"Castles in the Air" by GJ

I have three such edifices, so far.

From time to time, when I want to comfort or playfully tease Jean, I tell her that she "Belongs in the 'Jean Van Delinder Good Sport's Hall of Fame.'" Her first response is almost always, a modest denial.

Knowing her reaction is beginning to build, I then follow with, "It is right next door to the 'Jean Van Delinder Back-Scratcher's Hall of Fame.'" She often responds, "Stop that, now." Quickly, I add, "And that's right across the street from 'The Jean Van Delinder Sweet Little Angel's Hall of Fame.'''

By this time, she gives me a gentle poke in the arm and says, "Ohhh, you KNOW that's not true."

I'm thinking of a fourth castle so that there will be one on each corner of the intersection, but I have to wait until she pauses, some time. When the right time comes, I'll try to draw a sketch of Jean's "Intersection." You'll be bound to recognize it.

Welcome back! By GJ

Somebody once asked me about fact that Jean and I married young...20 and 1/2 for me, 17 and 1/2 for her. There was a time when I would recommend it. But I can't any more, for a very simple reason. There are too many, complex, and varied factors that come to bear. It was 1947, and that season, that year, that decade, that century cannot be repeated. I was in the navy, she was in high school, and WWII was barely over. Glenn Miller's music inspired romance of the old-fashioned sort...moonlight, roses, etc.

We were both idealistic. That's probably not conducive to anything. We had no money, my very meager navy pay (but about to end with impending discharge) and no savings.

Yet, it was also a rare period when jobs were plentiful, albeit of the "entry-level, minimum-wage variety." Our parents were not in position to support us, and we would never have asked!

Finally, but not at all completely, there is the matter of preparation. In our day (which did not last long) we had only our family values to guide us. Those were enough to sustain us for these six decades, but we were lucky to have them. Our vows were important to us. Nobody on either side had ever divorced. Divorce was to be avoided, maybe at all costs? (We both knew of couples who avoided it and suffered some consequences.)

If, today, one faces the decision to marry, one needs (desperately) to ask themselves, each other, and somebody wise, "are we ready?"

Something a little different by GJ

I've been thinking about age differences lately. Nothing major, mind you. Just sort of mulling over trivial notions. My Dad was 10 years older than Mom. My oldest brother was 17 years older than I. The youngest of my three older brothers was almost 11 years older than I.

I have no idea what any of those facts had to do with my upbringing, except that I think I missed having the kind of mentor that many friends had. Older brothers have valuable things to teach the "kid brother," but all of mine had left home before I could take advantage of those little gems.

I wonder what some of you might have to add to these thoughts? My Dad was 60 when I turned 14, and all of a sudden, it seemed to me, he didn't want to play catch any more. (One older brother was fairly athletic, and might have shown me how to throw a curve?)

Is it ALTOGETHER TRUE that "life is what you make it?" Or is it possible that a difference in age helps (or hinders) you in that pursuit?

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Howlin Wolf has left a new comment on your post "Transfer #2 from terminal blog by GJ": I couldn't agree more with you here-- what the reader brings to the writing. You may recall my eldest son Mark was in your English class-- but what you may not know, was that his mother READ to him every night--AND, despite being dyslexic, he continued to read. When his younger brother bought Indian souvenirs during our camping trips, Mark bought BOOKS. All through elementary school, he tested 2-3 grades BELOW level-- yet by his sophomore year, he had reached grade 10. I firmly believe that his successes were a direct result of his mother's devotion to reading. Howlin'

Transfer #3, the dedication by GJ

Dedicated to Ellie Skees, 1998 - 2007


Engraved on numerous hearts,
Etched in numerous memories.
Abiding in our minds,
Dwelling in our thoughts.

Among uppermost who knew you,
Within closest who bonded,
There is Great Grandma Jean;
Your pal, your playmate,
Your partner in pretending,
Wherein you forever remain.

GGPAJ

Transfer #2 from terminal blog by GJ

READING

I’ve been struggling, mightily, with the makings of a book. Found three “editors;” one local, one in Orlando, and one in NY. Based on those three, and aware that it’s a small sample, if I had to draw anything like a conclusion, I’d have to say, “I wonder if, maybe, editors are NOT READERS.”

Now I don’t claim to be an expert in the “science” of reading. I have to go on my efforts to “teach it.” I’m not even sure it can be taught! Daughter Donna says that she learned to love reading through me. Because she was our first-born, and I had a little more time in those years, and I was a new father, I did spend a lot with her on my lap and reading who-knows-what to her.

Harper Lee, author of To Kill a Mockingbird reported that she also learned to read (the newspaper) on daddy’s lap. Donna is now a prodigious reader. She cranks out books like they were endangered species. When she’s desperate, she’ll re-read ‘em! I believe that reading is not even 75% of what the writer presents to us. I’ll be generous and give him half.

The other half is what WE BRING to his product. (Friend Bob calls it the emotional baggage.) Exhibit A: my mother died on Mother’s Day (and my 9th birthday, May 10th, 1936.) When I read something, anything, that sidles up alongside a tender story of motherhood, or of maternal instinct, or if there is a verbal image of a dark, smiling, plump woman of the 1930’s, don’t you think I bring a potential for tears?

Is it important whether those salty drops are in remembrance of her, or for my loss? Won’t those tears cause me to get involved in that printed page to a greater degree? Exhibit B: Donna and I love to exchange views on Gone With the Wind. Now, GWTW is sacred to that girl. Talk about tears, she can cry when Brett says, “Frankly, my dear…”

Our eldest identifies strongly with something in Scarlet O’Hara. I keep asking if Melanie isn’t a more sympathetic character? There is no way we will ever agree, and it sure doesn’t matter. Not one bit. I take a fondness for Melanie (is she an ‘underdog?’) (a victim?) to the book with me. I become a strong “fan” of hers for whatever reason. Donna takes a loyalty for Scarlet with her, and we become competitive, but loving rivals (just as they are?)

Exhibit C: About 20+ years ago, I discovered a little book that took on a life of its own. It is called, The Education of Little tree. It is NOT a very well-written book! It has a degree of profanity I could do without. There have been some clouds over the author’s name. But I’ll bet that I bought and gave as gifts over a dozen copies! (Maybe 20!) The foundation for the book is in some Cherokee beliefs and cultural lore.

Little Tree and his Grandpa communicate via the Dog Star! I can buy that., and it’s because I can accept that people can COMMUNE. I may not be able to, and I don’t know, personally, any who can, but my imagination (another tool I bring to the written word) tells me that commune, communicate, and prayer are not alien to each other. (And I have felt prayers.)

In conclusion, I assigned “Little Tree” to a university class in remedial English years ago. I could FEEL the resistance when I showed them the cover of the book: right off the “juvenile” shelf! I made them an offer. I told them, that if anyone felt cheated out of his two dollars, or whatever very reasonable cost, I would buy back their copy. Out of two classes of 25 each, two or three asked for the refund. I could cite many more exhibits.

Reading is, I firmly believe, an active process that requires the reader to bring something of his unique, personal experience to the printed word. Be it bias, or belief, reality or fantasy, it is his or her contribution to a form of communication. Written words can evoke tears, printed words can summon laughter, visual words can help us dream. But not unless we bring the willingness to receive, the hopefulness of a relationship.

Donna and Harper Lee had the distinct advantage (one we can ALL provide to our children) of hearing (inflection, pronunciation, and feeling) Those which are the priceless enhancements of the printed icon.

Transfer #1 from new (terminal) post by GJ

Time is of the essence. No, time and tide wait for no man. No, time sure flies, doesn't it? We "run out of" time, we "take our" time, and we "waste "time. So, what is this demon we live with? I can only report that, here in my octogenarian era, I actually seem to lose a whole year, now and then.

A good example is when I quit driving and sold the car. I could swear that it was in early May, 2007. Two years ago. It seems at least two years that I have not driven. Has to be. At least two. Nope. My replacement ID card clearly states, May, 2008. That's one year. That means a year that I know I lived through, by "feel," just up and blasted off into orbit.

If you happen to spot a mysterious object glittering in the sky , up there, just to the right of Jupiter, that's merely my lost year, OK?

Bicycle Story by GJ

I was 12 or 13 (1939 or 1940) and was required to travel clear across town to a junior high school for a class in mechanical drawing.

My route took me two blocks down a VERY STEEP pair of hills to a dead end at the bottom: a guard rail that protected people from the electric rail that trains used in a commute to Chicago. We often referred to the train, the railroad, and the tracks as “the third rail.”

It was my habit to make a 90-degree right turn at the bottom, first to avoid crashing into that guard rail, and second, to make my turn north to the next street.

On the afternoon in question, I was running behind a bit and in a hurry and that turn was everything I could muster! Still in a hurry, I decided to ride around a small building on the corner of where I needed to turn left. (I had done this before, but never so hastily.)

Imagine my shock when I encountered a car heading straight for me, with only myself and my bike between that automobile and the side of the building. I instinctively withdrew my left hand from the handlebar, and my left foot from that pedal, and probably said something in the way of a prayer.

Two senses jolted me. One, the FEEL of bicycle as it was squeezed between two immovable monsters, and two, the SOUND of now-bare steel handlebar and pedal against the steel of automobile body. When I survived and recovered and made a miraculous turn left onto a sidewalk, I felt the now-cold handlebar and, an absence of pedal! Some part of the car had taken the grip from my handlebar and the pedal from my bike. I had taken a pretty deep layer of paint from an automobile.

And so, I right-pedaled as furiously, and as fearfully as I could to my goal, and I did, believe me, LOOK BACK!

Dream a Little Dream

When I was a boy I had this dream. I saw myself seated at one of those elegant, concert grand pianos. Just me and a piano.

I don’t recall the “house,” at all. That is a term used to describe the large room where the audience sits, and refers to the people, themselves, at times. (A full house means that all seats are occupied. A “good house” is one that applauded a lot.)

I recall that I imagined playing Chopin’s “Polonaise,” once called the unofficial “Polish National Anthem.” I thought it rousing and triumphant and stirring deep in my soul. But I was a boy, we had no piano at all, and one piano teacher told Dad that my hands were too small to reach more than an octave. It was also the final years of the depression, the late 1930s. It was truly a dream that had no hope. I just didn’t know that it had no hope, and so I clung to it for a while. I could “make” music, people would know the melody, and I would be admired for my talent.

I had another, shared dream when I was middle-aged. As a matter of fact there were two dreams during that period. In one, a colleague and I talked often, and fondly of our dream to set out in two cars, as I recall, because we both wanted to drive. We saw ourselves driving across the continent, but soon enlarged that to more continents, and wondering how we might make it around the world. We figured we could utilize the narrowest spaces across water, no matter how many thousands of miles it would be “around” the many waters on earth. Of course, at our age, we were well aware of the futility of this dream.

Another colleague and I also talked regularly about “our school.” We saw a warm, friendly, welcome venue where kids could learn to “fly” in the sense of soaring to places of their own design. No administrators would be there (or needed) and all kids would be willing to do our bidding, of course. Naturally, at our age, we knew the school would never be built. Our kids would never know the close, kindly, personal bond that is truly possible between teacher and pupil. We knew, even as our talks wore down and became harder to describe and details grew distant, that this dream, too, was not to be. It eventually became too sad to bring it up again.

Three men, three dreams, and three escapes from the ugly ‘what is’ to the euphoric ‘what ought to be.’ I always thought we should devise a “service” where we could say goodbye to dreams. Some words offered by the dreamers, themselves, would surely be in order.

A remarkable tale

Sent message to small group of family and extended family about a doctor's visit. I still remember a story he told me for first time, although I have run across it a couple of times since.

As I recall, and don't hold me to details, our Army Air Force was told that we had broken the Japanese code in late WWII. They intercepted a message (or were given one by another branch), that famous Admiral Yamamoto was going to inspect troops on Wake Island, I believe it was. It was said that this highest-ranking officer who was in charge of the attack on Pearl Harbor, was obssessed with punctuality.

The decoded message was addressed to troops and informed them the admiral's plane would land at 1300 (1:00 P.M.) let's say. Our men met to see if the plane could be intercepted as it would be a mammoth P.R. coup to shoot him down. The nearest place for us to take off, I believe, was in the Mariana Islands, probably Guam or Saipan. The best plane we had for the job was the P-51 (Mustang) but it could not make the round trip, fuel-wise. They struggled and struggled with ways to remove any weight that wasn't essential, stripping down to the barest possible aircraft.

The diagnosis was that our pilot would have about one minute over the island and practically no room for error. Cutting to the chase, our plane shot down the target while it was at its most vulnerable, mid-way into its landing, and in front of thousands of troops all lined up to be inspected by their hero.

Is that a great war story, or not? Maybe some of you know more facts and could correct me? (For instance, I say Army Air Force only because I feel fairly sure that Navy did not use P-51s. Were they "too hot" for carriers, I wonder? Or not enough of them to go around?) I remember when they first came out. I was in high school, saw them in magazines, and drew them from memory in study halls and, ahem, maybe an occasional class??? (There are those who would say that that might explain my grades?) Beautifully designed. Matter of fact, my interest in latest planes helped me come in second on the Naval Officer's qualifying exam when I was 16. But that's another war story. (I was still getting USN recruiting stuff while a seaman in the South Pacific a year later.)

Whoops. If there's enough interest, I can tell about the time that Jean and I were up on the flight deck of the U.S.S. Saratoga, (aircraft carrier) in about 1995 +/-. There were 5,000 of us civilians up there, watching as planes did "touch-and-go's." THAT was a thrill.

Those little things can mean a lot - - -

Like food, for instance. Up in Pennsylvania, especially in and around Philadelphia, there is a real treat, called the Philly Cheese Steak, a sandwich.

We first tasted this delicacy (does one have to be a gourmet to use that term?) when we went to visit Donna there in the late 1970's. Loved 'em then, and never forgot. Most importantly, never had their equal, anywhere. Here in Florida in recent years, one finds the sandwich offered a lot, but NEVER is it equal...UNTIL...a place called LaSpada's only a mile or two away from our front door!

Naturally, the family that runs the place is originally from Philly, and got its start up there, and knows how to make the things correctly. (Son-in-law Gary and I have experimented with other places in order to compare, and there is always something missing, something incorrect about all of them.) Tomorrow, I'll follow up with a blizzard.

"Mrs." and I are back on same page!

Mrs to me
show details 8:49 AM (2 hours ago)
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Mrs has left a new comment on your post "Comment by Mrs.": Hey GJ, I didn't take your message as a slight against homeschoolers AT ALL. I was in total agreement with you!Sometimes with email, it's hard to read because you don't hear voice inflections. My heart goes out to my teacher friends and all teachers. In fact, if anyone would like to help a teacher directly, ask them what's on their "wish list" for next year, then help them buy it!

Hi, Mrs...

All my fault, and when I goof, I can really goof. I thought your "I do" meant that you disagreed, when I could have solved it by re-reading my own post! I'm glad you are in our corner. I have been meaning to seek just those teachers. Thanks to your reminder, I shall go at it with added determination.

When Jean taught kindergarten, I told her principal that a part-time volunteer who would help put the galoshes, mittens, and coats on 30 little kids could save Jean. Instead, that was too much for the administration to ask, so Jean "burned out" of that age and went to another district. Those children LOVED Mrs. Van! She was a natural (after raising two of her own) and even I was captivated by her specialty, the "finger play."

Time Out!

Stand by, dear Mrs. I'm having trouble "publishing" your comment. A soon as I can consult my in-house consultant on PC matters, I'll do it correctly, with luck, that is.

"Lights! Camera! Action!" I'm outta here.

I can't believe how long it has been since we went to a movie theater. (Something tells me it was "Ice Age," but I doubt it.)

First, the "dumbing down" of the rating system has removed a huge percentage of what we care to see. PG is more like PG-13 was last month. PG-13 is more like R was two months ago, and R is beginning to resemble X. (Can G be far behind?) Taking Jean to a movie is like taking one of our daughters 50 years ago. She doesn't need the garbage that comes at her in digital color and deafening noise. I will not subject her to it, no matter who is in it, or how much they spend to get me there. And I rarely know anybody who is in them!

I am ready, I think, to turn to Netflix again. I'll save a bundle, too!

Comment by Mrs.

Mrs has left a new comment on your post "Back to square one...": I do! We homeschool, but that doesn't mean we don't care about what's happening in the public schools. We also have several friends who are teachers. They have a tough row to hoe.


No, no, no...old friend...I meant no offense to home-schoolers. (You have costs, too, AND your children do not cost the district anything.) The idea that taxes are "lost" is fallacious. It furthers the view that only parents of school-age children should pay school taxes. Free education is based on the premise that all taxpayers make it possible for all children. (Pennies per thousands of dollars in real estate.)

I served a very affluent district for 21 years and we had about five strikes. Yes, we wanted more salary, but that was only a strategy...the only one board ever understood. One superintendent actually told a reporter that our teachers only worked about "three hours a day!" Leaders like that were hired just to keep salaries down!

I once served dinner to a taxpayer who owned 500 acres of very rich farmland in central Illinois, and he left $1.50 total for feeding his family of six at a fund-raiser! Leaders there sure did a good job of keeping us "down."

Your group does a fine job of doing what public schools have failed to do. Love, Jim.

Back to square one...

Have to admit it, I prefer posting to book-writing/arranging/proofing/etc.

This time around, I'll dwell more on "how I see things" than tales from the dim, dark past. It's clear that few people care for the latter and nobody wants to share, as a result. So...no more prodding or pleading from me.

My top concern this morning is that I can't help thinking that quite possibly, free, public education is doomed! I stepped into my first classroom 57 years ago, and the signs were there already.

Can you imagine the shock it was to me when that terrible incident at Columbine took place? In 1952, at least, school was a safe place to be. In 1952, at least, even the poorest child could afford to attend school. I can't believe the cost today, and I'm sure the estimates are conservative.

In the 52 years I refer to, where has our leadership been hiding? Teachers were underpaid then, and it has only gotten worse. Where have our "good citizens" been hiding? Even then, there was a gap. Even then, only the parents of school-age kids cared that much. Once your kids graduated, you came down with "let's vote against all tax increases, no matter how small!"

Mark my words, private schools and home-schooling will continue to expand and out-perform the public efforts. I think that local concerns have given way to the federal government to such an extent that all will only worsen.

Such movements as FCAT and NCLB cannot possibly solve the REAL problems of every little district in this nation. It must fall upon the shoulders of those who are grateful for their own education to do what needs to be done, district by district.

OK, I've said my piece for "Father's Day." I suppose everyone will agree with me?

Is it a mistake, or isn't it? By GJ

“Se habla, Español?”

Jean, I and two friends went to a Mexican restaurant in Chicago years ago and had one of the first Mexican dinners of our lives.

After a very nice, ample dinner, I went to the cashier to pay the bill.

The woman at the register was the co-owner, as was her husband. I showed her the bill and said, “I’m afraid there is a mistake…”

“No mistake,” she said.

“But a meal for four people can’t be less than six dollars,” I explained.

“No mistake,” she repeated.

“Too little,” I insisted.

“No too little,” she insisted.

“Do you speak English,” I finally asked?

“No speak English,” she replied.

I plunked down $15 or so, as I recall, and gave up.

Ah, but there’s a companion piece, here. At about the same time, more or less, we needed some work done on our living room floor. The squeaking of it was becoming a real issue. Jean called several carpet dealers as asked if they would take up our carpet, re-nail the floor, and replace the carpet?

Nobody wanted to do it, preferring to sell a new carpet, of course.

Finally, she found a willing merchant in a neighboring town. Two workers came out (about a 30-minute drive) and did the job. When Jean asked them, “How much?” they said we’d get a bill in the mail.

When the bill came, it was marked, “no charge.”

Jean called the firm and asked to talk to the bookkeeper.
When the firm’s accountant came on the line, Jean said, “I’m Mrs. Van Delinder and there’s a mistake on our bill.”

The woman said, “Just a minute” and went to get the file.

“No, there’s no mistake,” she said.

“But, the men were here most of the morning,” Jean told her.

“Can’t help that. There’s no charge.”

“But,” Jean tried to protest.

“Look, lady, if it says no charge, there’s no charge!”

“Well, okay,” Jean said. “I’ll say this…your prices are right!”

Do cats wear pajamas? By GJ

When our daughters, Donna and Nancy were about 10 and 12, we got them each a kitten. Donna named hers Charlene, and Nancy’s was Kelly. Donna’s reason for that name is lost to me, but Nancy’s reason was that Kelly was a calico cat. Since we never bothered getting a birth certificate, the spelling might have been Cally, I suppose?)

Kelly had beautiful markings, with a lot of white on her chest and neck, and very pretty orange, brown, and black on her head and face.

One day, I heard a noise at the front door, so I opened it. I looked down, and there sat Kelly, looking up at me with something large hanging from her jaws. Not knowing what it was, but pretty sure it was an animal, I barred her entrance with my foot.

Kelly opened her jaws and the creature’s long (and I mean LONG) ears popped up to reveal a good-sized rabbit! Kelly had brought us a gift, and I wasn’t showing much appreciation.

The rabbit leaped away and went darting across the street to the safety of some shrubbery, with Kelly close behind. (I’m afraid I never discovered whether or not that kitty ever forgave me.)

Ah, but there were two pets, so there has to be a companion tail, right?

Then there was the time both cats had kittens of their own. Kelly had four (despite being the obviously larger feline) and Charlene had six.

The nesting boxes for all 12 cats was in the basement and every now and then Charlene would come up, cry at the door, and we’d let her in only to hear her cry more as she remained in the doorway. We’d go down the stairs to see what the matter was, and there, in Kelly’s nest were all ten of the kittens. Kelly got in the habit of “kitnapping” Charlene’s six, because four weren’t enough for her, I guess.

When the little ones got bigger, they were up in our recreation room where the floor was linoleum and slippery. Ten kittens were slowly looking around, sniffing things, and investigating the new environment.

I suddenly let out a roaring sneeze, and all ten kittens tried to scamper for hiding places, but their paws could not find traction and the sound of those forty, tiny feet was a real laugher as they slipped and slid across the floor. Both Kelly and Charlene appeared out of nowhere to see why their children were meowing in panic.

Kelly grew to be a BIG cat, I’ll tell you. Both lived a pretty good spell after the girls left our nest, as I recall. (It must be noted that Donna has had cats, almost ever since…often two at a time so they can keep company while she’s at work. Her current room-mates are Lucy and Sally, I think.)

Oh, yes. Out of all the cats Donna has had, several would “fetch,” believe it or not. Now, one will and the other won’t. Or vice versa.

The Derby reminds me, by GJ

Tomorrow is the Kentucky Derby and I’m reminded of the time we happened to be in Louisville and visited Churchill Downs.

We were RV-ing at the time (1985-86) and camped close to town. We unhitched the “fifth wheel” and drove the truck out to the track. There was no “big” race running at the time, probably on a week day, and a normal one all around. Except…it had rained, and rained hard. The track was almost a giant pond, with puddles everywhere.

We decided to watch a couple of races, maybe make a small ($2) bet on one, and then give up on the wet track. As we scanned the program, we were both amused by a horse whose name was “Spooky Tooth.” We laughed at the name and placed the minimum bet, “to win.”

When the horses came out on the track for the walk to starting gate, we didn’t see number three (ST) anywhere. Finally, about fifty yards behind the last horse, here came ST; head down, looking like he was depressed, and a pretty, light gray coat. He slowly followed all the other thoroughbreds out to the gate and eventually took his place.

We are, by now, convinced that we had wasted two dollars.

The familiar shout of “They’re off!” came from the P.A. system, and ST broke in front. He led at the first turn, drew away in the backstretch, and romped home ten lengths ahead of the field.

As ST drew up to the area where they honor the winner, we saw why he had won. He was the only horse whose color, or jockey, or owner colors could be seen! (All others were covered in mud.) He just didn’t want all that mud in his face from trailing behind the others! As I recall, we got about $22 back for our $2 wager. Good old Spooky Tooth paid for our dinner that night. Never had a doubt.

"Squealing, by Grandpa Jim

I’ve got a tale to tell on my Dad. If he were still with us, I wouldn’t dare squeal on him. (Before “ratting” on someone, the term was “squealing.”)

He used to tell the story of how he came home quite late one night. He was careful to open and close the front door extra quietly, take off his shoes and climb the stairs ever-so-carefully, and then slowly remove his clothes. He would pause, here, and assure us that it was not easy to slip between the covers, but he was proud of how slowly and gently he did so.

Just as he got comfortable, Mom’s voice startled him as she said, “You’re drunk,” turned and went back to sleep.

Moral of the story? Moms are tough to fool. They have this seventh sense that no doctor has courage enough to reveal.

Was he drunk? I seriously doubt it. He never drank, as far as I know. We never had booze of any kind in the house, and after Mom died he brought me up, so I would have known. I feel pretty confident that in a house without booze, you’d detect its odor when presented to you. I think that, quite possibly, he had accepted a beer, or maybe two during a long game of pinochle, and was afraid that Mom would smell it. And he was correct!

Or, come to think of it, rather than a seventh sense, maybe a super-sensitive olfactory sense? (Our daughter Nancy has that, and is sensitive to the slightest perfume.) DNA again? Hmmmm.

Regular Golf

I’ve got this theory. Regular golf is not all that different from mini-golf! I know, I know, regular golfers will snicker and say ol’ Jim has finally burrowed into the sand trap.

First, I have to define mini-golf. It is a game played on REAL MG courses, not the “rinky dink” Disney-types, with giant mice, elephants, etc.

There are two such courses up near Philadelphia that would challenge anyone who has ever putted a golf ball. (One is 26 holes, the other is 36; 18 + 18. I forget their pars, but think it’s something like 64, 56, and 60, maybe.)

My theory is that much of golf (of either kind) is LUCK. If you have ever watched golf on TV, pay attention to the statistic of “fairways reached,” and “greens in regulation.” EVEN TIGER misses the fairway, goes into traps, overshoots a green, and fails to sink a putt now and then.

I had an adventure on a regular course a number of years ago that is the basis for my theory. On a par four hole, I miss-hit my drive off to the right. I then hit a decent shot that landed about half-way to the green. My third shot hit the left side of the green rolled up and to the other side, kept rolling down to front of green and plopped into the hole for a birdie three.

One week later, I did exactly the same thing. Miss-hit, decent hit, ball curved into hole from same point on green, and same birdie score. I think I had same partner both games, but I’m not sure. He was flabbergasted, too!

I don’t think I played 50 times in my whole life. I often went 12, 15, or 20 years between games. I never broke 100. I was never taught how to swing or anything about the game. I was the quintessential “hacker.” Much of golf is luck, I maintain, and Augusta, it’s time to let the women join!

Nephew Bob

Introducing Bob Wolf:

Just discovered that Bob has not been in my e-mail "bunch." This is my way of apologizing to him and also of stalling while I figure out how to add him once and for all.

Bob and I first met when I went to join the faculty at Niles West HS, Skokie, IL, in fall of 1961. I wish I could remember how long afterwards it was that he wondered if maybe we were related, way back, somewhere. Turns out we are both descendants of some Harrisons, maybe, but nothing conclusive ever turned up. (Strange---can't be that Harrison is a common name, can it?)

So, we served together for 31 years until I took early retirement and "cut out" on him.

Jean and I got to know Bob and his first wife, Bobby, and began playing bridge almost every week, as I recall. We watched their sons grow and even spent some short vacations together. (There was a time when Bob tried his best to "smoke us out of a cabin.") And they owned the only dog that Jean ever liked! She was bitten as a child, and still is quite fearful.

I won't go into any of our misadventures, mainly because my aging, faulty, never-was-good memory might mistakenly put me to blame for some of them. Welcome to the blog, dear Bob, and I'm thinking of re-directing it away from memoirs and more toward simple chatting?

JUST A NOTE -----

IN CASE YOU ARE NOT INTERESTED IN SHARING A MEMORY OR ANY OF MY OTHER TOPICS, MAY I ENCOURAGE ANYONE WHO "IS INTO" CRYPTOGRAMS OR MINI-GOLF TO LET ME KNOW. IT COULDN'T HURT TO EXCHANGE A FEW VIEWS ON THOSE. I ALSO HAVE A STRONG INTEREST IN THE PESHTIGO, WISCONSIN, FIRE, AND LUDINGTON, MICHIGAN'S CEMETARY RECORDS. FURTHERMORE, I'M CURIOUS ABOUT THE NAMES SABRA AND MAHALLA (SP?) FINALLY, I'D VERY MUCH LIKE TO KNOW WHATEVER HAPPENED TO A MAN NAMED BERNARD QUICK, A GRADUATE OF BETTENDORF, IOWA H.S., 1957+/-, US ARMY VET AROUND 1960ish AND POSSIBLY STATIONED IN GERMANY? LAST HEARD FROM IN DEERFIELD, A SUBURB OF CHICAGO. REGARDS, GJ.

WELCOME, NEWCOMERS! (BY Grandpa Jim)

Please turn back to some earlier posts if you want to get full impact of my blog. I started at the end of June last year and wanted people to send THEIR memories, too. You may need to skip around and use titles as a guide, but the blog has been mostly only semi-active, lately. It might help if you also clicked on "My Complete Profile" for further help. Thanks, GJ.

Reminds me, by Grandpa Jim

I don't think I've mentioned it before, but my dad was a painter, too. From about 1945 to 1955, he painted about 25 or 30 paintings, I'd guess. During that same ten year period, he also wrote a novel, a book of fairy tales, a couple dozen short stories and a few poems. (How's that for a "pro-ductive period?") My memory tells me that he had some work exhibited in the famous Tate Gallery in London during that time, but I could be quite wrong.

Because Dad worked for the Chicago Sun-Times, he knew a lot of editors, of course. One day he gave the manuscript for his novel to one of these editors, asking him to look it over. A few weeks went by, then Dad may have forgotten, but when a couple of months had gone by, Dad approached the man, again. The man was visibly quite embarrassed and admitted he had lost the manuscript. (Dad would have been 65 at the time.)

When Dad told this to me, I was shocked, of course, and asked him what he could do? File suit, maybe,? (It was the only copy, mind you!) Dad just laughed it off and said, "Why I think it was almost a blessing. Now I have something to do (rewrite it) and I've learned the valuable lesson of making a carbon copy!"

Dad had retired at age 70, applied for and was hired at a small shop when he was 72, and then retired again at 75. (The shop owner was glad to get Dad, because he didn't have enough work for someone full-time, and Dad wanted part-time, so it was win/win!) Dad was a photoengraver, Ben Day man for over almost 50 years.

None of Dad's many works (art or writing) ever brought him any income, and he had a habit of giving things away, also. His work might be somewhat similar to Rockwell's, in that it would be called "realistic," I guess. (Matter of fact, Dad was 12 years older than the famous artist, 1882 vs. 1894.)

RECOMMENDATION

By all means, go to Rockwell's web site. Full of great stuff. He did 321 covers for Post, alone, and was "with them" (contract?) for 47 years. (Averaged 7 per year, theoretically.) Looks like a lot of stamps were also printed. I guessed correctly, as Post's circulation jumped by many thousands whenever his cover appeared. If his work is new to you, click on his "Four Freedoms," which were extremely famous during WWII.

Missing, by Grandpa Jim

Heard or read just the other day that Norman Rockwell painted three hundred and forty-some (?) covers for the "Saturday Evening Post" magazine. I couldn't help but run that through my always-curious-about-math brain. If he painted one every week (Post was a weekly) he'd paint 52 per year. 345, let's say, divided by 52 comes to almost seven years! But he couldn't have provided that many that often. Every other week comes to 14 years. Every third week comes to 20 years. Monthly comes to almost 30 years. Awesome. I absolutely must get on Google and see what I can find. I'll report later.

The Post reminds me of the "magazine era" of 1920's, 30's, and 40's. Seven come to mind; Post, Colliers, Liberty, American, Life, Reader's Digest, and Esquire, a men's magazine. Subscribers looked forward to the day that a magazine arrived. (Some by mail, some by delivery boy.) Hours of enjoyment awaited, with favorite features, quizzes, short stories, and famous authors.

Liberty, I think it was, offered a unique twist in that it posted an "average time" to read some of its stories. If Mom only had 40 minutes before taking something out of the oven and a story had a 30-minute average time, she could squeeze it into her schedule.

I always leaned toward Colliers, but I can't recall why. I really think that Rockwell's covers sold a lot of Post's issues.

In defense of sad story by GJ

I've been thinking about my sad story in the restaurant. I'm faced with the question of who was it, in my childhood, who gave me a "friendlier world view?"

First, I think, was a gas-station attendant just down the street from our house. I probably met him first when I was 7 or 8. There was a huge promotion on for Texaco, and they were giving away fireman's hats to exploit that campaign. I went down there to get mine and the man was very nice; smiling and friendly...warm, like an uncle, maybe. On another occasion, this man snatched me up and out of the way of an on-coming truck as I tried to cross the street. I think there was also a neighbor, but details escape me as to why I recall him.

My overall impression is that many strangers tended to be kind and "outreaching" toward all children. Waitresses smiled at you, a policeman might pat you on the shoulder; that sort of thing seemed common.

When I was 17 and getting ready to leave for boot camp, I was summoned to a stranger's house by a woman from church. (I have no idea how she knew me, as we had only lived in town for a few years, and were not exactly perfect in attendance.) She called me "sunshine Jimmy" and asked me where I wanted to go for boot training. I told her Great Lakes, naturally, since it was only an hour away. It turns out that a relative of hers was an officer there and could arrange just such an assignment. First, I was impressed by her thoughtfulness, and second, nobody had ever called me that before. Is 17 too late to influence one's self-image? Hmmmm.

All in all, then, growing up provided a cozy, comfortable environment in which to function. There was no need to fear policemen, or beware of gas-station attendants, or shy away from one's neighbors. Grandparents could speak to someone's child, even offer small gifts, without being suspected of wrong intentions.

The sadness I cite is that those days can never be repeated. All ideas of "that big world out there" must be taught (and only by one's parents) with caution and prudence. A child has to work hard to feel confident about his journey "out there."

Strange Recollections by Grandpa Jim

An Early Thanksgiving

Late February…that’s a good time to be recalling…no, wait. That’s about nine months early!

It was oh, about 25 years ago. Jean and I and some others in the car, as I recall, were headed to Cousin Betty’s on Thanksgiving morning. The trip normally took about an hour, driving west to picturesque Dekalb, Illinois.

We had told Betty that we felt it was our turn to provide the turkey, and Jean had had the idea to put the bird in the oven the night before and let it bake slowly. (Could this have been one of the early experiments in baking turkeys in paper bags?) Anyway, we put the huge baking pan and the foil-wrapped turkey in the trunk of the car and set out for Betty’s.

Somewhere just short of Dekalb, we had to stop to pay a toll. I rolled down my window (the temperature was in the mid-teens) to hand the money to the toll-taker. He reached to take the money as he said, “Happy Thanksgiving!.” He sniffed a little and said, “Boy, I really must be thinking about dinner, because I can almost smell that turkey!”

We laughed and laughed, rolled up the window and left the poor man to come to grips with his imagination.

One Sad Story, I think by GJ

The saddest story I can think of this morning is a state of affairs that exists today. We live in an age so fraught with danger and crime and suspicion that a wonderful potential is lost. I’m thinking about the effect that strangers can sometimes have on children.

What brings this to mind is something that happened yesterday at a buffet restaurant we visited. I had just passed a counter where yams were on display. (Now, I don’t care for yams, but that’s not the issue.) As I turned the corner of the display, a boy of about 8 or 10 reached in, took the spoon and helped himself to a pretty good helping of the yams.

I so much wanted to ask him about his choice. I was impressed that he knew what they were and that he knew what he wanted and that he took a reasonable amount. I wanted merely to make brief contact. All I could do was smile and move on. How many seniors have felt the same way? Millions, I’d guess.

Children today will never know the potential kindness of strangers. They will never meet the “grandpa wannabes,” or “lonesome grandmas” who only want to share their belief that this old world ain’t all bad. Children should be allowed to know that there are strangers “out there” who could be asked for help or advice or what-have-you. Their “world view” could be larger and more friendly. Their safety is absent, and contact is lost. Their contact is lost, and some togetherness is lost. I mourn for both of us.

UPDATE By Grandpa Jim

Sorry 'bout that...couldn't get online for a week!

PC wouldn't let me on...how's that for gratitude? Simple problem, really...Nancy, Gary and I are "networked." Called her up in Minnesota, she told me what to do, and presto! (A simple procedure on HER PC!)

Went to lunch at a mom'n'pop type diner and as we were leaving, one of the servers gave Jean a stuffed lamb (like teddy bear) to take home. Jean has been delighted with it, calls it her baby, and keeps it close. I feel better in leaving the room for some chores, etc.

Weather has been beautiful. Went out and sat in swing for a spell and it was most pleasant.

Anyone believe in guardian angels? I'd sure like to hear abou it. Love, Jim

BACK-PEDALLING?

Bought a tricycle today! Now don’t laugh and don’t think I’ve ridden back to my childhood. And yes, I can fit on it. It has a horn, a parking brake, and a computer! (It is teal in color.) What other vehicle can fit on the sidewalk?

And, get this…it has a flag on the back! (A bright orange pennant.) Why? Because it is so wasteful to start a car for the ½ mile trip to the mail box. You see, the mail is put into the boxes at somewhat uncertain times, mostly from 1:00 to 3:00 PM. If nobody (Gary or Nancy) is going out after noon, we don’t bother to get the mail until the next day. Sometimes it is even more than one day, even.

OK, so I’m the only one who REALLY cares. On most days, it really doesn’t matter. But, and only from time to time, I expect mail from such folks as stamp dealers, for instance. (I send them SASE’s and use these to keep track of postmarks.) The PM’s I keep track of in a journal in order to register the “turn-around” time. One man didn’t reply for two weeks and I just won’t bother to do any more business with him. One man replies almost by the next day! He gets most of the business, of course.

I took my “Bike,” it is Bike Week, after all, on its shakedown cruise this evening. Took me a shade less than five minutes each way and was quite easy. I hope the price in sore muscles is not too high. Thus, I am no longer quite so dependent. Like the line from “God’s Trombones,” “…and THAT’S good.” (Said as He surveyed His creations.)

The Wolf has howled by GJ

Howlin Wolf has left a new comment on your post "Comment on a comment by GJ": Thanks for putting it much more succinctly. It made her feel "normal" for a time. How often we forget the human NEEDS for "belonging" even while struggling to be "different"--

Comment on a comment by GJ

I got a comment from old pal/colleague from teaching days. He observed that the girl in the wheel chair may have been responding to the environment, in which she had become a member of a group. (At least in her own mind.)

Children with special needs, like that young lady, must live a life of “in-your-face-type” treatment. Almost all human contact must be as a solitary individual…”you, you, you.” Might not one feel like a perpetual “target” of all communication? What must that be like? Could such be a constant reminder of one’s difference as opposed to the natural desire to have some sense of belonging? Would it be akin to being stared at a lot? (Ever meet anyone who enjoyed that???) Oops..forgot…that’s description of a “ham,” isn’t it?

The pal I’m indebted to calls himself “Howlin’ Wolf.” You may hear more from him in coming days.

All Grown Up, by GJ

Had a flashback yesterday. Happened upon an old movie with Shirley Temple as the young daughter of a cavalry colonel in a John Wayne western.

She was playing the role of a 16-year-old, but was 20, so the film was made in about 1948. I remarked to Jean (yesterday) that Shirley must have been Jean’s age and was, therefore, 18 when film was made. I was trying to emphasize the fact that Jean must have been a real fan when both were, like 6 or 8. (She doesn’t remember, of course, but seems to be pleased by the possibility.)

I looked it up, and I missed it by two years. She was born in April of 1928, a tad over two years before Jean, and a year after myself. I don’t recall ever seeing ST in a film when she was in her 20’s. Unlike a lot of child-stars, she was a real beauty at that stage of her life. (Cute at 9, a doll at 19?)

I tease Jean about being beautiful today, and believe it or not, she denies it and blushes! (Right after Nancy does her hair, I tell her I shouldn’t take her out into public, for fear she’ll be kidnapped. She blushes again.)

Interesting to note what has happened to “Opie,” from Andy Griffin fame, Ron Howard. He has gone on to direct some real “smashes,” DaVinci Code, for example. Little Opie turned 55 last week! Two child-stars. One becomes an outstanding director, the other a UN Ambassador. There’s probably a book about whatever happened to such as these?

Finally, this brings me to wonder if we aren’t on brink of a huge shortage of “character actors?” They are fading away rapidly, much like my veteran buddies. (More on these actors at another time.)

Ships #30A and B by GJ

A memory has been buzzing around in my “bank” (and no, it doesn’t qualify for a bailout,) about two students whom I’ll number as ships 30A and B. They were both in wheelchairs and were brought into freshman English at same time by two counselors. The chairs were positioned just to my right as I faced the front row of a lecture hall. I was in the middle of an exercise in pronunciation, whereby I would pass down the row, facing each student and calling out a word for each to pronounce. (These originated on a list they could study.) (Basic Track…lowest of three.)

When I reached the end of the row, and without thinking twice, or even once, I looked at the girl in the wheelchair and gave her the same word I had just given to the previous person. She blurted out the correct pronunciation, I said “Great,” (a favorite compliment) or something and went right on.

After class and everyone had left, I was picking up things and went into hall where I was met by one of the counselors. She said, “What did you do?” I said, “What do you mean?” She said, “To get the girl to answer.” I said, “Nothing.” She then told me it was the first time the girl had ever spoken in school. She was, among other things, thought to be autistic, and would respond only to her parents.

I often surmised that the girl got “caught up” in the exercise, and responded unvoluntarily. Maybe there was something in my appearance, or demeanor, or voice that compelled her to answer. I would see her in the hall from time to time and she’d flash a timid smile and then shyly look away. The counselor who was tending to her would nod approval and continue on.

Where are you, today, #30A? You would be 46 or 47 or so. I am sorry that our paths never crossed again.

Ship #9 by GJ

Brian Snyder is the former principal of tiny, Lake Monroe Christian Academy. This school is primarily for the children of New Tribes Missionaries, the organization that daughter Nancy is retired from. (May the grammar muses forgive me the prepositional sin?)

I substituted at the academy for about five years and got to know the Snyder family pretty well. Early on, I volunteered to help with the annual spelling bee, and found that Brian and I agreed that the bee was flawed. How, we asked ourselves, could it be fair if kids were asked to spell different words? Some are inherently more difficult, we felt. Some are spelled just like they sound, and some have cute little non-vocal traps.

We struggled for three or four years, and then hit upon a cure. We escorted each student to and from a distant room so that they could not hear the words announced before their turns. It worked well. And everybody knew exactly why the winner won…he or she had correctly spelled the same word that everybody else had missed! OK, so there is no system without its flaws. We must, however, do ALL we can to smooth out the field for the sake of fairness.

I occasionally suffer a little pang of regret that I couldn't have been involved in the school when I was younger. Teaching effectiveness is geared toward human functions, and it is these that diminish, oh so soon. (May the wisdom muses forgive my dabbling?)

Come on, now...by GJ

OK...who among you has been thinking I couldn't STAY away?

Rejuvenated by GJ

I want to thank all those who have been so kind. Everybody in my friends and family e-mail group has said so many nice things that I realized I still need to post. Then, I got a phone call just a few minutes ago...from alumnus of Bettendorf HS, Howard Deevers, in Tucson, class of 1956. It was a real pleasure to hear his voice and exchange the kind of views that only seniors seem to appreciate. Makes me wonder. Is there something in the air? Are there "vibrations" caught in slip-streams, or jet-streams...oh, I know...the Gulf stream! (Ships, GS...get it?) Something seems to be causing some of us to "tune in" together. Love it. Love the concept. GO!

Hello, again by GJ

I’m back…today at least?

Stayed away for a month+ and find that I miss it. The posting gives me an early morning purpose. The occasional comments give me some human contact. A friend e-mailed that he, too, missed it!

My latest thoughts keep returning to the idea of “ships that pass in the night.”

I’m fascinated by an idea that people can be substituted for ships! The clearest image is of former students. Just taking my 30 years of full-time teaching, I suppose my ship has passed approximately 4500 “ships” in the classroom, each of whom required 7 and ½ days to pass mine. (180 day/hours divided by 24.)

How is it that some of those ships stick in my mind?

Is there a link to the concept of kindred spirits? I think I’ll start a series of these ships and see what happens. As for student/ships, one goes back 57 years. Nameless and faceless, yes. But not formless, for I think that in the case of students, the link is one of emotion, a form of sorts. A desire to know more about that ship. Where is she headed? (All ships are called she, of course.) Who else is aboard? Will our paths ever cross again?

“57” was a freshman girl my first year of teaching. She had a slight speech problem that classmates snickered about. She was terribly shy and seemingly lonely. I was not a speech therapist, but I was required to have some hours in the rudiments of speech “correction.” I had to do some review and study, but we did make some progress. As I look back, it wasn’t the work, but the caring that probably helped the most. She responded to a ship that stopped all engines and paused to pay genuine attention. She sailed away at year’s end equipped just a little better with a tool or two to fend off the snickering.

D for Dropout Day? By Grandpa Jim

Looks like there were an even dozen "regular readers." (I know of five or six who weren't able to respond, too.) There will be no more posting, I'm afraid. I think I'll reorganize my e-mail groups and work more with them. That enables me to compose in Word, transfer to e-mail, save two or three steps, and spares the nuisance of "reverse chronological order." (A felllow could go over the edge trying to work with that, believe me. I saw straight-jackets beckoning several times.) I even have hopes that one day I might cope with the "my documents" unique style of organiza-tion. (Mine seems to have a will of its own...sometimes bouncing back and forth between date-and-alphabet. I never did solve the difference between save and save as!)

Daughter Donna is with us for long weekend, culminating with Jean's 79th birthday Monday. (I've sometimes called her "my little groundhog.") (But only because she belongs in the "Good Sport Hall of Fame.")

Blogging has made me abundantly aware of how much has passed me by. Technologically, I'm probably still back with the calculator, no...the abacus, probably, and even then, I could use one...I just didn't know why it worked. My Dad was asked by one of my students in about 1960 if, having been born in 1882, what was the most impressive invention he had witnessed? And was it putting things into outer space? He said, "No. I'll NEVER comprehend doing THAT. I'd have to say it was when a submarine sailed under the North Pole!" (He had served in the navy and could relate to that.)

I don't know if, even pressed to do so, I could teach today. I would probably reveal how little I know about so much that they know, I'd have them rolling in the aisles most of the time. (But I do know the usage of "cool," however. Know why? Because it has come back from an earlier era!!!)

OCTUPLETS????? Mama sure could be forgiven for saying, "Oh, my aching back!" (Note...this is a saying that was every bit as popular as "cool" in its day.) It's a good thing she has those six other children at home...she'll need their help. I wonder at what age the six will be able to leave the nest? There are two more siblings than the six of them to tend to.

God Bless each and every one of you. Love, Grandpa Jim.

D minus 1 by Grandpa Jim

Rarely do we ever get much insight into a person through a few, brief words. Yet, it is just that which shone some light on my father.

I was home on leave from the navy and was busy catching up with friends and trying to hold onto the sights and sounds of my hometown and its memories. Too busy, I thought to myself, as the time arrived when I was about to go back to Great Lakes Navy Station.

A few hours before departing, I apologized to Dad and told him I regretted not being home with him more. He said, “Don’t apologize. Whenever I wondered where you were, I’d spot your hat there on the hook, and just knowing you were home was all I needed.”

D minus 1 and 1/6th by GJ

Fact-Based Films

Just have to recommend, in case you aren’t already a fan, that you give some trial to fact-based, or true-life, type movies. When this idea came to me about ten minutes ago, I quickly jotted down ten subjects that came to mind. I’m sure I have many more that I could list, but just wanted to impress you with what is out there on the surface, at least. (1.) Elderly man drives LAWN MOWER across most of Iowa to make one last call on estranged brother. (2.) Doctor discovers a means to bringing back patients thought to be semi-comatose. (3.) Doctor wins rightful MD degree despite outrageous, humorous, and humane antics. (4.) Physics teacher drives a class of L.A. deprived HS students to reach college credit-bearing test scores.

(5.) Violin teacher teaches small children well enough to give concert at Carnegie Hall. (6.) Teacher develops writers among under-privileged Bronx students. (7.) Elderly man races totally unfit motorcycle to new record speed. (8.) HS orchestra teacher works miracles with HS class. (9.) Football coach mentors challenged man by letting him be HS FB mascot. (10.) Man returns to home after 30(?) years in prison as train robber only to discover hard way that modern methods make it impossible, now. This whole post took less than 30 minutes to share with you. Try ‘em, you’ll like ‘em. Love, GJ.

D minus 1 and 1/2 by GJ

Can’t help but reflect on the employment crisis today. Eldest daughter, Donna, was “downsized” several years ago from a wonderful salary to part-time pitiful salary. Gender, age, and over-qualifications were against her, as if any one weren’t enough. People are being “let go” (isn’t that a wonderful euphemism?) by the tens of thousands every day. At one end of the spectrum are some who will survive for a myriad of reasons. At the other end are talented, people-person, intelligent, and multi-tasking workers such as Donna who are genuine victims.

I was unemployed a dozen times over my lifetime, I suppose, but never was I a victim like so many today. And I don’t mean this is any sarcastic sense. One reason is that it was possible in my time to move in with somebody better off! Try piling on the housing crisis. Then, heap upon that layer of crisis, the economic crises involving credit, low interest on savings, and high prices. Where are the “better offs?”

Can you imagine trying to survive on unemployment insurance in 2009? (And it isn’t called temporary for nothing!)

I can’t help but pray that our Dear Lord would inspire the family, the friends, the neighbors, the churches---whomever--- to feel for the true victims of today. Bless their hearts, they are facing conditions quite similar to those in Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. Join me in that prayer, please.

Another D minus 2 by GJ

Can anybody venture an opinion as to how my blogging compares? I get the impression, sometimes, that it is too easy for me. I often make lists of topics, memories, folks, adventures and pretty soon I have hundreds of words pouring out of my memory “bank.” (Some average close to 500 words and that’s too many, I hear.) It would seem, therefore, that my wordiness has been my downfall. Maybe I could have used a link that steered people to “wordy blogs?” Or, one that refers you to “lots of detail?” I received an e-mail yesterday about movie stars of old. Instantly, I thought of a handful, then a dozen, then…whoa! I dare not get started. I could write 500 words on “character actors” alone. They are my passion. I shall not give in.

D minus 2 by Grandpa Jim

A family question that could have been answered by a memoir: how was it that Mom became known as “lead foot?” It was only recently that I thought of an answer. Mom grew up with the automobile, just like boomers grew up with the computer. Dad, who was ten years older, never pretended to understand cars or what made them tick. He never enjoyed driving, even though he had to do it, occasionally. He never “took to it,” as they say. Mom, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get behind the wheel. Believe it or not, when I was small, it was common to see a driver cruising down the street with a child on his lap, often doing some steering!

Another D-4 by GJ

Wish I could recall more details of the time Brother Chick and I had to corral a runaway team of horses. We had been walking alongside the hay wagon, picking up loose hay with pitchforks and throwing it on the wagon as the horses plodded along without a driver. Something “spooked” the animals and off they went! Chick yelled at me to close the gate, clear across the field to the rear of us. I ran as fast as my 14-year-old legs would let me, and managed to get the gate closed in plenty of time, mainly because the horses were galloping around the perimeter of the field. It was at this same time, minutes before, or afterward, that Leona came down to the hayfield to inform us that our Uncle Jim had died of a heart attack. The two events always helped me recall each other…ever a BLESSING!

D Minus 4 by Grandpa Jim

“Sharing” will end next Saturday, 1/31. It has been a valuable experience for me. I find that I remembered more than I thought I would and less than I wanted to. For one thing, I wish I could remember the names of all the fellows who took me hunting for my first and only time. Somebody loaned me the 20-gauge, single-shot shotgun and I managed, miraculously, to get a pheasant. As I cleaned the bird to ready it for Jean to cook, I can still see the beautiful feathers up close and personal. (They are magnificent birds!) It was, I think, in the summer of 1955 or 56. I seem to recall that one of the best pals (contemporary) I ever had, George Killinger, was along. (I do know that he SHOULD HAVE BEEN.)

I couldn’t help but recollect the voices yelling to me that it was “Yours, Jim…it’s all yours,” or something to that effect. Sort of sounded like the Captain on the intercom when he yelled, “NOT OURS, Big Dog… NOT OURS, CEASE FIRE!” (Or something to that effect) when I almost shot down one of our own bombers in 1944.)

Q's, Q's and more Q's? by GJ

I can't get over how few questions I've ever received. If one scans (surfs?) back over seven months of this blog, one sees recollections that go back to "legends" of the 1800's and school in the 1930's and WWII and right up to recent events. Yet it looks like I told too much, because nobody ever wanted to know more, I guess. It appears that my posts have been too long. I've been told that people don't want to read long stories. That they are "conditioned" to "word bytes," just as they are to "sound bytes." And for that, I apologize. I wish I had known more about today's interests and needs. Could it be that we retired teachers just HAVE TO go into DETAIL? Well, I can blame it on that, anyway. If I create a new blog, I think I'll have someone program the posting so that it cannot exceed X number of words. (Worth a try?)

ABOUT THAT BOOK...by GJ

About Greene's book...the subtitle is: "JOURNAL of Family Memories." It's like a MANUAL for writing a memoir! Writing just one page would be better than nothing. I regret not having kept a journal of navy days. Or family vacation adventures. Or holidays, etc. There was one time, for instance, when witnesses claim I saved a shipmate's life. I always thought that was questionable, myself. I did help him get back to the ship when he was struggling in the water, but it's debatable whether or not he could have made the short distance alone. A better story is that when Jean and I went to visit him, many years later, all he could recall was that I once sold his shirt (almost) off his back! This says something...I just don't know what!

WRITING'S BETTER THAN REGRETTING by GJ

I happen to have or have had connections with a lot of Baby Boomers. One thing stands out among the vast majority: they want to know more about history and the past and their heritage. Many will regret it IF YOU DON'T TELL THEM! The best way for you to tell them is to leave a memoir for them. Write it, dictate it, record it, tape it, video it, repeat it...it doesn't matter how you go about it. THEY WILL APPRECIATE IT. Boomers: don't let history repeat itself. Hold a big family reunion and get everyone to tell a family story. If somebody can't be there, have them send in their contributions. If you regret never having asked questions, don't pass that regret on!
Want some help? There's a book that has some fantastic questions in it. Try a good book store or Hallmark's and see if they have "To Our Children's Children," by Greene and Fulford. It is like a journal with questions that are wonderfully designed to help you remember! Just open it up, read the first page and start writing in it. OR...get someone to jot down answers for you...whatever!

Comment by an Anonymous

I can't remember my last 4 jobs. Great with the details!!!I for one will miss your blog. I am just nosy and stumbled across your blog quite a few months ago and check in periodically to see what I can see.Thanks for the memories.Conni B.

Speak Up and Snuggle Up by GJ

With just a little over a week to go, I want to ask a favor. If you have visited my blog, whether
merely a few, or quite a few times, would you please “register,” by sending me an e-mail? I’d just like to know who might have been in my “audience” for the last seven months. On the last day, a week from now, I’ll post the results of this request.

By the way, does anybody have any input on something called Facebook? A young boy (nephew to our grandson) has invited me to join, and I want to, but am going to need some navigating help and was wondering about it.

Had an especially good day yesterday, when a lot of things just fell into place. I mentioned, a couple of posts ago, that I was taking on a cause with a veteran’s “home,” (nursing) over on Gulf Coast. I was able to call a volunteer there and he greased the skids by giving me some facts. There are about 25 veterans in residence, about 70% are WWII, 20% Korean War, and 5 to 10% Viet Nam era. This really helps me plan the kinds and numbers of stamps to send them. My basic plan is to send stamps over the next five or six months, just to increase their inventory. I’m enjoying it, already. During that time, I’ll see if I can find someone to follow up for me.

Did you ever have one of those days? It’s probably my imagination, which does go into orbit occasionally, but every couple of months or so, I seem to run across several smiley, pleasant, out-going folks when I’m doing errands at grocery store, bank, post office, whatever. Yesterday, for instance, everybody at the credit union was so CHEERFUL! There’s one cashier who is from Scotland and I love her brogue. Been here in US for three years and says their climate is not much like here. Got a card from her mother, she said, and it was 16 below there. Gets a kick out of how Floridians bundle up when temperature gets below 60.

You “bundle up,” too, you hear? Snuggle up, too…that’s a good thing, you know. Even after 61 years, that’s a welcome invitation from my Jeanie. (Not that I’d ever initiate it, of course.) God Bless every one of you.

For "detail-minded folks..." by GJ

A Summary of 70+ jobs

Age: 16-17 High School junior, 1943-44, first four jobs.
Soda jerk, dishwasher, movie usher, bowling pin-setter.

Age: 17-21, U. S. Navy, 1944-48.
PRIMARILY SIGNALMAN, gunner, coxswain, life guard,
storekeeper, mailman.

Age: 21-22, post-Navy/pre-college 18 months, 1948-49.
Editor, cleaning route driver, store clerk (sewing machines)
taxicab driver, editorial artist, factory worker, tire repairman,
commercial neon sign-designer, store clerk (vaccum cleaners,)
automotive parts clerk.

Age: 22-25, student at U. of Illinois, 1949-52, three years.
Coal-shoveler, tree-planter, furnace-tender, furniture-
mover, juke-box repairman, phone sales, delivery driver,
taxicab driver (2) (a second city.)

Age: 25-55, teacher, 1952-82, 30 years, except for 15 months.*
PRIMARILY SPEECH AND ENGLISH, drama, debate,
composition, English department chairman (one year,) play
director, set- builder and designer, producer, debate coach.

TEMPORARY/part-time, while teaching, summers, etc.
Youth club-manager, flea market manager, school bus driver,
gas-station attendant, radio announcer, educational advisor to
U. S. Army in Korea, movie reviewer, TV Guide assistant
editor, dairy route supervisor, talent agent for a TV cowboy,
bakery route driver, personnel manager, owner-operator of
a diner (serving, grilling, managing) house-husband, industrial
“spy.”

Age: 55-present, 1982-2009, retired, 27 years (in May.)
Self-employed publisher, editor, graphics consultant, technical
writer, mock juror, courier, adjunct professor (two community
colleges, one private university.)
.
* Took off 15 months, 1957-58. (See above temporaries for a few.)

Don’t hold me to numbers, dates, etc. This is strictly as memory serves (or doesn’t.)

Whew! Got tired just recalling it. Think I’ll take a nap.

Spinning More Stats by Grandpa Jim

This could be a penultimate (next to final) post...

Some of you may recall that I posted a memoir about how many times Jean and I have moved in our 61 years together. My point was that you can do all sorts of things with statistics. (One could “spin it” to appear that we moved every six months!)

It brings to mind that, having nothing else to do, I got to wondering about all of the “jobs” I’ve had. It turns out that I can spin this to appear that I’ve had 77 in my 81 years! (Take away four years as too young, and I switched jobs every year!!!) (Take away four years for military, 18 for education, and 26 more for retirement, and it spins out to almost a new job every five months!

Now nobody is going to swallow that, of course. Why? Because many were summer jobs, many were very temporary, many were held at the same time as others, and finally, many were merely parts of other positions. For example, I was a signalman in the navy, but when Japanese planes were in the vicinity, I became a gunner. I was a teacher of speech and English at the same time, but it can be spun to look like two jobs.

While a student on any level, I held 10 summer jobs that I can remember, and maybe more. I also held 10 full-time jobs in one 18-month period after discharge from navy, 1948-1949. (I was trying to find my niche, and it can be spun to look like changing jobs every 1.8 months!)

Most fun for me was writing a movie review column for a weekly newspaper while also teaching. Second most fun was as radio announcer one summer between school terms. The two most boring were as factory worker, where my sole duty was to install screws into the bases of record players, and as an “editorial artist” for the Chicago Sun-Times. (One of my early posts here dealt with that job and creating the headline for Babe Ruth’s death.)

My most “under-qualified” role was as an “editor” of a fifth grade Sunday School magazine for the D.C. Cook Publishing Company. (I got it right out of the navy with only an 11th grade education. It took the boss and me almost three months to reach the correct conclusion.) Most “over-qualified” was the job above, at Sun-Times, where I had the same qualifications and only needed 5 of the 11 grades.

The hardest physical labor I ever did was shoveling coal. A friend and I were hired to unload a freight car full of coal as students at U. of I. (This was one of those jobs that inspired me to finish college.) Similar to this was an occasional day or two loading hay into the barn for brother Chick, but this doesn’t count…it was sort of “volunteer work.” (When you are 14 or 15 and ten years younger and six inches shorter, all work for a brother is voluntary.)

The most fascinating, was a three-day job as a form of industrial espionage in a summer role between teaching semesters. Years later, I had a one-day “spying” job at O’Hare Airport. I had to count passengers as they boarded a plane and report to one of that airline’s competitors. The most gratifying “moments” came when the announcements were made that our CHS plays (“Our Town,” and “The Diary of Anne Frank”) had won the sectionals and would be advancing to the state finals, 1960 and 1961.

There was one job I could have been tempted to trade for teaching. It was a summer job in 1957, working for a dairy in Iowa. My role was as a supervisor of stores (like outlets.) These stores sold ice cream, such as cones, sundaes, malteds,, and bulk, etc., but only for warm months. My duty was to make sure all of the clerks (mainly high school girls) were on duty, to purchase supplies, like the cones, fruit, paper goods, etc., and to make bank deposits. My office was my car, and my duties required no more than five or six hours per day at a salary quite comparable to teaching. The job was free of almost all stress, required a “teaching-like” relationship with the girls, and a very pleasant boss to work with.

And then there were a couple of things I did that were semi-hobby, semi-work, while also teaching. I’ll save these for later posting.

TWO WEEK'S NOTICE by Grandpa Jim

I've been advised to give notice before ending my blog. It's my present plan to stop on 31st of this month. First, I want to thank those who have commented. In many cases, you gave me the incentive to continue. Second, I am grateful to those who merely "tuned in," even though I don't know who you are. Lately, I've tried and tried to come up with memories, or just plain ideas, and it has gotten harder and harder to do that. (I wish I could remmber all of the "triggers" that prompted my posts, but they vanished as suddenly as they appeared.) Right now, I'm considering what might be called a "cause." I saw an ad in a stamp-collector's magazine that said veterans in a VA hospital can use some stamps. I think I'll contact them and see how I can help. Anyway, thanks, again, and keep on smiling! Love, Jim.

"Say Goodnight, Gracie" recollects GJ

My generation remembers the great humorists/comedians of our time. They were funny for many reasons. They commented on, reacted to, and were involved in the everyday, ordinary, down-to-earth situations that we all faced. Their performances were based on vocal inflection, facial expression, and the all-important timing. Some were called “stand up,” meaning that they were soloists, communicating with an audience as if it were one-on-one. Some worked with a genuine partner, and these equally funny team-mates were called “fall guys.” (Because they “fell for” the punch lines.) Tops among them were George Burns and Gracie Allen in the latter category, and Jack Benny in the stand-up genre.

George could ask a question that gave Gracie an “opening” and then respond with a “look,” after her hilarious reply that made you laugh again, to make it doubly funny. Yes, her replies were often “dumb” in the manner of modern “blonde” jokes, but he never allowed the exchange to become demeaning to her or to her gender.

Burns was great because he played fall guy for his wife (Gracie) yet he was, off and on, a soloist, too. He was, in reality, a combination of the two. His straight-faced, superb timing (which was punctuated by puffing on his cigar) didn’t just provoke laughter, it compelled it. His exit line, that which closed his TV program, was, “Say goodnight, Gracie.”

All of this is to pave the way for me to consider dropping out of the blogging business. The meter tells me that about 400 people a month tune in, and yet, only a tiny, tiny fraction ever respond. I am convinced that I did all that I could do to provoke response and encourage comment. It didn’t seem to work, and that’s OK. It’s a quirk in me, I guess, but I can’t continue much longer to communicate with an unresponsive “audience.” Apparently I need the give and take of other human beings.

On one hand, I could guess that everybody agrees with everything I have said. (Obviously can’t happen.) On the other hand, I could figure that everybody disagrees and never returns. (Not very likely.)

So, I’m thinking I ought to give serious thought to trying something else. Maybe I’d accomplish more by pulling back from an unseen, unknown “audience” to the comfort of family and extended family. If you have any opinion at all, I’d like to hear it, if only to say “thanks” to you and some sort of “Say Goodnight, Gracie.”

Fair Winds & Following Seas, Tom Epting

Got word last night that shipmate Tom Epting passed away on Christmas Day, six days before his 84th birthday.

Tom lived in beautiful, quiet little Belton, S.C., and we had the pleasure of visiting him four or five times in the last nine years. In addition, he and I talked on the phone several times a year, just about quarterly, I believe.

Tom and I served aboard the USS LSM 435, an amphibious ship that we helped to commission in 1944. There were 50 of us in the crew plus five officers. Tom worked in the engine room, while my signalman’s duty was up on the conning tower.

We could not say that we remembered each other all that well, because our work stations, our duties, and our “watches” were so far apart. We got to know each other considerably better in our recent lives. It was pleasant, meaningful, and touching to create a new friendship out of a dim history that went back 60 years.

We shall miss Tom and his warm, generous hospitality. He was a model of true, southern manners and grace.

The expression “Fair winds and following seas” is a sort of wish, or toast, usually to a retiring sailor, that he would have a safe voyage, with wind enough for speed to his destination, and current enough for smooth travel. Nobody earned it more than Tom. Farewell, faithful shipmate.

Couldn't Happen Again by Grandpa Jim

It was the summer of 1957 and we were on our way home from Lake Okoboji, Iowa. It was a beautiful, sunny Sunday morning. Jean, myself, Donna and Nancy, just cruising along in our 1952 Packard, bought used. (For some supply-demand reason, five-year-old, big cars were more affordable than same-aged Fords and Chevys.)

We came to a traffic light on the outskirts of Washington, Iowa, and stopped to wait for the green. A man strode up to my window and informed me that something was leaking from underneath our car. He added that there was a Packard dealer close by and gave directions. I thanked him and drove just a couple of blocks to the dealership. I parked, turned off the engine, and went looking for a pay phone. (A device from covered-wagon days before advent of cell phones, e-mail, faxes, and OnStar, etc.)

Using the number posted on the dealer’s door, I called. The dealer answered from home. I described the problem and he said they were just sitting down to dinner. (Noon-time meals used to be called that, a remnant from farm days when evening meal was supper and a snack was lunch.) He told me that there was a café just around the block from where we were and they served fine dinners there. We agreed to meet at one o’clock at his garage.

The dealer showed up, right on time (also an ancient custom hard to find anymore) and, together, we backed cars out and pushed ours into the garage. He put the sedan up on a lift, looked, and told us that a flying stone must have punched a hole in the oil pan and it would have to be fixed. We went into the waiting room and settled down to do just that. It wasn’t at all long before the man re-appeared and told us it was time to exchange the cars, again.

Now, all this time, I had little else on my mind than the cost I was about to learn. Sunday morning help, repair of oil pan, and replacement oil ought to be…hmmm…? How much in my billfold? Hmmm? (A 1957 small-town teacher was not likely to have a credit card back then.)

“What’s the damage,” I asked? “Let’s see,” he answered, “that’s six quarts of oil at 40 cents, comes to $2.40.” My face surely showed my amazement but all I could do was mumble a heart-felt thanks and shake his hand in gratitude. He wished us luck and hoped we would pass through again, some day.

Was it the place? The times, or the culture? Was it the individual, or maybe a mixture of these? Packard Motor Company’s motto was “Ask the man who owns one.” I think it should have been, “Ask the man who fixes one.”

Packard merged with the Studebaker Company shortly after 1952, and, in the same year as our story, they came out with “the Hawk,” a beautiful, combination, sports car/two door sedan that was way ahead of its time in design, I think. It wasn’t long before the merged company went out of business. (I don’t guarantee these recollections.)

I have a clearer recollection that a wealthy family in my hometown of Elgin, Illinois, had a fleet of Packards and I think they were all green in color. Whenever we kids would see a big, long, green Packard pass by, we knew it was probably one of theirs. I seem to recall, also, that maybe some cars were all the same color in some years. (Like green might have been Packard’s color for 1937 or so?)

What's to Miss? By Grandpa Jim

Off and on, people will ask if I miss driving? Maybe it is because I’ve done without for eight months, or maybe there is something about starting a new year, I don’t know. I just know that I can answer, “Mostly no, but sometimes yes.”

I don’t miss the traffic, that’s for sure. Nor those millions of “antiques” on the road…you know…those cars manufactured before the invention called turn signals? Nor the road “ragers” who keep sending us the same old message, “I didn’t have my breakfast this morning and I’m taking it out on everybody who’s out here.”

Nor do I miss the stress that goes with the speeding, the recklessness, and the danger that accompanies them.

I traded in my license for an ID card on the 66th anniversary of getting it. I figure that we’ve driven over a million miles due to a stretch of about 15 years when we drove to California two, and sometimes three times a year, and to Philadelphia, also two or three times those same years. It was in the early 1970’s to mid-1980’s, when we averaged over 30,000 miles per year.

I do miss some of the freedom, of course. I can’t really complain, because son-in-law Gary and/or daughter Nancy are always willing to meet our needs. It’s just that being dependent takes some getting used-to.

I once loved to drive. (We had a Packard in the 1950’s that was a dream to drive and to ride in. Then there was a 1970’ish Chrysler Cordoba that was just as smooth.) My first car was a 1930 Marmon-Roosevelt, “straight eight,” with rumble seat. Brother Bud traded it to Dad and me for a bus ticket home when he couldn’t find a tire that would fit. I was a junior in high school and one of only a few with a car, because of rationing. (I had a brief spell of popularity because of that rumble seat.)

Finally, I sort of miss our sweet little 2006 Chevy HHR whenever I see one on the road (especially if it is silver---and has a luggage rack on it.)

Or should I start answering, “Mostly yes, but sometimes no?”

The Harrison Legend by GJ

Helping the legend…

In my last post about losing touch, I mention the “Presidential legend.” How did it grow to become a legend?

An ancestor, probably a great aunt, left a memoir that described the meeting between William Henry and Thomas Harrison. Because the former called the latter “cousin,” there arose descendants who wanted it to be true that they were really related. One such was my Dad’s sister, Aunt Vick.

In the 1930’s, 100 years later, many of the Harrisons (and those related by marriage) were in the habit of holding “family reunions,” usually on Decoration Day (now Memorial Day.) By that time, Aunt Vick had been elected as secretary of the reunion “committee.” Vicky took it upon herself, as was her custom, they say, to send out an additional invitation to President Harrison’s widow.

A memoir states that Mrs. Harrison did reply, at least for a while, in the earliest days. (This is not really likely if you do the math.) Vicky would always advocate that the relationship existed, and I can vaguely recall some debate among the men folks during my childhood.

If it is true that Mrs. Harrison was invited, it had to be by someone who came before Vicky. (Born in 1878.) Those reunions were certainly one means for families to keep in touch and were even more valuable because people wrote postcards and letters much more faithfully. That’s it! It is all the fault of people not writing any more! Eureka! I’ve solved it.” When you write, faithfully, you keep in touch! Wow. Is 2009 off to a great start, or what?

From "Cousin Kathy" to "Cousin Tommy" by GJ

The phone rang yesterday morning and a woman’s voice said, “Uncle Jim?” I answered, “Yes,” and she said, “This is Kathy!” Turns out it is our niece on Jean’s side, her late brother’s daughter. All three of Dick’s girls, two of their husbands, and their mother were in the area and wanted to say “Hi.”

I can’t go into how long it has been since we saw any of these very nice people. (It was probably at a funeral, considering our ages.) The oldest daughter, Kathy, and our youngest, Nancy, believe it has been well over 30 years for them! (Our oldest, Donna, will no doubt cry when she discovers what she has missed because of job and distance.)

There was a time, in the 1970’s and ‘80’s, when we all lived within about an hour of each other. On a few occasions, the six cousins were able to get together and all seem to remember those events quite fondly. There was a natural affinity among them, and a desire to know each other better, but it was not to be.

As is also natural; school, relocation, marriage, relocation, family, relocation, jobs, and relocation all play a part in “losing touch.” An occasional letter gives way to greeting cards which give way to losing addresses, which give way to “lost touch.” And that’s a fact of modern, transitional, life, right?

At some point in the 1830’s, probably, the former Governor of the Indiana Territory, William Henry Harrison (who would later serve a very short term as President of the United States) was visiting northwest Illinois and stopped to see my great grandfather, “Captain Thomas” Harrison. A memoir states that William Henry referred to him as “Cousin Tommy.” This small encounter led to the legend that we are somehow descended from the Presidential Harrisons. I guess there is nothing modern in it, at all! I think I’ll make a 2009 resolution to regain some “touch.”