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?)