don't really recall.

When class was over, and having a break, I rushed down to the principal's office. He was free, so I went in and blurted out, "We've got a problem!" He actually smiled, which was of no help, whatsoever, and said, "What do you mean we?"

After I explained, he told me that we should just wait it out and deal with it when necessary.

Days later, a student approached me in the hall. (I think she was in my junior class.) She said, "Hey, don't worry, Mr. Van. Sis never told our parents!"

I don't think I ever uttered an idle threat again.

Taking Chances by GJ

1972 or so. There was bad news from Viet Nam. Nixon was in trouble. People called hippies were in the news a lot. The scene: a lecture hall in a large, affluent, suburban high school. About 120 juniors packed into the room and I'm talking to them about a piece of American literature.

Fortunately, there are three other teachers, all men, also in attendance, acting as monitors.

Normally, when one of the four of us was "holding court," so to speak, we'd have pretty good notes to refer to in such a setting. On this occasion, I was more or less "winging it" with only the text in my hands. The story was very familiar to me, and I preferred working extemporaneously on such material. I tried hard, all my teaching life to sound as "fresh" as possible. The worst word I could hear was "boring."

My purpose was to set the scene of the story. I'm not sure, after 36 years, whether we were about to see a film, or I was reviewing the story for a quiz, or "setting them up" for reading the story as an assignment. I'm not certain as to my exact words, but I think it was something like the following: "Our scene is a small town in a western state. The family we are about to meet lives in a neat little bungalow on a quiet street just a few blocks from downtown.

"We would all like to have lived in this tidy little house with its flowers and trees and, of course, we all like a little grass ---" ---ROAR OF LAUGHTER---. First, I'm embarrassed at the outburst and struggling to recognize what I had said to provoke the explosion. I looked around at my three colleagues, and they are laughing every bit as hard as the kids! The noise went on for a long time and in the middle, it hit me. GRASS. It has two meanings, dummy! The current meaning was marijuana, of course! I should have said lawn, of course. Now, all I could do was laugh WITH everybody. What else could I do? (My colleagues swore that I turned red at first.) It would be neither the first nor last "joke on me," but it was a dandy while it lasted.

Off and on, for 30 years of HS teaching, I tried to encourage laughter in the classroom. Occasionally, I succeeded. Those were the moments I cherish.

Thinking Hard by Grandpa Jim

I can't help but wonder about my blogging efforts. Approximately two (2) times a day, somebody "tunes in." Approximately 2% of those bother to look at "my view." Does this mean that 98% of the curious public is not interested? I keep reminding folks "out there" that memoirs ought to have meaning for several generations. "Boomers" ought to want to know more about my generation, my generation ought to be telling their stories WHILE THEY CAN, and our grandchildren ought to be more curious about the past, and about history, and about their heritage!

But maybe everybody I've mentioned has better ways to do these things than reading or writing memoirs? Maybe a blog is not the best medium? Maybe nobody cares?

I can only guess that there could be millions who would respond if I could reach them. Maybe they don't have pcs. Maybe they are content (or forced) to simply sit on their porches or sofas and watch the world go by?

I'm really wondering if maybe I should look at some other venue? Speaking to senior groups in my local area might have some promise. Then, I can't help but think, my age says such an approach is not for the short-range!

As always, I'd appreciate feedback. Love, Jim.

MORE on "the collection" by GJ

Two more memoirs from the early 1980's bring back fond memories. A lot is kind of vague, due to the passage of time and the aging process, but somehow I got the idea to publish a newsletter. My first idea was to publish one "for readers of westerns." This was inspired by the fact that both my brother, Chick, and my nephew, Chad, were quite taken with Louis L'Amour and his stories. But something happened on the way to the printer!

I began to doubt that such readers would really care about sharing views with other readers. They just want more westerns, I figured. But, I had a memoir about a covered wagon trip in the early 1900's that was more memoir than western! So, I started "Memoirs," the newsletter for people who like to share memoies. (Sort of a pioneer blog, eh?)

Two frequent contributors really helped the publication get off the ground. One was a woman who lived in a nearby suburb of Chicago, and the other was my cousin, Betty Neal. Today, I'm posting one memoir by each. Violet Perry was already in her early 90's when I met her. She got interested in writing due to a class she attended at a senior center. We had a couple of nice chats before I had to suspend "Memoirs" for financial reasons.

I will be posting more of the work by these and other "memoirists" in the near future. (Hey, did I coin a new term?)

Introducing: Vie and Betty by GJ

Two more writers from my early 1980's "collection, Violet Champion Perry and Betty Neal.

First, Vie's "Our Dog Ring," 1983.

In addition to our large family of nine kids growing up in Loretto, Michigan, there was an adorable puppy. He came to us quite by accident. His owner had been annoyed with him because he cried a lot, and in a fit of temper kicked him in the face, injuring him severely. My father was not one to interfere with the behavior of his neighbors if it didn't concern him, but he loved dogs. He felt obligated to investigate when he heard the puppy was being abused. He found the fluffy ball of fur crying with pain and brought it home.

In time the injuries healed, but one side of the! dog's face remained permanently misshapen, giving him a very odd expression, part of an exaggerated grin. A funny looking dog to some people, but we loved him dearly.

We called him "Ring" because he had a black ring of fur around one eye. He was a big dog, gold and white, with a dab of black here and there. Ring went everywhere with the boys, ­swimming in the river, picking berries out of the hardwood, or playing ball. Ring was always one of the group. We would fashion a harness for him out of any available material and hitch him to a sled or wagon to give us rides.

Ring was so good natuied that he was not a dependable watchdog, as we once found out. Our house had a porch across the front and my parents' bedroom window faced theporch. One night, very late, when my father was away, my mother heard a male voice outside the window. She peaked through the curtain and was startled to see a man sitting on the stair of the porch with his arm around Ring, placidly lying beside him. They were having a one-way conversation. Mother went upstairs to call my brother Herb to come down and see what it was all about. Between hiccups, the man was able to convey that he was lost, inebriated and needed a guide. Herb walked him down the street and turned him in the direction he needed to go.

As Ring grew older he developed arthritis and it became very difficult for him to get up when he was down, or get down when he was up. He was a 14-year-old senior citizen. He would lay his head in my mother's lap and whine, and with pleading eyes, beg for help.

One day she said, "This can't go on. Something has to be done about this dog."We all knew what that "something" was. There were no veterinarians anywhere around, not even a doctor. The only way to dispose of -old dogs was to shoot them.

But who was going to shoot Ring? Not Herb, Ernie, Cecil or Gar. Fred offered, reluctantly. He borrowed a gun from some­one, tied a rope to Ring's collar and slowly went up the hill to a wooded area on theoutskirts of town. We waited anxiously forFred to return. It took a long, long time, but he finally returned -- with Ring, very much alive, in tow.




FROM MY DIARY...JANUARY 2, 1983 by Betty Neal

My thought for today is a look to way back when January 2nd was Mother's birth­day as well as tree-taking-down day. We always carefully wrapped the candle holders, packed them in boxes marked "Christmas ornaments," and Mother stored them on a closet shelf. (The strings of popcorn and cranberries, we left for the birds.)

Dad then brought an old sheet and care­fully placed the tree on it. The idea was to get out of the house without leaving a trail of needles. For some reason no matter how careful he was, there were always needles all over. The exit of the tree was followed by much sweeping and dusting and re-arranging of furniture. When all was neat again, we celebrated Mother's birthday.

The gifts we gave her were small things since she'd received big ones for Christmas. It was such a happy feeling to be told, "This is just what I needed and hoped I'd get," when a package with a five cent tablet in it was opened with much joy.

Introducing: Henry W. Baumann by GJ

You readers cannot imagine how much I enjoy being able to share my first of several of the "Original Memoirs." I have been struggling for a long time to find a way to do this. I've been carrying this collection from townhouse to apartment to travel trailer to house to house...over 7 or 8 moves in the last 25 years!

Yes, it has become an obsession: one of not being able to "let go." I invested two years, a lot of time, and some funds in collecting these true stories. I'm afraid it is because I hated to stop publishing them, to admit I could no longer afford it, and to part with "old friends."

One of these old friends was Henry Baumann. Henry was the most prolific, most precise and error-proof of all the contributors. I never had to edit a word or change a comma in anything the man ever sent me. His memoirs went from me to the typesetter with ne'er a fare-thee-well. I fear that Henry is gone. (He would be 100 +/- by now.) I have tried searching for him on the internet and it looks hopeless. I hope you'll enjoy Henry's work, as he is one of the best at sharing memories, and I have several more to post for you.

Mr. Platz's Fishing Trip

by Henry W. Baumann

I find myself recalling the older people who meant so much to me while growing up in a New York sub­urb during the 1920s.Mr. Platz comes to mind often. Tall and craggy-featured, a corn-cob pipe always between his teeth, Mr. Platz had inherited a farm in New Jersey, sixty miles from where he lived at the end of our street. He spent spring and summer at the farm, returning with Mrs. Platz to their bungalow in the fall.

My father called him the only commuting farmer he ever knew. Mr. Platz said it was necessary because he loved the farm and wouldn't sell it to some stranger.
Sometime every autumn, the Platz's Model T would putter down our street laden with jarred vegetables and fruits Mrs. Platz had "put up" during the summer. Although sidewalks ran along both sides of our street, high fox-tail reeds had overgrown the land beyond our house.Happy to have someone to kaffee klatch with, Mom walked through the reeds to visit in Mrs. Platz's cheery yellow kitchen.

Mr. Platz was normally a carpenter, and many Sat­urday mornings he let me "help" him. I fetched lumber and tools, and often held nails while he started them with quick, sharp strikes of his hammer. I was nervous about this, but Mr. Platz insisted it was a good way for me to learn faith and trust.We talked sometimes of fishing, and I often tried to lure him to go with me for pickerel in Rosedale Pond. He would always promise, someday, but grown­up commitments always interfered, until one un­usually mild Friday in January that had me thinking of spring.
The tall reeds had burned down during autumn, and when I came home from school I could plainly see Mr. Platz working outside his house.

I ran down the sidewalk and soon started a con­versation about fishing. Mr. Platz agreed this warm day would have been ideal, and to my joy, agreed we would go the next morning.
I spent the evening getting my long unused fishing gear together, wangling some bacon from our window­sill ice box to use for bait. in spite of my parents' objections, I was up at daylight.
The temperature had dropped into the 'teens, where it belonged this time of year. Completely un­daunted, I wiggled into my mackinaw, slid a woolen hat over my ears and donned my mittens.
Happily, Mr. Platz was ready, and off we started. With the sunrise a heavy wind sprang up, and shortly Mr. Platz suggested it might be unwise to go all the way through the woods to Rosedale Pond.

After bucking the gale for awhile, I agreed, and we turned back, deciding instead to try a salt water creek wind­ing through the meadow closer to Mr. Platz's house. We reached the stream along a narrow, slippery path through the marsh. The tide was half out, leaving a crust of ice sagging from the muddy banks. The salt hay had a wrapping of frost that quickly wet our shoes.
With fast numbing fingers we baited our hooks, tossing the lines into the swift, clear water. My gloves soon became soaked, and the cold wetness was pen­etrating my shoes.

Mr. Platz gamely fished while I was beginning to hope he would call it off. The wind continued rising. biting at our stiff, shivering frames. Sensing I was too stubborn to quit, Mr. Platz finally said maybe the fish were smarter than us. When the last of my bait went sailing off the hook into the swirling stream, I quickly agreed it was time to go home.I will never forget Mr. Platz and the day that we managed to enjoy each other's company, in spite of great discomfort.

Comment on a comment by GJ

Thank you, "Mrs." As I look back, I could have done so much more than I did. I always believed that a class was so much better without the teacher on "center stage." But finding ways to get in the back of the room was a terrible struggle. Down toward the end, I was given some "windows" to do just that, and the results were exciting. "Literature On Trial," where students played roles and interacted and got genuinely "involved" was a huge change that made it possible for kids of all propensities to have their shot to express themselves in roles that suited them. "Mock congress" class allowed me to act almost as a "court reporter," just like trials, above. At the end of the semester I could almost relive each of the 180 days! I can't tell you who was the "best student" for the semester, but I could sure tell you who was the best prosecutor, witness, bailiff, presider, speaker, etc., etc. I had the observations (and a lot of their quotes) on paper! Oh, yes, their long (20 to 35+ pages) reports were PROOF that they could write! They had something to write ABOUT!!! My conclusion: the wrong people are in control of public education.

Comment by Mrs.

Mrs has left a new comment on your post "Teacher learns a lesson By GJ": Joy! I love when someone finally "gets" it! For me, the switch was Modern Literature. I would have loved English classes much sooner if there was less diagramming and more literature!

Teacher learns a lesson By GJ

Tommy was high on my short list. “What list,” you ask? The list of freshmen whom I wondered how to motivate. He was a little overweight, maybe big for his age. Tommy sat in the fifth row of the lecture hall that seated about 120 ninth grade English students. .

Whenever I talked to the boy, or tried to help him, all I got was a sort of polite resistance. He didn’t know why he was struggling, and seemed not to care much. His poor grades on homework, quizzes, or what-have-you didn’t seem to phase him. When I reminded him that doing poorly might result in having to repeat the course, he would just shrug his shoulders and say nothing.

This class was labeled “basic English,” and was theoretically made up of “slower” students. I was part of a team of four teachers who volunteered to teach this group. The 120-student size was only one of several of our options. If we wanted to deal with the whole 120 (for a quiz, test, film, etc.) all four of us were on hand to do so. If one of us wanted to do something different, he could take “his 30” to a regular classroom and this option was used more than the larger one.

One day, something happened and I don’t know what it was. It could have been a presentation of some sort by one of the other three teachers, or something Tommy happened to read in a text. Anyway, the class was using a “worksheet” of some sort, the kind where you fill in blanks when you see or hear key words. I happened to be doing monitor duty where I simply strolled around the room and looked at the worksheets over their shoulders. At times there were questions I might be able to answer, or at times I might need to prod someone to catch up.

As I stopped by Tommy’s seat on this momentous occasion, I saw him enter a correct answer to a question that was puzzling to other students around him. I said, “Good job, Tommy!” and patted him on the back. He straightened up in his chair, his shoulders stiffened a little, and I caught glimpse of a genuine smile.

From that day on, Tommy dropped off the short list and became a better student. I now knew what motivated him, and that was a simple word of praise. I had been familiar all my life with the expression, “pat on the back,” but I had never known it to work so well in the physical sense.

The Bowling Hall of Fame by GJ

There is a joke in our family that Grandma Jean (my wife) was prevented from getting into the bowling hall of fame because she fell and hurt her knee and was never able to regain her form. If you knew Jean (when she was in her form) you would laugh at the joke, too. At her best in our league, ( in the 1960's) her average was about 108-110, maybe.

There were four of us on the team; Jean, myself, daughter Donna, and her husband, Mike Magliano. Jean, Donna and I stood between 5'2" and 5'6" while Mike was 6 foot 6"! We thought it would be cute, so we called ourselves "Three mutts and a Jeff." (Ask your grandparents if they remember "mutt and Jeff," a comic strip.)

I think we lasted four seasons, spring and fall, for two years. The first three were uneventful, but we came in first the last season. (A lot of our competitors resented our high handicaps, of course, and thanks to "Big Mike's" nearly 200 average, we won just enough games to take the trophy.)

At the end of the last term, we entered a charity contest, not as a team, but as individuals. The contest started AFTER the league play, at about midnight, + or -. We were to bowl 8 or 10 games, as I recall. I soon got tired and my game soon went downhill. (Not that it was ever very far up any hill!) It seemed to me at the time, that Jean was holding her own, and did do well on a couple of games.

When the night was over, they announced results and called Jean to stand up. When she stood, they announced that she had won the $200 prize for "most improved" over her handicap! Her scores kept going up a little each game, while most of ours kept lowering, I guess. I have often wondered if, as she grew tired she forgot to worry about doing well, just threw the ball and let it happen! Is that likely?

Many years later, Jean was bowling with our daughters and fell on one knee after releasing the ball. She complained for weeks that it hurt, but doctors said it was only a bruise. Ever since then, we have teased her about missing her HOF Career.

A Daughter's Memoir

‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game’

Baseball fans everywhere, but Cub fans in particular, know the song ‘Take Me Out To The Ball Game’ well. I even sing it as long as the windows are shut.

I recently read an article about the origins of this song. It turns out it was written by a man named Jack Norworth while he was on board a New York City subway train. Two interesting things about this, is that he wrote the song 100 years ago, in 1908, which is precisely as long as it has been since the Chicago Cubs won a World Series. Secondly, my Grandpa VanDelinder (an avid Cub fan) was a train commuter. He spent 1 ½ hours a day for 20 years, traveling from Elgin Illinois to his work in Chicago for the Chicago Sun-Times. I can’t help but marvel that it could have easily been my Grandpa, a very creative man, who penned this song on one of his long commutes.

So to begin my history of ‘Take me out to the ball game’…..

Since I was the first female born in the VanDelinder family in 70 years, I quickly grew accustomed to a lot of fuss and ‘fan fare’ (pun intended). It was also inevitable that my Dad (a.k.a. Grandpa Jim) and his Dad, my Grandpa, would introduce me to the Cubs. The two of them made up huge homemade score pads and taught me how to keep the score of Cubs games while listening to them on the radio.

Then imagine my joy to get to go to real Cubs games at Wrigley Field when we moved to the Chicago suburbs! So for real, my Dad could ‘Take me out with the crowd’ and ‘Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack’ although, to be frank (pun intended), I always favored those wonderful steamed hotdogs that the vendors carried through the crowd in those metal containers. Back then, watching the Cubs at Ivy-covered Wrigley Field, with the indescribably blue sky, along with 40,000 plus other Cub fans dressed in blue, there was no wonder to the refrain ‘I don’t care if I never get back’.

I need to mention that almost our entire family has, or has had, Cubs mania. My Dad, my Mom (who can cat-call and cheer, with the best of them!), my Aunt Leona, my late Uncle Chick, my late Cousin Betty (born in 1908!) and of course my late Grandpa. Even though I wasn’t present, my Dad even had a four generation event at Wrigley Field with my maternal grandmother Fran, my mom Jean, my sister Nancy, and her daughter, my niece, Sarah. Their presence was announced on the radio. So it’s been an obvious family thing to ‘Root, root, root for the Cubbies’.

My Mom and Dad have followed the Cubs to numerous National League ballparks. I personally have gone to “Cubs” games in Chicago, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, and Miami. An extra special memory took place during a Cincinnati outing, in the early 1970’s, when Dad actually arranged for us to have breakfast with Ernie Banks. It took a lot of effort on Dad’s part. He wrote Ernie Banks a letter and then, since we were staying in the same hotel as the Cubs, Dad called and asked him! My recollection was how friendly Ernie was, and how big he was. He didn’t look nearly so big when watching from the “cheap seats” or on TV. My other impression was his diamond rings!

Currently, I try to be content to see some televised Cubs games, and I go to one “Cubs” game a year when the Cubs play the Florida Marlins in Miami. And, every baseball season, I have my Cubs shrine consisting of my autographed baseballs (courtesy of my Dad), my Cubs cap, and my stuffed Cubbie Bear out on my dresser. Because…I believe…this is the year…the Cubbies will win the World Series Championship!

So in the immortal thoughts of any true Cubs fan, every team is entitled to a bad century now and then! So their century is up and ‘If they don’t win it’s a shame’ especially this year in 2008! ‘For it’s one, two, three strikes’, so come on Cubbies let’s end this 100 year drought! ‘At the old ball game’.

By Donna (VanDelinder) Magliano