The Rookie

Since I have been an adult I have had a fascination about relationships between Fathers and Sons. Part of that is because of my personal emotionalism and I guess, mainly because my Dad  died fairly young --at least before I had an opportunity to just sit around and talk about various things with him. As a result I have been left wondering, sadly I might add, what he and I could have had by way a bond; a  comonality linking us together. Last night I watched a movie entitled "The Rookie" It was a story about a high school chemistry teacher who was also the baseball coach of the school and had a group of students who composed the team and were not very good. However his relationship with them was such that they enjoyed each other with much ribbing and kidding and because they were losing more games than they were winning, he challenged them to play better and they accepted the challenge if  he in return would try out for the professional baseball team that trained near their town. He had demonstrsted an ability to really throw a fast ball--throwing the cheese as it was sometimes referred to. He accepted the challenge providing they wouild win the county championship. They did and then demanded he live up to the promise he had made. Well, the story got all mixed up in his fatherhood duties, like changing the babies' dirty diapers at the baseball training grounds and the verbal abuse that he good naturedly received as he was about to go out and show his stuff to the  leaders of the team. The point though, was that his father had never paid much attention to him when he was a kid - like not attending  the games in which he had played and the strained relationship between them. I was reminded of me and my Dad. Not that there was a strained relationship between he and I. For the most part there was almost no realtionship. It was the days of the great depression and he was busy trying to hold a family together and feed them and somehow I understood this and was never troubled by this lack between us. There was never love outwardly spoken of and that was O.K. It was when I was in servi ce during WW2 and had come home on leave rather late at night. I entered my parents bedroom and was softly speaking with my Mother when my Dad woke up and instinctively reached up and wrapped his arms around me--the first sign I ever received that there was a bond between us. It hit me like a lightning strike and tears were running down my face realizing I was loved by my Father. From that night forward, I have always teared up when I would read,  hear or view a father son, show of love or affection. It just would grab me with the knowledge that he and I never had a chance to develop that affection. The world around us was such that I entered the Navy at 19 and married before I was released and then was busy developing my own family. Dad and I were never permitted to have the conversations, the togetherness that allowed a love to grow. The world had passed us by. How sad that I was not adult enough to try harder to love my Father. He passed away at a young age and I was left with a sense of loss that I felt was my fault. I could have tried harder. I should have known better. I am consoled with the knowledge that there will one day be a grand reunion and I will have the opportunity  to make up for that which was lost in this life. Almost sounds like a movie doesn't it? However, as a result, as before mentioned,  that whenever I become aware of a successful father son relationship I am reminded of  my loss. Getting back to the movie, the teacher showed he had the stuff, could really bring it, another baseball term, and became a major league pitcher. As a result he and his father were reconciled and oh I might add that as a boy, my dream of being a major league player was uppermost in my mind way back then--not that I would ever have successfully made it at a major league level but isn't that what dreams are all about? We dream the improbable and are content. Ah, to sleep, per chance to dream and sometimes those dreams become the realities of life. The Rookie made it and, of course, lived happily ever after.

A Christmas Story

No, this is not another of those stories as first told by Dickens, rather, it is another chronicle about my various writings over the years with a particular regard about the dreaded Christmas letters. You know, like those you receive where proud parents are proclaiming each or maybe all of their children will certainly become Secretary of State or possibly even President. I am now old enough, without any fear that my meanderings will be read by any of them, to state, I disliked them and finally reached a point where, knowing what they would include, didn't read them. Gasp! That subject has been written by Ann Landers and others to a pont of distaste but this is finally MY attitude toward them. First of all I was  always urged, coerced, threatened and sometimes even received bodily harm from my darling wife to write the Christmas letter, which was always about our kids. Now that's an admission that in part I was guilty of the same things our friends wrote about. However, I never wrote about how very  wonderful they were because  others used to write tales ad nauseaum (sp?) on that subject and I tried to make mine more of a discription of some of their antics that might bring a smile to the faces of those reading them. I hoped to entertain my friends rather than bore them. Admittedly, I did receive some nice comments from some of my readers--two to be more precise, my Mother and my wife. both to assauge my ego and to hope that the following year might not take as much pleading. I wrote how my oldest daughter, age four
had cut off the hair of my youngest daughter, age 3, so that she looked like a badly shorn sheep or I might state that all of my sons were  athletes, sometimes prone to misplay a ball, but never did I write anything that might have been how fantastic they were (although they were pretty nifty). But after some 34 years of writing our annual Christmas letter, I finally gave up for lack of humor surrounding the past year. Even Louise concluded they weren't what they used to be and I was relieved of that duty. However, they were all included in a book and now once in a while I will get it out and smile as I read one or two. They are not a journal writing. I was never in to that. But they do give an historical remembrance to some of the those days of long ago and of what once was. Having said all this, I am left with the thought it might be a good time to say a very Merry Christmas to those of you who may read this and whom I love. May the next year find you healthy, wealthy and wise enough not to bore your friends with another Christmas story,

The Music Shop

For several years I have driven down the same road passing all the same things without paying particular attention to them. Amongst these is a drab little shop with a nondescript sign blinking sporadically, Music Shop. I have thought to myself, every time I have passed it by, I should drop in and see if they can tell me where I can buy some song books but have also had the feeling that they don't look as though they could tell me anything about song books. Now one might ask what do I want with song books? It's a legitimate question. I can't really give it a legitimate asnwer but the thought persisted and finally, having some extra time the other day, I decided to stop in and ask my question. As I entered the shop I first noticed several violins sitting in a rack with a note saying "For rent or repair". I saw many other instrumens in quantity and  became aware of the size of the shop and the magnitude of musical supplies of various kinds However, I also noted off to the side, a rack of what appeared to be various pieces of sheet music and song books. I was  pleasantly surprised to see quite a large collection of the books with various titles indicating  the years in which the songs had been written. I saw books titled "Songs of the 40's, Songs of the 30's, Songs of the 50's" and several more years. Once you get past the 60s. and the Beattles, there's  little or no music that was of any interest. I understand that every generation thinks its music is the best ever but where do you read lyrics like "I'll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places, that this heart of mine embraces all day through. In that old cafe, the park across the way, a childrens carousel, a chestnut tree, a wishing well". Or "Long ago and far away, I dreamed a dream one day and now that dream is here beside me. Long the skies were overcast but now the clouds have passed. You're here at last".
 Oh, I know it doesn't read as well as it sings but I remember that and other songs from when I was in high school and I still recall the lovely words so often that set this or that song above all the rest. The lyrics of today total"Oh baby. Oh baby". Where are the Johnny Mercers, the Irving Berlins and the Oscar Hammersteins of yesteryear?  They just aren't and I feel like something is lost in this day of computers and Ipods. I miss the old songs and I guess that answers the question asked above. That's why I bought the song book of the 40s and in the not distant future, I'll go back and get "Songs of the 50's and maybe the 30's. Why? So I can refresh my memories and this onset of nostalgia. I'm a boy of that era and so very glad  it was my time of life. I wouldn't change it for anything.

Jimmie From JN's

In the dim, dark, distant past when I was working in a department store and was asked by management to do various things outside the norm of what I had ostensibly been hired to do. To explain; when I came home from the Navy, I went to work as a menswear salesman during the Christmas rush and while waiting for college to open up it helped pay some bills. Little did I know at the time that it would become my lifelong career. However, that's a story that has already been told more than once. To get back to the department store and its callings of odd requirements, one of my early jobs was to "hawk" a rather unique men's razor in a booth. In a loud voice I would be shouting the virtues of this forenamed instrument but selling very few of them. There was a time when I was to don a type of rabbit costume and go into the main street window to talk to small children in what I thought to be a rabbits voice. I am sure my very large rabbit head dulled the assumed voice but I could see the little kids smiling and waving and pointing at the Easter Bunny. So, having established myself as somewhat of a nut case, who would do anything to earn a buck, sometime later, I was asked to replace Johnny Corbett. At what, you might ask? Well that's where the title of this piece comes into play. Johnny worked for WBEN, a radio,TV station in Buffalo, N.Y. and had a weekly 15 minute television program in which he extolled the virtues of various store items. It could have been a new iron, a ladies dress the store was promoting or even, possibly, fishing equipment--it could have been anything. He went on vacation for two weeks each year and the program became Jimmie From JN's. You guessed it! I took over. Its like the old commercial "Give it to Mikey". And so for that two week period, I was the personality that became the "star" of the show. Standing there in front of the cameras, I would tout any object left at the studio for my spiel and it was somewhat of a test of my ability to attempt to put any kind of a twist on the object to produce interest. But again, trying to earn a buck and only earning $40 a week, the extra $25, per program, would come in handy. I did this for 2-3 years and never got a raise which may tell you something about my talent although I might emphasize this was only for that two week period Johnny took off. I remember, one time I was closing down the program after reading the sign stating " 3 minutes" after which additional signs would be displayed for me to gradually stop talking. As the "1 minute sign appeared, there was suddenly a flurry of excitement and some one came back with the 3 minute sign which meant, although I, in the act of saying goodbye, now had to fill 3 minutes of conversation to amuse the viewing audience. I never knew whether they did it on purpose to test my recovery capabilities or whether is was a prank but filling three minutes of empty airtime did cause some consternation. However I had done my stint for the required 10 days with a check for $25 per day, when I received a call from Louise in tears and crying. She told me she had an accident with the car and had been told it would cost $250 for the repair(Try getting work done for that these days-Hah!) However, in my best Edward G. Robinson snarl I said "That's O.K. baby, I have a check with the imprint "WBEN Radio and Television" and guess what? Its for $250." Hurrah! Another emergency covered! For maybe the two older people who might wonder who the above mentioned stranger is, he was a popular Hollywood character who made his living playing tough guys. Incidentally, that ended my career as a TV personality but, as I went around doing my regular job as a buyer for Menswear, it was always amusing that so many people recognized Jimmie from JN's.

As Age Approaches

I've been accused of getting old and in my usual whimsical manner, I reply "Age is only as old as you feel" and while that is a cliche, it has some truth to it. I admit to rarely going out dancing--like never, but it is only because I find myself more and more often, seeking the confort of that big, easy chair sitting in my living room. However, I have noticed at certain family gatherings, when I am surrounded with many, much younger than me, that I now, instead of being the center of attention that was once the case, I find myself off in a corner, satisfied to watch and smile at someone else's antics. Having noticed that as one of my more recent characteristics gives pause for me to analyze myself. What has happened to the old Jim?? Well, let me think:I am a diabetic with high blood pressure; I have four stints in my main heart artery. My blood sugar is being checked every morning to see what my sugar intake was for the previous day and I don't seem to climb the stairs as I did once. Adding that up makes me a bit unsure of my physical condition. But, you know what? I feel good!! I occasiionally have a little trouble with balance but all in all, I sincerely do not feel my age. However, having said that, there was an incident at a family gathering where 3 couples, and the guy now occupying the center stage. His humor was paralyzing the 3 couples with laughter. They were cracking up so badly that I was concerned with either regurgitation or possibly ruptures. However that was not my foremost concern. I was not getting the humor that was creating this rampant display of laughter. I was not in tune with what was being said. My grandchildren and nephews were in agony probably hoping there would be a let-up in the wise cracks. It was then I realized maybe age had a hand in my ignorance, but for a guy who was once labeled as the wittiest in the 500 graduation class of 1940, it was difficult to swallow my pride and admit defeat. But, swallow I did, realizing that I was no longer in contention for glib remarks and, just maybe, I had better it. I am advancing toward the point where, it is possible, age is approaching. However, I, emphatically state, I don't feel it! And, inasmuch as I have to run catch a plane, I'm just going to have to live with it.

DEDICATION

It was in the fall of 1975 that a paralyzing phone call found me in New York City. My younger brother had passed away and Louise and I agreed to meet in our earlier home in Buffalo N.Y. We arrived at the funeral home the next evening but it was not a normal funeral where it is usually the elderly that have passed on, and while there is respect, it still has the undertones of laughter and smiles when meeting old friends. However this was a sober occasion with two uniformed Firemen flanking the casket of my brother,Burt. He was a fireman who had fallen in the line of duty while attempting to put out the fire raging through out an empty house.This guard detail stood at attention throughout the open hours of the mortuary and were continually replaced by others. It was obvious the Firemen were there to honor the death of a comrade and this was a time when respect, admiration and sorrow was on full display. I am remiss in the writing of this eulogy and my recall may be blurred because of the passage of the years and yet, there is much that has been burned into my memory even though some of the dates may be incorrect. The days there overlapped but my next memory is that of a very large church standing on the outskirts of the city that, much earilier than the anounced time of the ceremony, was filled with family, friends, neighbors and Firemen; with an overflow of standing room only. This standing room included many hundreds on the outside and this area also included a multitude of police. There had to be a contingent from every Fire Depaertment in the state and it was a sea of blue, With all those present, the spirit of God must also have been in attendance to mourn the passing of one of His children  At the conclusion of the service the casket was raised to the top of the nearby fire truck to head the cortege that was to roll through the city of Buffalo passing every fire station, where those on duty, would be in full dress, standing  at attention, as the truck passed by. It was a tremendous display of the honor reserved for those comrades that fell doing their duty. I am reminded of the firemen and police that were consumed by the flames of  9/11, along with the belief that there are men, when called upon ,who are willing to die in the performance of their duty. I am also reminded that there is irony accompanying this funeral. Burt was part of small group that were petitioning the city to permit them to have controlled burning of these empty shells so as to prevent the possible death of, not only the homeless sheltered there, but possibly more importantly,as in the case of my brother.The cemetery was teeming with so many that had been in the church grounds and I was again touched emotionally at the reverence displayed by these men. Forgive me if I am somewhat ambigous in my recollections but the spirit of my memory is there and this is a eulogy I gave in my heart those many years ago.  I give it now in dedication to Jimmie, Cheryl, Donna and Billie

The Joy of Family

• I think that this was the happiest I have been in many years. It all took place when I traveled to Utah for the wedding of my grandson, Dillon. He had returned from a mission for our church and had been at the BYU Idaho U.,when, surprise, surprise, he found his true love. I am not scoffing at this union, contrary, they were sealed in one of our temples which means they are bonded together forever and ever and  never to part. Its a serious business when you covenant to be together for the eternities but the excitement of the gathering of my family, both near and extended, was cause to mingle-nephews, nieces, great nephews and nieces, grandchildren and great grandchildren, sons and daughters and a mixtures of so many relatives I can't include them all, It took place at the wedding reception and as family after family arrived the excitement kept mounting, the cheering got louder and the smiles were the pinnacle of  happiness. I can't count the faces of all those I had often thought of and loved from a distance. I was in my glory to see the friendships that were struck or re-newed. Many had not seen their cousins, for example, in many years and the expressions of joy that surrounded this gathering was indeed cause for celebration. There were even a couple that I had to search my memory to come up with the names those that greeted me. I have returned home now and the warmth of that occasion still resides with me. How wonderful to bring together a group of this many and feel the love emanating from all in attendance. The philosophers have often spoken of the measure of a family. How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky? Those are the measurements that I feel personified  my happiness at this glorious meeting. This is the knowledge that families can be forever when this love is in place.

Pillar to Post

I was reminded recently that I had never  blogged my Naval exploits in the ring--the boxing ring that is. Now this is a bit of ancient history but it did take place and has always occupied  one of my pleasing memories. So to back up a bit, I was newly stationed at the Chapel Hill campus in North Carolina and this was what was pre-flight and consisted of a great deal of physical fitness, four hours of studies dailey, leaving six hours of working out. As a welcome gift, I was placed on the boxing team. Oh there were several other athletic groups I could have gone to but somehow, some wag, decided I looked like a boxer. The only time I had ever put on gloves was in the basement of Billy Harrisons house where he forthwith took advantage of my lack of experience by smashing me in the solar plexus where I immedately collapsed to the floor and died for several minutes. Remembering that in great clarity did not thrill me when I received my assignment. My first fight  explains the title of this blog and I was the recipient of of a pounding that literally took me form pillar to post. I learned a lot that first fight. I learned to avoid any further activities that had to do with leather. I also learned that boxing is not a good sport in which you come in 2nd. I took such a beating that you would have thought I had faced Mohammet Ali. So with a week to recover before my next fight I approached that day with a mixture of terror and cowardice. But with three guys pushing me I ventured into the ring to find a muscular gentleman who terrified me by bouncing his biceps as he stared at me. However, I advanced as the opening bell rang and decided that running was the best defense. I'm not sure how I won that fight but it might be that he was more frightened  that me. Now thats laughable! Anyway I managed to go on and win my next 14 fights and could see I was advancing to fight for the  battalion championship. I tried to calm my hysterics when I realized this because the man I was to fight was built like a hydrant. Actually I had been watching him because it had become evident that he and I would clash and he had a certain set of punches--a solid left jab immediately followed by a right cross and  then a vicious left hook. I learned these identifying characteristics by hearing my coach speak to his class. He only talked about them. He never suggested how I might avoid them.So here I am stepping into the ring with a former fleet sailor who incidentally had won the fleet championship. I had about as much chance in beating him as the proverbial snowball in Hell. However I had figured out that if I would counter jab at the same time as he did, he would be unable to follow through with the rest of his punches. And so it was, he jabbed as I jabbed and the two of us spent the first two rounds countering each of the others punches. Ah but then the axe fell. The bell rang ending the 2nd round and I opened my mouth to grab some air. This took place when coincidentally he was in the midst of throwing a right cross. The bell had rung and he hit me. I know he would not have done this unfairly but it happened. I walked back to my corner, sat on the stool and my coach is shouting words of encourragement and ended them by saying "Winspear, you're doing GREAT"! How do you feel"? I thought it was nice of him to finally show some concern about my well being but I answered him by trying to say in a mumbling sort of way, "I feel good but my teeth don't meeth"! It was true, the punch at the end of the round was such as to knock my jaw askew and my coach called the fight. What an ignominious end to such a glorious career. He was one tough guy and the best part was that even though I lost, at least I was not beaten from pillar to post. I had fought him even for those two rounds.  On a serious note, this had been a great expeerience for me. It had taught me discipline and confidence. I learned lessons that stayed with me for the rest of my life. Do I want to fight again? Yes, if the Navy called again, I would be proud to serve my country in any way that I was able. God bless America!!

Fathers Day

It took 20 years but I finally gave the talk, prepared long ago, in a church meeting yesterday. I spoke about my Dad and what he meant to me. He was a very interesting man and while I was still a child my memory is that of a funny man who could tap dance and make funny faces that would make me laugh. He had no control over the circumstances that changed his life and they were many. First of all the depression came and having a job was at the heart of whether you got by, or whether you had to call on family to help you through it. Dad was a proud man and when the bank took his $3700 home, he became despaired and sometime after that a very serious heart attack knocked him down again. Things were so bad that he and Mom had to move into the basement of Louise' parents basement. No money,no home no pride and he became a very reclusive person with only his immediate family to cling to. And cling he did and became a wonderful grandfather. I truly think that it was my children that helped him restore some semblance of personal respectability. While he loved my Mother, she alone was not sufficient to help him back on a path to the man he once was and he displayed his love for the kids by having a patience that might have been his life support. I think I may have been somewhat of a disappointment to my Father. He expected his sons to be the fix-it personality that in an earlier day, was one of his strengths. He could do ANYTHING from sewing clothes for me and my brothers to re-wiring a house if it was needed. He was a fine musician and at a younger age became an Eagle scout and won the bugling contest  for the city of Rochester, N./Y. I, on the other hand had no interest in fixing things. I was into sports and enjoying the social activities of high  school. However, with all his talents, he was not a demonstrative man. I don't ever recall him telling me he loved me. Still, when I entered the service and became a commissioned officer with my gold flight wings, I know he was proud of me. One night when I unexpectedly came home on leave and was talking to Mom in their darkened bedroom, he awoke and instinctively reached up, grabbed me and embraced me.That was the only time in my adult life that any demonstration of affection occurred and that one episode has been in my memory for all these years. Today, people are much more effective in professing their love for members of their family or for friends. That was not the case in the generations of yesteryear. The depression, the hunger, the war, the economic distress all added up to a need stronger than the bonds of love,---survival. And so it was. Did my Dad love me? I never had a doubt. I excused his apparent lack of affection because of these factors just mentioned. He was trying to keep a family afloat and when it was apparent that we had all survived, although he was still a recluse, he realized his sons had grown up, his grandchildren were a delight and his job was completed. He died at the age of 59. I miss him - a lot!

Memories of the long ago

It was last night I stumbled onto a movie that has caused me to get up in the very early hours remembering some of the thoughts of the nostalgia of my early days. It was about baseball and I was drawn back to the days when  thoughts of a career in the national game were on my mind. You know, some kids want to be firemen, soldiers or pilots. I wanted to be a ball player. At a very early age I was permitted to get on a street car which carried me to our old Offerman stadium in Buffalo N.Y. where I could sit in the bleachers and   watch the Buffalo Bison'  home run hitter, Ollie Carnegie, knock a horse hide ball over the distant fence or watch Greg Mulleavey turn a doube play. I was deeply impacted of what might come to pass in those days  and this movie stirred my mind. Beauty McGowan used to play center field and he had such a flawless running stride that his nick name was so fitting. Yes, at that age, I knew each player, his batting average and maybe, what chewing tobacco was his favorite. I was really into the game and not only for the local team but my memory was also about many other players in the Major Leagues. I was a baseball nut! The movie had to do with a high school science teacher who doubled as the baseball coach of a mediocre team  and in a peak of anger challenged them to do better. He had a reputation of being able to throw a ball at a very high speed - throwing the cheese, as it was sometimes called, and his team returned the challenge that they would try harder if he would agree to a tryout for a authentic baseball team. His age had already put him almost over the hill, certainly past the age of a rookie and thus the name of the movie, "The Rookie". So there I was with the dawn beginning to break and me  deep in my memories of days gone by. I had to get up and put my thoughts on paper for sleep had fled and left me wide awake. In the final days of the movie his team had won the district championship and he was bound to attempt a tryout. In the conclusion he had become a relief pitcher for a major league team and was called to show his "heat" by striking out the hitter for the opposing team. The result was successful and he became a local hero. The movie had other poignant interests like his divorced father who had not been interested in his son's exploits or having to take his three children to the major league tryout and the ignominy of needing to change the babies dirty diaper as he was being called to the mound. The film went far into the night and while I was able to fall asleep, when I awakened, the movie reel of my mind was activated and here I am. Was I ever a really good ball player? Not really, but that doesn't stop a childs mindset of what he would like to be. However a war came along and any dreams were set aside. The irony of all the above is that this was the third time I had seen the movie but  we should all acknowledge that the dreams of long ago may never come to pass nevertheless they still reside in our memories and will be there for a long as we live. May those recollections never leave us or be dismissed for they are a part of what we are today. They are a part of the  days of long ago - our childhood, where dream and memories are forever.

Fishing Re-visited

As we are driving Eastward, the Sun, an orange orb,is slowly rising, ahead of us and my excitement is at a peak. For we are going to fish the Atlantic and I am wondering what the day will bring. I had arrived in Orlando the evening before and Jeff and I are now en route to try our hands at rod and reel to see what the waters will hold for us. Jeff is my grandson and I found has a real passion for fishing. He used to go with his step Father, who was a commercial fisherman and had begun to take Jeff out on the water when he was a youngster--thus the passion was acquuired early on. As we begin our quest a decision had been made to fish the first day by putting heavy weights on our lines and fishing the bottom--some 150 feet. The beauty of the ocean is not only the varying sea life you could view, the porpoise, the sea turtles, the schools of Dolphin just under the surface, and we saw our share, as we felt the bottom bump of our weights hoping the next bump would be a Red Snapper or a Grouper, both of which could be in the 20-30 pound class. Pure excitement mingled with hope!  It is a known fact that, indeed, hope springs eternal in the heart of a fisherman although the quest is not always rewarded with fish. On this day  our hopes were dashed with only a few small finny creatures were to stir our imaginations as we pulled them up from the deep. One of things that impressed me was the line of the horizon out to the East. The sea went on forever and it seemed as though the horizon did as well. That straight line was occasionally affected by a distant vessel but it was as though a ruler in Gods hands had been the instrument used to mark his territory. And so the day ended with little to show for it--fish wise. But ah, another day would soon dawn and we would go at it again, undaunted and positive to-morrow would be different. See what I mean when I say all fishermen are  of the same class-there is always tomorrow. However, I must admit that while we would use a different tactic the end result would be pretty much the same--no fish of any consequence. The weather, the ocean, the sights have all cooperated but the fish had taken some time off. I reminded Jeff that I had once visited Cape Cod several times with no luck until my host there had playfully informed me he had called all the charter fishermen to tell them to take the week-end off  because I had returned to try my luck. This bit of tongue in cheek humor caused Jeff to call our time, the days of the Winspear curse!! And so it was to be. I returned home to Arizona , although a bit disappointed, my many years of fishing had brought many fruitless ventures and this was another of hope being dashed. Still, my disappointment was minor compared to several points of pleasure--being on the water, seeing the various sights, spending time with a grandson with whom I had been delinquent, seeing a family that I had hardly seen before and in general having a damn good time. This adventure which could be my last in the  great outdoors.Would I do it again? Just as soon as I can pack!! Wait for me. I'll be right there.

Fishing

• Now this that I am going to write about will have to be written in two phases. First, to tell of the excitement I am feeling and the next will be to report on the success or lack thereof on my adventure. I have talked about fishing in the past but there is a new excitement swelling in my heart these days for I am about to embark on an old but now, new venture. One of my grandsons, living in Orlando, has invited me to join him in fishing the Atlantic ocean--no, not the whole ocean but some part lying East of Florida. And I am tripping!!! Now you would think I could contain myself having fished many places around and even beyond the confines of these United States but it has now been many years since I have ventured into the deep sea fishing variety and so by hook (pun intended) or crook, I'm going to have a go at it. I have known Jeff was a fisherman for some time but for some reason never inquired of his exploits. However, in a recent phone conversation, when he finished by saying, "Grampa, they are so big that I will have to help you pull them in". Now if that isn't enough to stir the blood of an old fisherman, I don't know what is. I have fished Northerns in Canada, Dolphins off Venezuela, Striped Bass at Cape Cod and Walleye all over this land but the thought, now, of Snappers or Groupers near Florida will be a new and hopefully successful expedition. I have to qualify my last sentence containing "hopefully" because there have been  almost multiple time where I have not been sucessful in the catching of those wiley denizens of the deep. I have seen them laying on the bottom, with me literally bumping their noses with my bait with nary a bite. I have become arm weary casting for trout in fast waters all in vain. I have even done jigging in waters teeming with fish only to have an up and down experience (There's a bad pun in there if you have ever fished)  but Jeff has laid down the gauntlet and I am accepting the challenge. To horse!!?? A fishing we will go!! 

Leadership Lost

• By now most of you recognize me as a patriot; not because I served in World War 2 but because I continue to have eyes that water as the flag is presented or the sight of our young men and women marching or as the strains of the National Anthem is resounding through the land. I do not apologise for by my emotional character, contrary, I allow this mentality to be a source of recognition for all that have been killed, wounded or harmed in any of the ways that wars inflict. This past week I received an e-mail which brought into perspective ways, of which I have never been made aware--the number of brave young men and I'm sure too many women, who lie in graves all over Europe. This has primarily been the result of the second World War. I am not attempting to make a political report out of this, but rather just to bring to attention the terrible cost of war and the loss that goes beyond merely the paralyzing deaths that have occured. I think of the potential, the capabilities, the leadership that many of those lost could have provided to my beloved country. How many Einsteins, Reagans, Kennedys or Salks lie in those many burials sites? I am so deeply saddened at the thought of the parents, wives or husbands that, very likely, may still weep today at those lost. We have been accused of arrogance in parts of Europe and the far East where Iraq and Afghanistan still exact the deaths of, too many, courageous men and women.Yes, and my eyes are blurred even now as I write this. I don't know how many may read this and be aware that 104, 000 is the result of our last excursion into war torn Europe. Over 100,000 souls lie in the 20 graves that dot a distant land. Basically, much of the world treats us with distain. We have, numerically, few allies that will stand at  our sides during the present conflicts and it is still the U.S. that stands the brunt of these conflicts. Is this truly arrogance?   Who knows what we have lost that is more that their deaths? It is my hope, no, my prayer that in some mystical manner we may find ways to solve world problems without resorting to military acts of  violence. It is also my hope that sufficient may read this text to stop and think of those who might well have lead our country in ways of peace and prosperity but for their courage in battle. May God bless them and guide us that we may be able to prevent this horror from ever happening again. 

Mattydale

Its as though I am in a time machine going back again to the happy days of my childhood and since my prior blog, Judson Place, I have advanced now to approximately 12 years of age. My grandparents had moved to a town on the outskirts of Syracuse and it was more in the country than they had lived before. Why did they move? I was too young to realize this was probably tramatic for them but what did a 12 year old know about such things? I was just happy to be out in the country where my Uncle Chuck had planted a fairly large garden and there was a real swimming hole on their property. Both of those things were a part of the 3 years or so in which I got to know how to hoe and how to enjoy the summer warmth. There was a golf course up the road and I discovered I could be a caddy. Most days when the hoeing was completed or the weeds were eliminated I was free to walk to the golf course. There I would hang around the pro shop hoping to carry some one's golf bag and earn .75 for 18 holes or if I was really lucky, I was given a whole buck for my efforts. Lordy me things were fine as wine --as we used to say. Mondays has been, universally, a day in which all golf courses honor their caddies by allowing them to play free as long as they wanted and so the Thornton brothers and I, two boys about my age, would carry 3 golf clubs and some broken tees and maybe a ball or two and get in at least 54 holes before darkness shut us down. They became good friends and asked me to play on their high school baseball team, where I was assigned to be the catcher. (I think it was Junior High School) I had never caught before but it was a great experience and they were very excited to see that I could throw to 2nd base and prevent the other team from stealing. I know a lot of this may sound strange to you but ask a male friend to explain some of these things. It was here where I also, through very hard work and long hours, learned to play Rachmaninoff' Prelude in C# minor--no mean accomplishment and that I reported to you in a previous blog. The swimming hole became almost a nightly visit and there was a rope hanging from the branch of an overhanging tree where you could sit on a large knot and be carried out over the water to do a flip as you released the rope--fun stuff for young boys. I grew up while I lived there I think, because my Uncle Chuck would take me to faraway places to fish, dig potatoes, or maybe pick mushrooms. I got to know how to bait a hook, care for a garden, select the correct mushrooms, and many other things that occupied my times in Mattydale. Although we were in the depths of a depression during those years, I had no understanding of the meaning of that problem. It was not a part of my life and my freedom there was unihibited. I remember those days and there are too many happy boyhood memories to tell all that I recall. Here again, were happy vacation times with grandparents and other relatives that loved me and cared about my well being. What else can a young boy have than to be surrounded by circumstances of happiness and joy. I can only wish the same for those that might read this short story of the meanderings of part of my childhood.

Judson Place

I do a lot of my thinking and remembering while I am in my bed. Sleep does always stay with me throughout the night and I am too warm to get up and do something constructive and so, I think. The other night I began to think of the things of my childhood--again and my thoughts turned to the first place I recall in Syracuse, N.Y. --- the family home on Judson Place. I was no more than 6 or 7 when I think of the home I really grew to love because my grandparents were there as was my Aunt and Uncle. My grandmother was a very sweet and warm lady, and I use that word intentionally, while my grandfather was rather a sternvisaged, taciturn man , who with all his gruff exterior still would pull me on his lap to read the funnies to me. Incidentally they don't have funnies like they used to, or maybe its me having outgrown the Katzenjamma Kids. At any rate I recall my grandmother going about the house dusting and singing softly to herself. She was hard of hearing. (Now, I know that's not politically correct but its my grandmother and I can say anything I wish about her). I can't leave my thoughts about the home without mentioning Uncle Chuck; my uncle of whom I have the dearest memories; fishing, picking berries in the Adirondacks and other fun times. I loved going there and being in that family home. It was not a family home such as we are inclined to think, but it had a certain magic to a 7 year old and it was the gathering place for my Mothers' 6 siblings and their mates as well as many cousins. However, I want to dwell on the friends I developed. There was a family living in the upstairs of our home and they had a son, Jack, with whom I palled. And Billy lived across the street on Thornton Avenue also became my little buddy. I looked forward every year or each vacation period to seeing them. There was a huge hill behind Billy's house and we used to climb it regularly just to walk around the large water tower on topand then to roll down its lengthy expanse. Because of the nature of that neighborhood, there were hills in front of every house on Thornton and king of the castle became one of our games which allowed us to carry multiple grass stains home. We also played hide and seek and other classic children activities. But it is the nostalgia of the years and the manner in which my memories are impacted that is the substance and the subject of today. It was my vacatiion place for several years. The sweetness of those early years clings to my thoughts into these many years later. I hope you have memories of warm sunshine, loving grandparents and good friends as do I. There is little of value that can replace those recollections of the past.

Reminiscing

Her name was Mary and I must have spoken about her in the past. It was a long time ago and I don't know what made me think of my first girlfriend. I was 16 and I walked her home from school and isn't that the way most young romances begin? She was a very personable young womn and we began a delightful relationship. I don't think she was as enamoured of me as was I with her and it wasn't really a case of true love. I guess you could characterize it as a strong friendship and we greatly enjoyed each others'company. That first day I went home with her, there were 8 other guys waiting for her on the front porch. That puts into perspective her popularity. I can remmber saying to the group of young men, "O.K. now we have a team. Lets play ball" (A reference to a baseball team for those from the heart of Texas) However, what I mainly wanted to tell you about was,not so much Mary, but her Grandfather.I met him too that first day. Grampa was a gruff old German still with a slight German accent and meeting him was rather a shock to my confidence. He first asked me "Are you a boy scout or a pup?" Thats a direct quote from 70 years ago and you think I may be losing my memory?? I replied stammering, "I'm a scout sir". Whereupon he said "Come here with me" and like a little boy I followed him into the foyer. There was a fairly large chair sitting there and it had two sturdy arms which Grampa took hold of with a strong grip. With that, he hoisted himself into the air and performed a handstand that in Olympic circles would have earned him at least a 9. Lowering himself to the floor and turning to me asked in that same gruff voice, "Can you do that?" My confidence was leaking out of me faster than a hole in a bag of sand and still stammering I replied "No sir" He muttered something under his breath and stormed away.I'm sure he felt about my generation what I sometimes feel about the generations that have followed me; they just don't make them like they used to. Well, that wasn't exactly a roaring success for me who was trying to make an impression on a young lady but Mary must have experienced that before because she was laughing as we walked into the living room. She and I spent the better part of the two years that followed until graduation together in 1940 at which point it was pretty much the end of our friendship because she went to their summer place and then off to Michigan State when fall came around whereas I had found a new friend by the name of Louise and the rest is history.

WHOLLY CREPE

Wholly Crepe!
It all took place many years ago during the winter of 1962 when Louise and I left with the Bleiers for a weekend at the Wolf River Lodge, North of our home in Appleton. It was a quick decision and we were almost snowbound that February. It was my birthday month and a small quiet celebration was the main reason we ventured forth. However it was to become an event that has lasted ever since and today what was once a rarity is now common place. This is in reference to a breakfast we were served at the above mentioned B&B. Amongst the eggs and rolls, mmnn!, were a delicasy we had never before encountered. Yes, I know we were infants in the culinary efforts of the French. but here we were served crepes loaded with a blend of cream cheese and sour cream and I'm not sure what else. After breakfast and as we were looking at the snow falling, I noticed Louise was missing? Not particularly concerned except when she returned a short time later she had a small smile when I asked where she had been? The smile was somewhat enigmatic and it was not until we returned home the next day that she showed us her new breakfast delight--crepes. She had gone to the kitchen and was shown how to make crepes. Now that doesn't seem, in retrospect, such a big deal except it was the beginning of a tradition that has carried down through the years. In short, we all have loved Louise' expertise at crepe making and to-day, at least one daughter in law, Victoria, and my son Chris are striving vigorously to duplicate her kitchen successes. I can't speak knowingly about my other daughters ability but I can say with complete accuracy, we all love 'em. Vive'La France

COCOON

It must be 40 years old but the movie Cocoon is still interesting for me. Years ago I thought it was a nice romantic story made up of elderly people. that by the magic of a swimming pool near their property, were transformed into vibrant, more healthy and athletic group of men and women. It was a good but unbelievable exercise in the mysticism of the Hollywood scenarios. As I watched this time, now at an age quite different than the first exposure, it takes on an entirely more spiritual theme. Now it tells of this group who are offered the opportunity to leave Earth and go to a planet called Anterian (There is a large star called Antares) There, they will lead productive lives and never be ill or tired but they will be unable to return to see their loved ones. The temptation of a more vibrant, healthier life that permits them to live forever is intriguing but as with tears rolling down my cheeks (Not a unusual experience), the idea has great deal of truth and significance. I believe that I will, one day, during my next phase, be able to live the life as expressed in the movie. I think I will have a life in the eternities and yes it holds a great appeal for me but at the same time I will leave behind all those that I love. I now must weigh the certainty of seeing again, Louise, my parents and many others that have preceded me. This conflict was such that I was in tears. I have too many here that are always in my thoughts and are the ones I love. Can I leave them knowing I will never again visit them or see them unless the possibility exists that they may be seen through my spiritual eyes. But then again the tremendous thoughts of those I will again be with is too much for this persons emotional capabilities. I have reached an age wherein this story has an expression so very different from that of years ago. Equating one age with the other while quite impossible, nevertheless gives me much food for thought. When I reach a conclusion I may write another chapter but I also may reach the end of this book of life A conundrum at best. I may have to watch the movie again to see if I can come up with an answer.

THE JANITOR

In Colorado there is a magnificent organization called the Air Force Academy. It was formed shortly after WW 2 and for many years now it has been the training ground for those thousands of young men and women who are the guardians of the skies above us -- The Army Air Force. They sit at the controls of a multi-tonned aircraft and are there to protect us from our enemies. They are the graduates of that Academy.

In the halls of that organization shuffles an elderly man, head down, wearing nondescript clothing and rarely smiling or even acknowledging the many officers that briskly walk around him, hurrying to their classes and ignoring that invisible man that keeps the walls, the halls, the latrines and in general anything that needs to be maintained, in a clean, orderly manner. He is the Janitor of this vast community and his work is beyond reproach. Everywhere you look, if you take the time, is evidence of his effort to do his duty as he understands it.

No one pays any attention to him or has any appreciation for his work. After all he is the Janitor and practically hidden from their view. He just quietly goes about his duty, never complaining or even noticing those around him. One day in one of the stories told in a paper that circulates through similar industries an article is noticed by one of the young officers. It is a story of a William Anderson who had been awarded the Medal of Honor during WW2 for extreme heroism in the face of an enemy that had resulted in the single handed destruction of 3 machine gun emplacements, using only his rifle and hand grenades. What a great story!!

But wait. Isn’t that the name of the Janitor here in these buildings? Could it be? Nah! He is almost pitiful as he shuffles around, with his head down, never, looking at us, shabbily dressed with his cap askew. “Excuse me but by any chance are you the William Anderson that is the winner of the Medal of Honor?” The Janitor looks embarrassed. As he nods, his head looks off into the distance as though he doesn’t want to be noticed. But the word gets around and those that had hurried past him are now calling out “Hi Mr. Anderson, Hi Bill”.

There is a difference in the demeanor of not only those that are calling out to him in recognition of his courage, bravery and strength of duty, but Bill is beginning to straighten up, to look ahead and to appear to improve his appearance. He is not just a guy that keeps our toilets clean, he is a Medal of Honor winner and is one of only 6 men such as he, still alive from WW2 and while before he was only an in house employee, he is now a valued member of this huge community. How wonderful to finally receive some notice from these young men and women who will one day, possibly, be faced with the same challenge--to rise to the height necessary to courageously defeat an enemy threatening to destroy us. That enemy may wear different faces--the man down the street, the one running for office, the one already in office or the man at whom we have laughed. Who are the enemies of today ?

May we live with the hope that out from amidst these many enemies, there will, once again, arise a person to meet them head on-- one who, with magnificent courage, without concern for his own life, but with a duty to carry out. And in the turbulence of the world in which we now live, will there be another Janitor?

DON'T GO THERE

It all began on or about December 3, 2009. IT was the fateful day in which I embarked on a couple of family matters that needed to be addressed. I am the Grand Father. Notice I separated the title to polish my own buttons although some of that may be wishful thinking. Nevertheless, in this instance I did feel, not an obligation but more of a necessity, to visit Las Vegas with a continuing stop in Minneapolis. Why? My beautiful granddaughter, Tatum, Chris and Gina’s child, was to be baptized. Now a child of eight sounds a bit odd for a baptism but in the LDS church we believe that age eight is an age where a child should know the difference between right and wrong. Thus, a baptism was to take place and Grampa wanted to be there to show his love and support for the occasion.

I arrived in the teeming city of Las Vegas and believe me the airport was in full teem with people of all description walking about. Chris met me there and as I walked into the garage it was definitely colder than was Arizona and I was wearing only a sport coat. But the car was close at hand and I was soon removed from the weather and arrived at Chris’ home several minutes later. I found that this weather was only the beginning and I quickly got into my warm-up suit and was fairly comfortable. As I said, it was only the beginning and 5 days passed with the baptism the highlight of my stay in the Sin City and the weather becoming increasingly colder.

I had a cold when I arrived and carried it with me to Minneapolis where I was greeted by my son saying “Dad you are walking into a mad house“. Wondering what that meant, I looked at him quizzically and he explained “The house is a mess. Victoria is at the hospital with Dalton who has a ruptured appendix and Dillon is walking around in a daze not having adjusted to no longer being a missionary“. And now you know the reason I went on to Minneapolis --to greet and show grandfather’s support to a young man who had given two years to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. Again for those not familiar with our faith, young men and sometimes young women will give of themselves to act in the name of our Savior visiting amongst the unwashed and trying to convert them to the true faith. (Pardon a little tongue in cheek here).

By the way, the arrival of a snow storm was being shouted across the airwaves and for once, it proved to be factual. Snow was falling and by morning 5 inches of beautiful white snow coated the world. You can have it. Get me back to Arizona, a land I have grown to love. You can have greenery, water, and lush landscapes. Give me the warmth of the desert and I am happy. But not here in the North country, I began to become colder and colder. My nose was a stream and my cough resembled a barking dog--not a terrier but a full blown Danish Wolf Hound. Rudolph and his red appendage had nothing on me. Santa if you need further help, give me a call.

And so it was; a week of sitting in a chair with a heavy blanket wrapped around me and all my family laughing at my discomfort. Dillon was wonderful regaling me with tales of some of the things that made his mission not only worthwhile but successful. He is a fine young man now, not a youth, whose intentions serving the Lord have been magnified and honed to a degree of skilled service with a love of the Gospel. He is scheduled to leave for Brigham Young University in Idaho where a new adventure awaits his arrival in early January. Dalton had the necessary surgery and came home a few days later and my Amanda was always on hand to take care of her ailing Grandfather.

Me? I couldn’t wait to get on the plane and head for home. I had done my grandfatherly duties and suffered the consequences but now home was next on my agenda. C’mon sunshine! My cold gradually departed, a human form emerged and I was home. It is so nice to be back where people walk around smiling in stead of shuddering. Welcome home old man. You are safe now. Enjoy it, but know that you had the pleasure of seeing a granddaughter and a grandson take continuing steps to a better, richer life. God Bless them.

Oh, by the way. If you have an opportunity to go to Minnesota for ice fishing, or snowboarding, don’t go there. Its cold!!!

John Phillips Sousa, I ain't!

Have you ever had one of those night's where sleep seems to have disappeared? Well, that was what last night was all about. I never know on the mornings which inevitably follow, whether this is a case of having indulged myself with a caffeine laden soft drink or whether I may have fallen asleep for a very short time and then awakened to realize all semblance of sleep had disappeared. So there I lay and what do I then do? Why I practised giving direction to the church mens choir group by being a most unlikely conductor for said group. Yes, I do lead them most every Sunday. I lead them in hymns of my choice for one or two verses but then get off the "stage",without any hurrahs or applause of any kind.. I managed to mentally direct those marching songs which our church has published and by whistling soundlessly melodies such as the "Thunderer" by the aforementioned Sousa and one which I learned to play in the dim, light of the past on a fife which I used to perform in a fife and drum corps. (Incidentally that word is singular and I never understood why it looks to be pronounced in the plural tense). But that is a part of my ancient history that I rather enjoyed. Returning to the songs I was humming or rather, whistling, to myself, they included "Onward Christian Soldiers",Rock of Ages, High on a Mountain Top, (All the Presbyterians must be shuddering) and I even had the temerity to try to make our National Anthem sound good in my mind. There is no song, hymn,or march, call it what you will, that I love more than the stirring tones and words of "O Say, Can You See " It brings tears to my eyes as I type this for that is the love to which my tear trigger, is least resistant. I love that music and all it stands for. Don't let a flag, a marching band or even the three that led our War back in the 1770's, pass me by. All that reminds me of the great Revolution and the ultimate war ending-battle, the fight for Fort McHenry, that was the clarion call of the war of 1812. And to sum up the lack of sleep which I suffered, I tried to lead the hymns in harmony?? Can you imagine leading music with only one voice and trying harmonize? With what or whom?? It was indeed, a hopeless task! So there you have it, my night of sleepless endeavor which lasted from about 1:30 until 4:00 at which point I realized sleep had fled my eyes and I might as well pen this reminder. It was an interesting night of music but I'm sure John Sousa lies undisturbed somewhere in the annals of the history of our country. Long may he sleep undaunted by the perplexity of what our country faces at this time but nevertheless, it is my country and my flag and long may it wave!!!

A BURBLING SCHNOOK

I began singing when I was about eleven. A previous post may have given you a more detailed description of my voice had any of you chanced upon it several months ago. During my lifetime singing I was often terrible and the other times just bad. However the reason for another foray into my musical career has to do with a change that recently made all other sounds of music go from the terrible aforementioned to a cacophony that bore no resemblance to any vocal impression that has ever emanated from my body. I just finished a choir performance for the apartment complex in which I live. The short but musical rehearsal went off without a problem and I was singing in my fluid bass voice going into the room wherein the performance would take place. It was a Christmas program and of course the traditional music was sung by the choir as well as any others that wanted to join in. Thank goodness a large number joined in singing Joy to the World loudly and with boisterous enthusiasm. But wait! What did I hear or rather heard? Suddenly a new tone emerges--from my stomach. Now I must admit, with a degree of modesty, that sometimes I sound not too bad for a man of my years but this, this is “traveling from afar” and not from the same hymn by that name. My stomach is going from bass to soprano with no stops in between. I cannot hit a note as written on the music before me. Do I change and move up with the Sopranos or the Altos or do I just open my mouth and lip sync the words. I kid you not. What did I eat that engenders those noises? The people in the choir are now looking at me strangely and you can sense them moving away. But wait, I was doing O.K. in rehearsal wasn’t I? O ye of little faith, they could care less. All they know is what they hear and you may recall I mentioned the words terrible or not bad but this was a new low it was horrible and it wasn’t low. I could live with low notes but this ran the entire range from a profoundo to a coloratura and none of it was good. Fortunately at one point the lights were all dimmed so as to allow those holding electrical candles to hold them aloft which allowed me to sneak quietly away. I probably will never attempt to sing again. Can you hear the multitudes cheering? The sounds of my stomach echoed between a burbling brook, a menacing growl or maybe a distant moose call. Thus the title: A Burbling Schnook. Fortunately Christmas is almost passed and I have an entire year to redeem myself but it will demand all my will power to ever allow a sound to pass my lips.