Like an old photograph time can make a feeling fade

It's been a bit since I've posted. Guess I'm really running short on memories from back home that are worth regurgitating into cyberspace.

I was back home a couple of weeks ago and went with some new old friends to Pisgah Playdays. No carnival. No baseball or softball games. Not too many people. It didn't really seem like Playdays. But, I got to talk to a lot of people I haven't seen in ages and the missus and I had a lot of fun. I sure missed playing the Bulldozer (non)falling quarter game. Not.

The title of this post is a line from the Tim McGraw song "Something Like That" which always makes me think of the Pisgah Playdays.

Be safe.

Gonna drive back down where you once belonged in the back of a dream car twenty foot long

Someone asked me not too long ago if I had ever gotten flowers from a girl. The question was something of a coincidence, coming so close to my birthday. My girlfriend had a single rose delivered to the high school for my birthday our senior year. Janene S. did the arrangement of the rose and baby's breath in pristine Budweiser bottle (a very popular arrangement at her flower shop). I picked it up in the school office after lunch. Probably a big difference between then and now (one of many big differences at my old school) - they obviously disapproved of the "vase" but still accepted the delivery and allowed me to take it home. And, yes, I liked getting a flower for my birthday. Of course, I turned 18 on that birthday which meant I was finally old enough to be drafted but still three years too young to legally purchase alcohol. Yay, me.

So, my birthday rolled around again a few weeks ago. No roses in beer bottles this year (it would have been a Bud Light bottle these days). I celebrated this year by prepping for my retirement years - a time which no longer seems so far off.

I stopped by the local Cadilac dealership and told them I wanted to test drive the biggest sumbitchin' car they had. The punkass salesdork pointed to an Escalade. Not exactly what I had in mind but I had to smile. Great grandpa Maule had a sea foam green '72 Caddie sedan with a 472 c.i.d. engine that was the size of a PT boat. I got to drive that car a couple of times. Because it weighed just a shade under three tons it had a zero to sixty time that could be measured by an hour glass. I took it out to I-29 between Mondamin and Modale once and top-ended it at around 125. It took me four miles to get that mass of metal back down to sub light speed. The suspension was so soft it just floated over the potholes that were starting to form in the pavement. It was the epitome of retirement transportation. I looked at the Escalade and shook my head. It was just a tricked out Beast only without the personality of my trusty old ride. Damn thing probably couldn't even outrun a cop car. I walked off the lot in disgust.

I drove down to BETO Junction to have a birthday breakfast with my parents. Thinking I should start acting my age, I dug out a crumpled Ratigan Motors ball cap and put it on, pulling it low onto my ears. I popped the hood on my truck and hard wired the right turn signal to the number 5 cylindar plug wire on the distributor cap. It blinked bright and fast. I lowered my seat so that the brim of my cap was just grazing the top of the steering wheel set out on the 75 mile drive to BETO, right signal blazing away. It was only late March so there weren't any crops to inspect but I let my truck drift from centerline to shoulder, gawking around just the same. I had the cruise control set to just six miles per hour under the speed limit because I was in no hurry. The seventeen cars and trucks behind me must not have been in a hurry either because none of them seemed to want to go around me. I could see in my mirror that many of them were gesturing that I was number one - probably appreciative of super fuel mileage we were getting.

I had a great breakfast with folks and headed back to Lawrence. As peaceful as the drive down was I decided I didn't have the time to continue my audition for AARP so I undid my turnsignal modification, returned my seat back to its full and upright position, and tossed the rumpled cap into the back seat.

The drive home went pretty quickly except for the twelve mile stretch I had stuck behind some old farmer driving quite slowly a blue Escalade with its right turn signal twinkling away fast and bright...

Be safe everyone.

Post title from David Bowie's song "Golden Years"

The Rest of the Story

I started working for the Harrison County Secondary Road Department in the summer of 1986. Since I made it a point to stress on my job application that I was going to be studying engineering at ISU I figured I was a shoe-in for a position on the survey crew. Naturally, I was assigned to the vegetation control team, a.k.a. the brush crew. Eventually, I graduated to the seal coat crew driving the flat roller over pea gravel freshly placed over hot oil. At $5 per hour, there is no better way to spend a 100 degree day in the middle of July than in an open air cab of roller going 2 miles per hour.

Among the many skills I learned over two summers working for the County, including chain saw repair, driving a three-speed, and spraying toxic herbicides, I learned the importance of taking lunch at precisely the same time every day.

The seal coat crew usually had about a half-dozen or so people on it, not including Art (the foreman). One man driving the oil truck (Clinkenbeard), one driving the chip spreader (Bear), several guys driving dump trucks (Jim Pelton, Shorty, and someone borrowed from the south crew), and, of course, Mac driving the broom a mile in front the crew and me rolling everything into place a half mile behind.

Regardless of where we were in the process, be it stopped to refuel the equipment, waiting for the Wynne tanker truck to bring more oil, or right in the middle of laying down a layer of pea gravel, everything came to a stop at noon. The dumptruck drivers even somehow managed to all arrive at the jobsite just in time for the noon lunch break - a good thing because the dumptrucks were the only rigs on the crew with air conditioning.

Why such precision just for lunch? The answer is obvious: a radio show.

"Hello, America, I'm Paul Harvey. Stand by for news!"

Everyone on the crew listened to him religiously. Nothing, and I mean nothing, would interfere with the daily dose of Paul. The guys would eat their lunch in silence, trucks idling with the air conditioning blasting while the radios blared family friendly news interwoven seamlessly with advertisements. It was the most peaceful 15 minutes of the workday. Only after the trademark "Good Day" did normal crew bickering and banter return.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Harvey.

The References

For those who wonder from where my post titles are derived, here are the references since my Century Mark post:

All right, let's do the same thing, but with gophers – Said by Carl the Greenskeeper (played by Bill Murray) in the movie “Caddyshack” when it was clarified he was to kill all the gophers on the golf course, not all the golfers.


I will fear no evil for thou art with me – From Psalm 23:4.


Imagine all the people living life in peace – Line from the song “Imagine” sung by the late John Lennon.


But these stories don't mean anything when you've got no one to tell them to – Line from the song “The Story” sung by Brandi Carlile


We-e-e-elll la-de-freakin'- da! We've got ourselves a writer here! Hey, Dad, I can't see real good....is that Bill Shakespeare over there? – Said by motivational speaker, Matt Foley (played by the late Chris Farley), in a 1993 skit on the television show “Saturday Night Live”


Here we are. You have exactly 8 hours and 54 minutes to think about why you're here. You may not talk, you will not move from seats. Any questions? – Said by Principal Richard Vernon (played by the late Paul Gleason) in the movie “The Breakfast Club”


I set out on a narrow way many years ago – Line from the song “Bless the Broken Road” by the band Rascal Flatts.


To help other people at all times – Line from the Boy Scout Oath.


That's HEDLEY – Said by Hedley Lamarr (played by the Late Harvey Korman ) in the movie “Blazing Saddles”


May 22, 2008 – A sad day.


Everybody knows that smokin' ain't allowed in school – Line from the song “Smokin ’ in the Boys Room” originally by the band Brownsville Station and later covered by 80’s hair metal band Mötley Crüe.


Might As Well Go for a Soda – Line from the song “Go for a Soda” sung by Kim Mitchell.


Daisy, Daisy, Give me your answer do, I'm half crazy, all for the love of you – Line from the song “Daisy Bell” written by Harry Dacre in 1892. An IBM 7094 became the first computer to sing, singing this song in 1961. More famously known for being the last words spoken by the HAL 9000 computer in the movie “2001: A Space Odyssey”


No! It is I who fooled you! For I am dead...and merely acting alive! – Said by Master Thespian (played by Jon Lovitz ) in a 1985 skit on the television show “Saturday Night Live”


Ahhh - those Jazz guys are just makin' that stuff up! – Said by Homer Jay Simpson (voiced by Dan Castellaneta) on the television show “The Simpsons”


My road it may be lonely just because it's not paved. It's good for drifting, drifting away – Line from the song “Drifting” by the band Pearl Jam.


I'm stranded all night, stranded all right – Line from the song “Stranded in Iowa” by the Manfred Mann’s Earth Band.


She thinks my tractor's sexy – Line from the song “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” sung by Kenny Chesney.


There is a friend who walks with me – Line from the song “Jesus, Hold My Hand” by Albert E. Brumley.


Oh Maybelline, why can't you be true? – Line from the song “Maybellene” sung by Chcuk Berry.


I kinda changed my direction, I guess I went and broke the family tradition – Line from the song “Family Tradition” sung by Hank Williams, Jr.


Earl W. "Snick" Kinart – Long time resident of Modale, Iowa.


When through the woods, and forest glades I wander, And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees. – Line from the hymn “How Great Thou Art” by Carl G. Boberg and Stuart K. Hine.


How Can You Have Any Pudding If You Don't Eat Your Meat? – Line from the song “Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2” by the band Pink Floyd.


Roam if you want to, Roam around the world – Line from the song “Roam” by the band The B-52’s.


Me? Get juiced with The Cool Patrol? – Line from the television show “Square Pegs” theme song of the same name by the band The Waitresses.


To Go Boldly Where No Man Has Gone Before – Said by Captain James Tiberius Kirk (played by William Shatner ) in the opening credits of the television show “Star Trek” (grammatically corrected).


Peanut butter and jelly, taste so good in my belly – Line from the children’s song “Peanut Butter and Jelly”


May 22 again – A sad day.


Why don't you and the giant "laser" get a frickin' room? – Said by Dr. Evil (played by Mike Myers) in the movie “Austin Powers: The Spy Who Shagged Me”


It was like lightning, everybody was frightening – Line from the song “Ballroom Blitz” by the band The Sweet.


Y'know, any halfway decent girl can rob me blind, because I'm too torqued up to say no. – Said by The Geek/Farmer Ted (played by Anthony Michael Hall) in the movie “Sixteen Candles”


Uh, oh. Sounds like somebody's got a case of the Mondays – Said by the Female Temp (played by Jennifer Jane Emerson) in the movie “Office Space”


The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball – Line from the song “Red Rubber Ball” by Simon and Garfunkel.


And plant our dreams where the peaceful river cools, where the green grass grows – Line from the song “Where the Green Grass Grows” sung by Tim McGraw.


Hail to the busdriver ? – Line from and title of a children’s song. Author unknown.


Jump up Jump up and get down – Line from the song “Jump Around” by the band House of Pain.


It's Slinky It's fun for a girl or a boy – Line from the jingle sung during television commercials for the Slinky toy.


Welcome Iowa Staters – A greeting to my fellow Iowa Staters


Shall we play a game? – Variation of what the computer (Joshua/WOPR) said in the movie “War Games”


It's a high school, high school confidential – Line from the controversial 80’s song “High School Confidential” by the band Rough Trade.


And me all starry-eyed – Line from the song “Only Time Will Tell” by the
band Asia.


Rubber ducky, you're so fine, And I'm lucky that you're mine – Line from the song “Rubber Ducky” written by Jeff Moss and performed by Ernie (voiced by Jim Henson) on the Public Television show “Sesame Street”


Snowblind – Line and title of a song by the band Styx.


Be safe – My wish to everyone.


Country boys and girls gettin down on the farm – Line from the song “Down on the Farm” sung by Tim McGraw.


If you're gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right – Line from the song “The Gambler” sung by Kenny Rogers.


Seventy-six trombones led the big parade – Line from the song “Seventy-six Trombones” written by Meredith Wilson.


I Really Want to Know: Who Are You? Who? Who? – Line from the song “Who Are You?” by the band The Who.


Time Well Wasted – Line and title of a song by Brad Paisley.


Can I borrow your towel for a sec? My car just hit a water buffalo – Said by Irwin 'Fletch' Fletcher (played by Chevy Chase) in the movie “Fletch”


9 - 1 - 1 – Nation-wide telephone number for emergencies.


It has a nice beat and you can dance to it – The cliché offered by teens as music critique on the television show “The American Bandstand”


Of travel I've had my share, man – Line from the song “I’ve Been Everywhere” most famously sung by Johnny Cash.


Anything travels that far oughta have a damn stewardess, don’t you think? – Said by Crash Davis (played by Kevin Costner) about a homerun hit in the movie “Bull Durham”


Revenge of the Nerds – Title of an 80’s movie.


Compete - Empower - Unite – The slogan for the Special Olympics.


Now That's a Fire – Said by Eddie Murphy in his “Delirious” comedy act.


Hail Hail, The Celts are here, What the hell do we care now? – Line from the soccer song “Hail, Hail the Celts are Here ”. Author unknown.


It's a Fine, Fine Day for a Reunion – Line from the song “A Fine, Fine
Day” sung by Tony Carey.


Graduation 2006 – Description of the West Harrison High School graduation in 2006.


May 22 – A sad day.


Commencement, Sunday, May 18, 1986 – My memory of my high school graduation.


I Was Born in a Small Town – Line from the song “Small Town” sung by John Mellencamp


STOP Me if You've Heard This One – Cliché often preceding a bad joke.


Our Next Speaker is Angie – Something I should have said.


Country Roads, Take Me Home – Line from the song “Country Roads” sung by John Denver.


Thanks for the memory, Of things I can't forget – Line from the song “Thanks for the Memories” sung by Bob Hope.


Take off to the Great White North, It's a Beauty Way to Go – Line from the song “Take Off” sung by Rush’s Geddy Lee and Bob and Doug Mackenzie (played by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas).


Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery – Isn’t it, though? Some people have compared my stories to those told by Garrison Keillor but I’m sure he doesn’t intentionally mimic me (and vice versa).


This Space Intentionally Left Blank – Often found in reports to confirm that a page is indeed blank and not that something was forgotten. When my uncle, Bill Blair, passed away it was a loss of a great artist and an even greater person.



All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up – Said by Norma Desmond (played by the late Gloria Swanson) in the movie “Sunset Boulevard”

Thanks for reading and Be Safe.

Out on the streets, that's where we'll meet

Some friends back home have been reminiscing about the good times had at the Pisgah Play Days, the town celebration that includes a parade down Highway 183 through the center of town, little league ball games (both base and soft), a carnival in the city park, a talent show in the park, and a dance (also in the park). A few things I remember from the several that I went to:

Eddie Johnson (the local Ford dealer) driving his beautifully restored '55 Thunderbird convertable in the opening parade its white paint glistening in the sunlight.

Grandpa Maule driving his red '67 Lincoln Continental convertable in the parade. He really enjoyed showing off that unusual car.

Chris Knudsen playing the carnival game with the sliding shelves that pushed quarters around. He played the game for hours and is the only person I've ever seen actually make money at it (not counting Amy and Annette who aparently found dozens of quarters on the ground after the carneys had moved on to another town).

Trying to win the affection of a girl from Orson by drinking several Cokes and eating more hot dogs and hamburgers than I ever had before. so I could hang out at the food stand where she was working. Her neighbor/boyfriend did the same, damn him.

Riding the swing ride two times in a row and then blowing chunks all over the place because going in circles really fast for ten minutes after I had been hanging out at the food stand drinking several Cokes and eating more hot dogs and hamburgers than I ever had before is not a good idea. Not a good way to impress the ladies, either.

I hope to be back home for this year's Play Days (June 27-28) but probably won't play the carnival games or ride the swings. A (diet) Coke from the food stand may be doable though...

Be safe.

All right, let's do the same thing, but with gophers

I've been a little lax on posting lately but the book thing has been a little more pain in the keester than I expected. Here's a long winded one just because I'm long winded.

I've been very gradually relocating many boxes of old papers from Grandma's attic to our home in Lawrence. It seems like an endless task - Mom very diligently save every scrap of homework, all practice worksheets, numerous workbooks, and a Smithsonian's worth of elementary artwork. In a way it's very flattering. In another way it is a very daunting task to sort and cull the mementos to a more manageable volume. It almost makes me wonder why I bother to save any of it since there won't be anyone to pass it on to. But as I look out the window and see my neighbor's boys hitting each other with sticks from my lindenwood tree I think it's not such a bad problem to have.

One of the many treasures I've discovered while sorting through the is the Graduates section of the Missouri Valley Times from 1986. Joe K. has posted on his Facebook page scans of this for the Class of 1987. I won't be doing that. This section printed a (black and white) copy of the each graduate's Senior photo and listed all the sports and activities in which the student participated. Looking through it brings a few things to mind. For instance, some hair styles should never be resurrected. Ever. Ditto for glasses. And, it was really nice for the local newspaper to publish the address of every graduate, too (a pedophile/stalker's dream come true). But, I had a bit of a disappointment with my listing - I was shorted one sport.

I suppose from the school's standpoint the published list was technically correct. From my perspective, though, I was due a little credit. I mean, after all, I participated in a sanctioned event wearing the Black and White of West Harrison so why not be able to list "Golf" as one of my sports?

We didn't officially have a golf team when we were in high school. And, really, despite the best efforts of Grandpa Maule, Mervin Earlywine, and Mervin's grandson Matt, I really sucked at golf. Still, though, in 1984 Paul Z. (Class of '84 and a decent golfer) managed to convince Coach Adair (a good golfer) to let him play in the southwest Iowa high school golf sectional tournament. Just like that. No matches. No conference play. Just straight to sectionals. To this day I don't know how all the preliminaries got by-passed, but they were. The only catch: you had to have at least two golfers to make a "team."

There were other guys in school that golfed at that time; Mike P. and Todd S. (also of Class of '84) come to mind. But for some reason they weren't interested. Coach asked me if I would play and (I'm sure with no thought at all) I agreed. This was stoopid in many ways.

The match was at Willow Vale Golf Course in Mapleton. Paul and I rode with Coach Adair. A 90 minute drive but it only seemed like forever. I got along fine with those guys but since it was early on a Saturday morning I'm pretty sure I was hungover. That was just the harbinger of events to follow.

It was early spring so the temperature was hovering around sub freezing. The sky was overcast and there was just a hint of sleet in the air. It was hard to say if it was sleet or freezing rain; the wind was whipping so hard that the subtle distinction between the two types of precipitation was really irrelevant. Perfect weather for a round of golf (In Scotland).

I walked to the clubhouse with my starter set of golf clubs in their original black vinyl bag. I was in blue jeans, a sweatshirt, and my black West Harrison jacket with the vinyl hawk and "West Harrison" lettering pealing off (a fine Booster Club product). Just a smidgin short of being warm enough for the day.

I found in the clubhouse who the rest of my foursome would be. Never heard of them before. And, God bless them, I hope like heck they don't remember me. The second slap in the face (after the arctic blast) was no carts allowed. What the hell kind of barbaric tourney was this?

So, I WALKED to the first tee box and met my group. They were stretching, taking practice swings, and talking serious golf talk - I knew I was in trouble. Oh, well; I did my best to blend. A token stretch of the hammies, a few gentle half swings of my 3 wood, a few words about the usefulness of a 7 wood and I was accepted. For the moment.

After a quick overview of the rules we were ready to tee off. I don't remember how we decided who would go first, just that it wasn't me. The first shot was straight as an arrow and flew a couple hundred yards down the fairway. "Nice shot," I said. "Asshole," I thought.

I stepped up to the tee box and placed a battered ball on a broken tee. I stepped back and took a few practice swings with my three wood. I heard them murmur a few words like "nice swing" and "lefty." Yeah, yeah, I've heard that for a long time. I picked up a few blades of grass and tossed them into the air like I had seen Tom Watson do in the (British) Open. The frigid gale drove them directly into a tree like a handful of flippin' darts. It was from the north.

I addressed the ball. With a swing that was not at all like my practice, I took a mighty whack at the ball. There was a dull "thunk" followed by a reverberation that worked its way through my club and shook loose a filling in my number 3 molar. The ball careened off the heel of the club head and dove into the ground, narrowly missing my right foot. The wicked spin of the ball took all twenty yards into the rough almost straight to my right. Well short of the womens' tee box. Game on.

As near as I could tell, the course that day had been set up by the USGA for the next Open Championship and we were just using it for our sectional tournament. The rough was deeper than brome grass in the ditch on the south side of my home course. It took me five shots with a three iron and two more with a machete just to get onto the fairway. My seventh shot sent the ball skittering across the fairway into the rough on the left coming to rest under the short pine tree marking 100 yards left to the green. Another duff put me back on the fairway where I was finally able to use my favorite club: the seven iron. I did a long pitch and run shot that lolled onto the edge of the green (my short game was my strong suit). Three puts later and the first hole was done. Our group called out scores for the hole.

"Four."

"Five."

"Five."

"Twelve."

The other three guys looked shocked. They knew the number would be big but didn't imagine it would be an even dozen. Or, maybe they just thought I would lie and say a lower number. They obviously had forgotten how hacker golf looked but I was about to give them a vivid reminder.

The wind continued to howl which exacerbated the 90 degree slice I had when I was able to get the ball off the turf. The sleet retreated to just a cold mist. This made the blue grass jungle - the "second cut" in Masters parlance - a wet, matted mess. Most unfortunate since that's where most of my game was played. Cold, soaked, and scoring at a pace that would soon break most calculators. It was quite possibly the least amount of fun I have ever had on a golf course - and that is saying a lot.

As we made our way to the club house after playing the first nine holes I noticed the ball I had been playing wasn't even one of mine. I vaguely remembered finding it during one of my expeditions into the rough on the sixth hole. So, having already taken what had to be a tournament record 91 shots for nine holes - not including the penalty for playing the wrong ball for several holes I decided to end my high school golf career with a DNF. The only hole I shot below double digits was a par three. Coach Adair did not seem all that surprised - or disappointed - when I broke the news that I wasn't finishing the round. Neither did the guys in my foursome. I sat in the club house drinking coffee for the remainder of the day.

Paul had a much better day but I don't think he advanced. It was a quiet ride home, just like the ride home from most West Harrison sporting events. The emotional wound was quite deep, worsened by the lack of acknowledgement of the event by the Mo Valley Times Graduates section. I survive, though, I survive.

Keep it on the short stuff and be safe.

I will fear no evil for thou art with me

It was 26 years ago today we lost our classmate, Tobi. Tomorrow will mark eight years since Dena was taken from us. It's a busy time of year so please be careful, maybe remember an old friend, and take a second or two to appreciate those around you.

Be safe.

Imagine all the people living life in peace

It's Veterans Day. If you have time, please take a few minutes to thank someone who has served or is serving in our armed forces. For the West Harrison Class of 1986, keep Don Juan in your thoughts. He is back in Iraq for another tour. He promised to put the sheet of tin foil I sent him to good use. I hope it's just that easy.

Be vigilant and be safe.

But these stories don't mean anything when you've got no one to tell them to

I have learned a little something from George Lucas: it's not enough to release something just once. Repackage it a little and then RE-release it as a "special edition." Even if there's nothing more special about it but the new packaging. Well, that's what I've done. "Hooligan from Hills: Growing Up Ornery in Iowa's Loess Hills" is now available in hardback.

Just as with the paperback, it's available at http://www.lulu.com/jdsqrd

Be readin' and be safe.

We-e-e-elll.. la-de-freakin'-da! We've got ourselves a writer here! Hey, Dad, I can't see real good....is that Bill Shakespeare over there?

As I've hinted for the last three years, "Hooligan from the Hills: Growing Up Ornery in Iowa's Loess Hills" is now a reality. Paperback copies are now available and a hardcover version should be available in a couple of weeks. I'll warn you right now that because this is a small production thing (each copy is printed as it is ordered) the price is steep ($18.50+shipping). And, there are probably a few mistakes hiding in it but, frankly, I am just happy to say "done." It may be bought here:

http://www.lulu.com/jdsqrd

This book has stories based upon several these blog posts and also contains the previously untold tale of the Commandos.

Be safe.

Here we are. You have exactly 8 hours and 54 minutes to think about why you're here. You may not talk, you will not move from seats. Any questions?

Kathy Gilgen was one of my favorite school bus drivers. When I lived outside Mondamin and was attending 5th, 6th, 7th, and 8th grades at the Modale campus, I rode her bus from the transfer point(midway between Modale and Mondamin) to the Modale school building in the mornings and back to the transfer point in the afternoon. She treated the kids like real people but didn't take any crap from us little hooligans. It made for generally fun but not overly rambunctious bus rides. Of course sometimes (usually in the afternoon) we did get a little carried away and that would be when her generally pleasant demeanor changed from sunny to thunder and in an instant we would be glue to our seats in near silence.

I was the direct recipient of this swift exertion of authority one afternoon. I was in sixth grade (maybe seventh) and had had as bad a day as a twelve year old could have. And, no, I don't remember why. I put one foot on the steps going up into the Blue Bird ("Rated Cap'y: 59") and was immediately hit in the face with a black vinyl duffel bag some pissant first grader was carelessly swinging about.

"Get that fudging bag outa my face," I said without thinking.

But, like little Ralphie losing the Old Man's lugnuts, I didn't exactly say 'fudge.'

"GET...OFF...MY...BUS!" was Kathy's quick reply.

And, just like that, I was kicked off the bus for the first (and only) time. I don't remember if I was told to go to the principal's office or if I just knew that's what I was supposed to do but that's what I did. The twenty or so concrete steps that lead up to the school's exterior doors on the east side of the building seemed even more steep than usual as I trudged up to the second floor where his corner office was.

Mr. Bolte's office was the only airconditioned room in the building (it had a window unit) but it was not on that day. I was sweating profusely. All the school buses had two-way radios and could talk to each other as well as base stations in each of the school buildings in Modale, Mondamin, and Pisgah. Mr. Bolte already knew I had spouted an expletive and had been ejected from the bus.

I hadn't seen the office before so as I sat in silence waiting for my dad to come get me, I surruptitiously glanced around scanning the walls for the paddle I had heard others more familiar with this type of situation say was hanging, waiting for a corporal excuse to be used. I didn't see one. Stinkin' fibbers.

Dad was there pretty quickly, evidently had been at the machine shed next to the house working on farm equipment. Not much was said other than I would have to apologize to Kathy - after a week of being banned from riding the bus - and that all would be square.

It was a pretty quiet ride home, too. I fessed up to saying "get that damn bag out of my face" because I figured a fib about an F-bomb was appropriate at this point. The parents weren't real thrilled about driving my butt to and from school for a week but since I was grounded for that same week it wasn't like there was anywhere else to go.

Kathy accepted my apology and all was essentially forgotten. Ironically, I never heard boo from that delightful little scamp what smacked me upside the head with the duffel bag.

Be safe.

I set out on a narrow way many years ago

Back in the 70's when gasoline was only 2 bits a gallon, Dad would take circuitous routes to get from place to place so he could critique fields throughout the county. How straight the crop rows were (not only maximizes yield but looks nice, too) , how many weeds were growing (steals nutrients from the cash crop and messes up the equipment), what type of weeds were visible (shatter cane and thistles were the fastest spreading though sunflowers were toughest on the combine), how many gaps were in the crop rows (indicator of equipment malfunction), all fodder for judgment. I know other farmers did the same; it was a matter of rural pride.

I was thinking of this farmer egotism when I viewed a youtube video my folks sent to me. The location in this riveting docudrama was a field across the gravel road from of my Uncle's house down in Missouri River bottom. There was a time when this would have made a guy the butt of jokes for weeks (and maybe still is to some extent) but now it is placed on the web for all to see. Times are a changin'.

It reminded me of a small public works project I helped construct in the Summer of 1987. A bridge north of Pisgah had been deemed unsafe for loads heavier than a coconut laden African swallow and was closed (piece of shit bridge was failing after only 80 years of neglect). This caused problems for the farmers who routinely drove fully loaded grain trucks over it. To mitigate the several mile detour this necissitated, the County Engineer decided a new road should be built from the closed bridge to a slightly less dangerous bridge 1 mile to the north. Since there was no money budgeted for a new road construction it was decided that County personnel would construct it using County equipment. Pisgah had the closest Harrison County Secondary Road Department shed so it was up to us to build the road. Us being Jim Pelton, Jim Clark, Bill Hrabek, Jerry Hussing, and me.

Cocky from my freshman year of engineering at Iowa State, I asked the North Foreman, Art (a.k.a. "Unit 11" on the County radio system) a few basic questions about the plans and specifications. Q: "How wide is the Right of Way easement?" A: "Don't need one; the farmer needs the road." Q: "How high will the grade be?" A: "High as we can get it." Q: "Where are the plan and profile drawings?" A: "Don't need any." And, lastly and most importantly since I would be running the sheep's foot and flat roller compactors, Q: "What are the compaction requirements?" A: "Beat the piss out of it." I'm pretty sure there was no kind of Environmental Assessment, Environmental Impact Study, or any other analysis of the havoc we were about to wreak on the hills fields and possible wetlands in the area. With that I was initiated into the art of road construction.

Bill drove an elevated grader and cut ditches for the new road, tossing the dirt ("soil" in engineering parlance) into the new road bed. Jim Clark scraped more dirt off one of Iowa's Loess Hills near the bridge and Jim Pelton trucked it over to the road bed and added it to Bill's efforts. Jerry used a maintainer to even out the "lift" of dirt. And, I drove a vibrating sheep's foot roller over the road bed, "beating the piss out of" the dirt until it was as hard as stone. Probably over compacted but I hadn't had that class yet.

We worked for several days adding dirt on this new road bed, raising it "as high as we could get it" between the river bank and the relocated edge of the cornfield. It took maybe a week or so before we all noticed a slight problem with the road. Although it was straight as an arrow and was connecting nicely with the existing roads, it was narrow. Way narrow. Too narrow.

Shit.

Well, Art noticed the narrowness, too. Of course he expected us to fix it. Easier ordered than done. I was thinking this wouldn't have happened if there had been a set of plans and specifications to follow but I kept that nugget to myself.

Bill, Jerry, and the Jims set to bringing more dirt to to the new road, dumping it along the narrow road's shoulders. They did this for about a day until the loose soil mounded up to the height of the narrow road bed. Then I got back into the action, driving the sheep's foot along the shoulders, trying to compact the new dirt.

When we started the road, I was compacting the dirt as it was placed in layers of about 8 inches deep. No problem. But, now the road was nearly complete and the new dirt was basically two feet wide and about 6 feet high - on a slope, no less - I was tasked with "beating the piss out of it" too. It wasn't really possible but orders are orders so I gave it a go. I think I managed to roll on the precarious edge for a couple of hours, making a few passes on both sides of the road before the inevitable happened: the new dirt gave way and my roller started to slide - and tip.

The Bomag sheep's foot I ran was articulated, bending behind the drum and in front of the cab. When it started to tip, I cranked the wheel and shut down the throttle and drum vibration. There I sat in the teetering piece of heavy equipment, bent in its center pointing towards the new ditch. It continued its teeter, even after I hastily shut it off and jumped clear. Who'd a thunk it? The sumbitch didn't roll. That's what Jim Clark said when he brought an end-loader over to try to pull it off the slope. Bill said the same thing when he brought a maintainer over to help the overtaxed end-loader. Oh, yeah, I was back on the roller driving it as the big iron pulled. Art told me "there's fuck-ups and there's fuck-ups" and that I needed to drive my own mess back onto the road. I wept at the showing of sympathy.

Eventually we got it back onto the road - and decided that enough piss had been beaten from those new shoulders. Shortly after that a layer of gravel was added and the crummier of the two bridges was closed. As far as I know that narrow road with mushy shoulders is still being used.

Keep it between the ditches and be safe.

To help other people at all times

Please say a few prayers for the Boy Scouts caught in the tornado that hit the camp in Little Sioux.

[photo deleted because it was the incorrect location]

Be prepared and be safe.

That's HEDLEY

Now go do... that voodoo... that you do... so well.

Harvey Korman
Feb. 15, 1927 - May 29, 2008

May 22, 2008

Was back home for a short time to see some old friends and family. I still miss them all. Everyone, please be safe this holiday.

Everybody knows that smokin' ain't allowed in school

One of the treasures I retrieved from the attic back home was an original, first edition, good to very good condition "West Harrison Community Schools Student Handbook." Antiques Roadshow, here I come.

I flipped through it to see if it was just as tyrannical as I remembered. Old age must be scrambling my sensibilities, but it seems pretty lenient. Kids today certainly need more stringent guidelines.

I had to laugh when I passed by the section about tobacco products not being allowed on school property. Not so much that cigarettes and chaw is humorous but more because it brings to mind the small huddle of kids who would walk across the street and stand on the corner facing the school to have their smoke. Must have been cold during the winter months but goodness knows that nic-fits cannot be denied. Thank goodness for Skoal Bandits and their inherent concealability or the kids needing a chew fix would have gone bonkers.

I don't know when it disappeared but I'm sure the suruptitious smokers were devastated when the single car garage that provided a bit of a windbreak - helpfully labeled in black spraypaint as "Bob's Smockhouse" [sic] was demolished. I forget who "Bob" was but I'm pretty sure it wasn't tobacco that was being smoked when the spraypaint came out.

I wasn't a smoker but I kinda wish I had strolled over to the corner once just to shoot the smokey breeze - as long as it wouldn't be against the rules in the Student Handbook.

Be safe.

Might As Well Go for a Soda

I am a little bit stuck in my ways - no, really, I admit it, I'm not a big fan of change. It's a big, complicated world so, when I can, I try to standardize the little things in my life. I start almost every day the same way: eating breakfast, making coffee, checking email, showering, shaving, etc., in the same order, trying to leave within 3 minutes of a predetermined time. I have been known to take a day off from work when something in my wake-up routine went so far off schedule that I knew deep down that it was a bad omen and the rest of the day would be hosed-up too.

What one of my friends at work calls "OCD" - I prefer "consistency" - isn't a recently learned behavior. I started most of my High School Senior year days by going to Keith's Store around 7:30 in the a.m. and getting a freshly baked donut and a Pepsi. This was something I learned from my dad, although when he and I did that when I was four years old we didn't go Keith's, we went to the Modale truck stop at the intersection of I-29 and County Road F-50 (now the most visually unattractive junkyard in the Loess Hills).

The donut would be eaten before I finished the four block drive from Keith's to the school. I would be about 40 minutes early for the start of school but I would easily get what I considered to be "my" parking spot just two spaces from the north door leading to the gymnasium and lunch room. I would be irritated if someone was in my spot.

I would take my Pepsi into the lunchroom and shoot the crap with anyone who happened to be around. It wasn't unusual to find other kids at school early for music practice, weight lifting, running laps, (once-in-a-blue-moon) homework, or just being bored. Mondays were best because there was a whole weekend's worth of stories and lies to trade.

Along with shooting the crap, I would also shoot elementary students with paper wads. The Mondamin kids still in elementary school would catch a bus at 8:00 a.m. that took them to the Modale campus. But, before 8, the annoying little scamps would be noisy as hell in the lunchroom - a disruption to my day. I took to creating various forms of paperwads to use as ammunition (my best creation dubbed "teflon" was hard as a rock) and always searching school supplies for the strongest rubber bands to use as launchers. I would usually hit two or three of the little buggers with a satisfying thwap before the lunchroom monitor, Miss Pauli, would come on duty, and remind the tykes they weren't supposed to be in the building and remind me that I wasn't supposed to be launching paperwads at the kids, regardless of how deserving they were.

The last part of the morning ritual started with my response to the admonishment. I would take a drink of Pepsi and Miss Pauli would tell me to leave the lunchroom. And, I would go one step outdoors, finish my Pepsi, come back inside, and Miss Pauli and I would have a laugh. (Usually. A couple of times she would be a little more irritated with my repeated misbehavior but generally my civil disobedience was tolerated with good humor).

Miss Pauli was banishing me to the outdoors because I was drinking pop (soda to you from north of Mondamin) before lunch. Though I never verified it, supposedly buried in the Federal School Lunch Program subsidy language was a clause that said no pop (carbonated beverages) was allowed to be consumed in a participating school prior to the serving of lunch. We had a Hi-C machine and a Pepsi machine in the study hall but only the Hi-C could be had all day long - despite the fact the Hi-C was just as sugary as the pop. So, Miss Pauli was tasked with acting as a defacto agent of the government each morning and had to tell me to take my pop outside lest the school be stripped of its school lunch subsidy.

I thought then it was ridiculous (hence my blatant disregard for the policy). I remember it was quite a quandary when Pepsi wanted to donate a new scoreboard for the gymnasium, replete with the Pepsi double swish. Even though it would provide a much needed "1" in the visitor scoring so the next time our basketball team would give up over a hundred points (I was involved in such games more than once) their score wouldn't just roll over and restart at zero, the school wasn't sure granting PepsiCo exclusive rights for the one pop machine wouldn't be more of a violation of the same rule I flouted daily. The scoreboard eventually went up making the piece of white athletic tape some a-hole wrestler had placed in front of the Visitor score on the old scoreboard no longer necessary.

Anyhoo, by the time I finished my morning Pepsi, it was time to go first period. There are a series of Warner Brothers cartoons with Wile E. Coyote and Sam the Sheepdog where they greet each other each day at the time-clock, duel, and, just as amicably as the morning greeting, say "good night" while clocking out. Such was how I viewed Miss Pauli and I as I drank my verboten carbonated elixir each morning.

Eventually, though, most things change, despite crotchety grumps like me who resist. I've become a Diet Coke drinker, start most days with coffee, and have to skip donuts most days to keep from having to buy the next size up on my clothes. The elementary kids can be in the lunchroom in the mornings since the Modale (and Pisgah) schools were closed long ago and everyone now shares the building in Mondamin. I've heard that the kids can buy pop - in the lunchroom, no less - at any time of day. And, I understand Miss Pauli is retiring this year. I'm thinking of sending her a case of Pepsi to celebrate. Hopefully FedEx will make sure it is delivered before lunch time...

Be safe.

Daisy, Daisy, Give me your answer do, I'm half crazy, all for the love of you

I knew before 1980 that the main ape's name was Moon-Watcher, what "TMA" stood for, that Discovery's mission was really to Saturn, and that to stay one step ahead of IBM there was one very easy thing to do. I wrote a book report on "2001: A Space Odyssey" in Mr. Van Pelt's Fifth Grade class then. It was easy to do that report; I had read the book three times already.

I had only seen the first five minutes of the movie at that time. One of the networks aired it in prime-time when I was only five or so. I saw apes beating apes with animal rib bones just before my mother declared to it to be "blasphemous" and change the channel. It would be several years before I learned about the theory of evolution (there was no mention of extraterrestrial intervention), almost fifteen years before I would see the entire film, and two decades before I would make my home in a state where a vocal minority would actively oppose the teaching of a theory.

But, in the Fifth Grade I just thought it was an awesome story. Fiction. Science Fiction. Really good science fiction. Colonies on the moon, massive space stations orbiting Earth, interplanetary space travel, artificial intelligence, holographic memory, all only twenty years away. My imagination was captured. We had just ended missions (excursions of just a few days) to the moon, Spacelab was a small tube with solar panel wings, one-armed bandits called Viking scooped Martian dirt via remote control, and four-function calculators were still pretty expensive, so I knew there was a lot of ground that would need to be covered and quickly.

As mankind failed to produce most of the technological advances described in that book, I read the three sequels, none of which were as enjoyable as the first. I was in college when I finally rented the movie and, as is the case most of the time, found it to be ok but inferior to the book. Whenever I hear "Blue Danube" I envision a shuttle docking with a space station.

The author, Arthur C. Clarke passed away today, 40 years after he completed "2001: A Space Odyssey." Coincidentally, I am as old as this book and it still remains one of my favorites. The movie is decent enough but lacks the detail the printed words provide, such as what Moon-watcher's primitive mind is thinking when he first discovers the most basic tool: a lever (used as a club in this instance). Or, that TMA is just a TLA (three letter acronym) for Tyco Magnetic Anomaly. Or, that Saturn and its moon, Japetus, were the mission objectives (Jupiter used in the movie because George Lucas hadn't created Industrial Light and Magic so no one was able to create a movie planet with rings). And, although HAL is short for Heuristic ALgorithmic, many people still believe H-A-L was to stay one step ahead of I-B-M.

The worlds of science and science fiction are a little emptier. Godspeed Sir Clarke (16 December 1917 – 19 March 2008).

Be safe.

No! It is I who fooled you! For I am dead.. and merely acting alive!

The more I listen to parents here in the "big" city talk of the one sport their child plays or the single club at which their kid spends every last waking second the more I appreciate my days at West Harrison.

I had no business starting a varsity basketball game, was not nearly fast enough to run the 440 yard "dash" at the Bob Evans Relays, and certainly didn't have the velocity to pitch relief in a conference baseball game. But, I sure enjoy telling stories about all of those, especially since they seem to get better as I get older.

It wasn't just sports I lucked into, there were other activities as well. Maybe at a larger school I would have made the cut for some things. Maybe. But, happily, I will never know.

Take acting, for instance. I have the on-stage presence and enthusiasm of Steven Wright on qualudes. And, yet, I was able to land a speaking role in seven of the eight productions done during my high school days. Just call me Master Thespian.

The plays themselves were usually marginal, partly due to wooden performances such as mine, partly due to fossilized subject matter. So as to not offend village sensibilities, the plays Mr. Smith chose were a bit...dated. "Onions in the Stew," "Paint the Town Pink," "We Shook the Family Tree," "Our Miss Brooks." Those were all old plays in the 60's; in the mid 80's they were practically foreign. Only our last play, "The Diary of Anne Frank," transcended time.

The truth, for me anyway, was the performance was the worst part of being in a play. Not because it was done live in front of a live audience comprised of dozens of friends and family; hell, I made an ass of myself in front of more people than that without the benefit of a stage and microphone. It was just that the practices were more fun.

People who were a part of the plays back in the day know of what I'm speak. At each practice some crucial cast member would assuredly be absent due to some extracurricular conflict, requiring one of the other cast members to do double duty at practice and stand-in. My best performances were during practices where I was hamming it up in someone else's role.

A great deal of gossip was traded backstage while we were waiting for our characters to be needed in a scene. Particularly juicy gossip could cause one to miss his or her cue, especially if the dirt had to do with who was stepping out on whom. Oh, if only they knew what people were saying...

I spent a lot of time looking for places on the set to hide my lines. As much fun as I had playing other people's parts during practice, I never seemed to be able to learn my own. In "The Stuck Pot" I had two pages of the script taped to the back of my prop brief case for a scene I could never quite remember.

As I mentioned before, "The Diary of Anne Frank" was a different production. The stage was more elaborate, using new background "flats" that Mr. Peterson's Shop class had built. An elevated platform and stairway was needed so Mark Shelton and I built that from scrap 2-by material and plywood that may or may not have been swiped from the Shop class. The cast and crew was larger than usual and included students who had previously avoided extracurricular
activities (this was most evident during the first performance when the spotlight operator abandoned his post and an entire scene was done in complete darkness and confused the hell out of the audience). As the Frank patriarch I got to swear on stage which, oddly, Mr. Smith thought might be a problem for me. Evidently he never heard the string of expletives I dropped when I fu-..., er messed up a line.

A little known and obscure detail to this play, though, was one that I find most memorable. John, one of my closest friends since we met on our first day of kindergarten in late August of 1973, was in "Diary;" only his first second high school play. His character, Hans, was a smoker, which is ironic in ways I'm not going to elaborate. As if the stress of trying to not be captured by murderous bigots wasn't enough, Hans had to constantly bitch and moan about not having any cigarettes. In one scene, though, a cig, albeit an old, dried out one, was procured for him, and he eagerly lights up. The cigarette is supposed to flare because it is so dry. John took it as a personal challenge to create a prop cigarette (two actually, because for the first time in school history we did the play two nights) that would flare when lit. Using a little farm-kid knowhow - and a fair amount of gunpowder from a Black Cat firecracker left over from Halloween - John rigged up a couple of special fake smokes. But only two. There weren't enough materials - so he said - for testing.

So, the night of the first show, things go, well, like the first night of a high school play. The curtains didn't get pulled at the end of a scene. As I said before, another scene is done in complete darkness for want of a spotlight operator (Tracy, where the hell were you?), despite years of practice I stumbled over the word "damn," and then it came time for John/Hans to light up.

"Oh, Miep! Cigarettes!" The match was stroked across the strip of sandpaper as if in the hands of a seasoned veteran (he must have rehearsed this a great deal outside of play practice). There was a hiss and crackle of the flame as the match stick was raised to the end of the faux cigarette. The cast stared at John's hands as he put the flame to the frail paper prop. He inhaled and the cigarette tip glowed, probably due to the small amount of cigarette tobacco that was in front of the gunpowder. Then POOF. Son of a bitch if it didn't work perfectly. Fortunately no one heard the perfectly enunciated "damn" of admiration I said when John's prop smoke filled the air. Genius.

The second night went better in most respects, although John's second - and last - prop cigarette did hesitate before flaring brilliantly, causing us all to panic ever so briefly. And, just like the abbreviated flare of John's cigarettes, that production ended. There was one more play before we graduated but it paled in comparison to "Diary."

I almost forgot: anyone who was part of play in those days knows the best part was the cookies. Mrs. Smith's chocolate chip cookies were often brought to play practice and were a staple at ever post-production cast party. Forty excruciating minutes on stage was worth it to get one of those cookies.

Be safe.

Ahhh - those Jazz guys are just makin' that stuff up!

Chris Cosgrove was probably the most talented musician I ever met at the West Harrison Community Schools. When I decided in fourth grade I wanted to learn to play the saxophone (because it is shaped like my first initial) my Uncle Bruce - yes, that Bruce - suggested I start with lessons from Chris until school sponsored music lessons began in fifth grade. Chris had perfect pitch, could play damn near any instrument, and chose the most God-awful boring lesson book known to humankind: "Rubank Elementary Method - Saxophone". Repetitious rhythms of single notes, arduous arpegios in obscure keys, and nonsensical notes in goofy time signatures, but nothing resembling a recognizable song. Although I'm sure these lessons were well designed to make one technically proficient, I, for one, was uninspired. But, I stuck with it anyway.

I am reminded of our 5th-6th grade band whenever I see Lisa Simpson's orchestra on the Simpson's. I'm pretty sure that despite the best effort's of the new junior high band instructor, Mr. Scharff, we sounded just as wretched. What could really be expected of a group of only about 25 kids and no string section? Especially when several were playing instruments just because a) their friends were or b) their parents were making them. At least the lesson book he had us using, Belwin's "First Division Band Method" was margianally more interesting than Rubank.

It was sometime in sixth grade that Mr. Scharff asked me to play the baritone saxophone. I don't know why I agreed, could be I didn't really have a choice. But, I made the switch. In the sixth grade I was eleven years old and stood not much over 4 foot 6, maybe 4 foot 7 and a half tops. An alto saxophone is only about 24 inches tall and isn't too much trouble for a little kid to play while held next to his right hip in a seated position (back rigidly straight so as not to draw the ire of the director).

The bari sax, however, is considerably larger. Almost as tall as I was. My recollection of the first time I tried to play was that the bottom of the bell rested on the floor and I had to stretch to reach the mouth piece. I know the first time I joined the jazz band (we practiced in the basement band/music room before school started and my girlfriend, Alisa, played piano and was almost always late) people probably wondered "Hey, who's the kid attached to that saxophone?" The bari sax parts were always boring but we sure played a mean "Hey, Jude."

By the time I grew into the horn I grew tired of the bass line parts and downsized to a tenor sax, something I would play all through high school. I have heard that Chris Cosgrove leveraged his ability to type over 100 words per minute into doing real-time closed captioning for television broadcasts.

I still have my alto sax, the one on which Chris made me play those wretched Rubank fingering drills and though it badly needs new pads to be made playable again, I will never part with it. I may not be able to remember how to play it anymore but I can't spell JDSQRD without it.

Be safe.

My road it may be lonely just because it's not paved. It's good for drifting, drifting away.

I was back home last week; a quick up and back trip. I wore my weddings and funerals suit, something I enjoy oh so much. Actually it's been quite awhile since I've worn it to a wedding. All the friends have already gotten hitched and it seems none of them invite us to their second weddings. Or, in some cases, their third. That's OK, I don't like wearing the damn thing anyway.

John Lizer, quite possibly the best minister I have ever heard speak, was in good form. I always enjoy listening to him quote scripture and tell memories of the departed. He is always sincere. I watched him as he turned the pages of his Bible to the passages he had selected. He would start by reading the text on the page and then look up and finish the reading from memory. At one point he gave the same passage from two different Biblical translations, again, both from memory. Preaching, but not being preachy. It has always been in the back of my mind that I would like him to speak at my service some day.

He seemed to read my mind and said last Monday night to the friends and family gathered at Hennessey-Aman's that many people had asked him to say final words for them and that if they/we expected him to do that then we needed to hurry up and die because he wasn't gettin' any younger. My wife nudged me and whispered "no."

Tuesday afternoon Mr. Lizer spun a tale to my dad of when he was driving his postal route on Steer Creek Road (now Hillside Avenue) and met me north of Locklings. Now get this: I was in the Beast and moving quickly. I don't remember this specific event but I know the location, a sharp curve in the winding gravel road - I traveled this way often as a back way to Orchard Road.

As I've mentioned before, two decades before movies were made about tiny, suped-up, front-wheel drive foreign econo-boxes powered by Briggs n Stratton, 'drifting' around shopping mall parking lot, county kids were learning how to turn into a skid on gravel roads. Which I was doing that day when John saw me coming 'round the bend in the road.

He told my dad he thought for sure I was going to put that old Blazer into the ditch the way I was sliding towards the shoulder. But, he said, I pulled out of the skid and just kept on going. "A fine piece of driving" was how he described it to Dad. Now, I had done that same powerslide dozens of times and it was almost a reflex, but I consider John's words high praise, considering how many thousands of miles John has driven as a rural route delivery man.

It was just the kind of story John would tell friends and family at someone's funeral. I'm glad both Dad and I were there to hear it.

Rest in Peace, Miss Kay. You will be missed in so many ways.

Be safe.

I'm stranded all night, stranded all right

This space is normally reserved for tales of the Loess Hills area of Iowa from many years ago. However, this holiday weekend has been without parallel so this post will document the present.

Highlights: The rain and flurries the weather dorks predicted to begin in the wee hours of Saturday morning never materialized. Sleet did begin, though, at about 9:30a.m., which, coincidentally, was the same time me and the missus left Lawrence to head north to Iowa. We were already half an hour behind my intended schedule because I overslept. Drat.

We never saw either the rain or the flurries but it did sleet off and on all the way through Kansas City and on north to Cameron, Missouri. I began to doubt the credibility of the weather dorks - what little they have to doubt.

By the time we got to Bethany, it was snowing. We got fuel because Missouri gas tends to be cheaper. There roads tend to be crappier, too; coincidence? Interstate 35 was still decent but we were rethinking our plans of getting to Cedar Falls by dusk. The chicken tenders at the Bethany McDonalds were not very good (how do you mess up fast food?).

The weather.com Saturday forecast I read for Des Moines was a bust, too. The big message boards over I-35 said there was a winter storm warning until 6am Sunday. Nerts. There was about four inches of snow on the ground when we pulled into the Comfort Suites at the Living History Farms. It wasn't full yet but one family was already celebrating by the pool; looked like at least three generations had gathered, the oldest two with beers in front of them, the youngsters staring at hand-held video games. It would be around 2a.m. before the last of their room doors would slam shut for the final time of the night.

Sunday was windy but sunny when we started heading north again. The 30 miles per hour west to east crosswind was a real pain in the keester. But, when we turned east onto Highway 20 things looked pretty good again. The GPS on the dash said we would make our final destination, Elkader, by 1:30p.m.

It was just east of Waterloo when the weather turned sketchy. The highway was partially snow covered and the sky was overcast. No snow was falling but there was plenty on the ground already and it was blowing all over the place. Stopped for gas on the east edge of Waterloo. The truck thermometer said it was 17 degrees Fahrenheit. And, I almost ran over a guy when he stepped out from between two pumps right in front of my grill. Moron.

We got to Manchester and had to put the truck in four wheel drive - the roads were covered with snow in town. Elkader was only 40 miles away and that was a good thing because the blowing snow was making it tough to see at times. The situation really started going to hell about ten miles north of Manchester.

A snow plow blocked Highway 13 North - the road we needed to finish our trip. The driver said the road was drifted shut. Well, yeah it is, because the plow is parked down here and not bustin' drifts up there. No, I didn't say that out loud, because grudgingly I knew from my vast experience working for the county road department and absorbing the infinite wisdom of Jim Pelton, Bill Hrabek, Jim Clark, and Jerry Hussing, that sometimes you just can't keep up with Mother Nature. And that bitch was throwing quite a snit. The plow driver said maybe a different county road north would get us to Elkader.

So, to go north I first headed east, looking for a road that might still be clear to the north. After passing several, I chose a gravel road that looked passable and that had several farm houses on it - I figured at the very least the farmers probably kept their road clear. The GPS told us we were precisely 0.4 miles from the next paved road when I hit a large drift too slow and ended up stuck in the middle of it. With copious amounts of assistance from the computer controlled automatic transmission, the electronic actuated transfer case, and "Stabilitrak" I managed to not get unstuck. I also decided I would have been better off with a 5-speed tranny and a manual transfer case 'cause all that electronic shit fought everything I did to try to rock us out.

The truck thermometer (that works great) now read 12 as we got out of the truck and started the 100 yard walk to the nearest farm house. I think the last time I was stuck was when I was 16 years old. Funny, it didn't feel any better now than it did then. Fortunately, the Ryans were home and took us in until another neighbor arrived with a four-wheel drive tractor (it was green but I kept my mouth shut since it was my sorry ass in the drift) and took me back to my truck to pull it out. It did not come out easy. The wind was still howling and the drift was nearly 3 feet high in front and back. But, eventually it came free and I drove to the Ryan house while the tractor cleared the path back to asphalt for us. The Ryans and I decided that we would have to head most of the way to Dubuque before the next road to the north would likely be clear.

The wind was raging, the sky was grayer, and, worst of all, my schedule was blown to shit. We drove east on County Road C64. I think. I don't know. Most of the time we couldn't see crap for the blowing snow and the drifts were becoming more frequent and larger. We pressed onward to the east, just hoping the GPS was right in saying the next town was only 4 miles away - it had popped up with a disturbing "Lost Signal" message a couple of times.

We emerged from one white-out just in time to see an eighteen wheeler 300 yards away coming at us in our lane as he avoided drifts on his side of the road. I've seen this type of thing before but this time I didn't end up on a stretcher in an emergency room. I swerved and how I didn't lose the mirror on my side I'll never know. Just like I'll never know why we didn't roll. My mouth tasted like tarnished pennies after that. Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good.

We got to Luxemburg, Iowa at about 2p.m. and decided that Elkader would have to wait until Monday as it seemed most roads north sucked. Most roads in general, sucked. Luxemburg, despite being at the intersection of Highway 3 and Highway 136/52, is a town no larger than Modale where I once lived. It had the same amenities as Modale, too (bar, gas station, cafe) all of which were closing soon or already closed and none of which included lodging. Dyersville was only ten miles to the south and we decided to head that way. After going less than a mile out of Luxemburg on 136 to the south, visibility went to about 100 feet. It wasn't much of a discussion in which we decided it would be better to sit in an idling truck in Luxemburg than to go any further in this mess. We returned to the center of town and I went into the gas station to see if there were any options. There were already about ten other people inside who had likewise decided they couldn't go any further.

The man at the gas station made a couple of calls and soon thereafter the Holy Trinity Roman Catholic Church was opened and those of us who were stranded were invited to come inside. It was a beautiful old church with extremely ornate sanctuary and detailed sculptures for Stations of the Cross. It was around 3p.m. and the town marshal had parked his police truck in the main intersection and effectively closed the highways. A state trooper arrived a few minutes later and officially closed both 136 and 3. Meanwhile, as more motorists came into town, they were directed into the church with us.

Around 4:30p.m. there were about 40 people in the church and even more in vehicles outside. Although it was very comfortable, it was decided the facilities would not be able to handle this many people (or more). The State Trooper got a State DOT snowplow into town. He sent us all back to our cars and said that we would all follow the plow to Dyersville where there were motels, food, and fuel. It was dusk and as we got back into our vehicles, I saw that more cars and trucks continued to come into town. The holidays really do make people do less than sensible things.

At just after 5p.m. it seemed to be dark enough to begin the odyssey. The snowplow started out to the south while the State Trooper held everyone back. About fifteen minutes later the Trooper moved south on 136 while the town marshal stood in the intersection and directed all the cars into a line behind the Trooper. That marshal was one tough dude - he walked to each vehicle as it came into town and told them the situation and I never once saw him complain or (visibly) call any of us stoopid. A couple of times as the line formed cars got stuck in the 3/136 intersection because they approached too slowly: not a good sign.

It was probably 5:30p.m. before we pulled into the line. There were probably 40 cars in front of us and at least 20 more behind. According to the GPS on the dash, we moved a paltry 1.4 miles and then stopped. The wind and snow were blowing hard; the town was already invisible in my rear view mirror and I could only see the lights of the four cars in front of me. We sat on the highway for nearly twenty minutes and I was concerned that road would drift shut while we sat. Eventually we began to slowly move south again. As we crested a hill that had been cleared of a five foot high drift, the blowing snow made it impossible to see even the car just fifteen feet in front of us which was almost as frightening as seeing a semi coming at you. Almost. My earlier suspicions were soon confirmed when we passed a stopped car that had gotten stuck in the remnant of a drift the plow had busted a half an hour earlier; this was what had brought us to a halt.

I may have imagined it but as we neared New Vienna I thought the wind had maybe slowed a smidgen, maybe down to only 25 or so. I would say the line of cars stretched as far as we could see but seein's how it was still white-out conditions that wouldn't be saying much. I had to be quite a spectacle to the locals in New Vienna as this line of over 60 vehicles crawled through their town. It had taken just under thirty minutes to go the first 4 miles.

The next six miles were relatively uneventful. Not much can happen at thirty miles per hour and, thank God, nothing did. We reached Dyersville around 6:30p.m. I resisted the urge to take us to see the Field of Dreams. Sandy's sister had already made us a reservation at a motel which we went to directly, as did a few others from our caravan. We could see a McDonalds from the motel and decided that would have to do - for lunch. We had been too preoccupied with the roads, weather, seeing, etc. to eat. We made several phone calls to family and friends to let them know where we were and that we were ok. I discovered the text messages I had sent to my best friend throughout the day were never received; I have a hunch that the OnStar service that I have never activated would not have been any help had this been an actual emergency. We went to sleep early.

Monday we awoke to clear, sunny skies. The local news confirmed that we had managed to be in the very worst part of the storm most of the afternoon. The Iowa DOT website said one of the highways we needed to get to Elkader was still closed with no ETA on when it would open. It was at this point, 8:30a.m. on Monday, having been within 25 miles of our objective, that we pulled the plug. The forecast had a "chance" for "flurries." Fool me once, yada, yada, yada.

So, we packed our luggage back into the truck, got onto a partially snow covered Highway 20, and headed back west. The roads and weather were great once we got west of Cedar Falls. We stopped briefly in Ames to drop off some Christmas gifts (ho, ho, ho) and then continued on south back to Lawrence.

We arrived in Lawrence at 4p.m. Monday. Friley was very happy to see us and we were happy to not be on the road any more.

But, wait, of course there is more. My insomnia kicked hard Monday night. I was awake at 1:30am Tuesday morning and was about to drift off to sleep again at 6:15a.m. when there was a loud crashing sound outside our house. A car had lost control on 6th Street and hit a tree in our yard. Hit it hard. I looked out the window (less than 5 minutes after the crash) and saw that another car had stopped and was picking up the crashed car's driver. I called the police and went out to see if any help was needed. Nope. Car was DOA, driver was MIA, and no license plate was on the car. Hmmm. Then the car I presume was the one that picked up the driver drove by slowly, gave me and the wreck the once-over, did a three point in my neighbor's drive way, and split back down the street. The police - lots of them - arrive shortly thereafter. My skills as an eye-witness have gotten lax. I didn't have any description of the driver, not a good description of the "getaway" car driver, and only a good guess on its license plate. The police thanked me for my (lack of) help and said I should get back inside. The car was towed a short while later while I took a nap. The tree will be fine. Merry Christmas.

And, that is how we spent Christmas 2007.

Be safe - and smart.

She thinks my tractor's sexy

I made it back home for Thanksgiving this year, despite the multitude of morons traveling on Interstate Highway 29 the night before. Really, people, when there is an accident on every freakin' overpass between the municipality of Mound City and hamlet of Hamburg, get a flippin' clue and slow the hell down BEFORE a bridge and maybe you won't end up like the other dipsticks wrapped around the guardrails. Sheesh, I love it when a four hour drive turns into a six hour odyssey. Speed kills, people, speed kills. That probably seems a bit odd coming from me; feels odd typing it.

So, in addition to eating too much and spending quality time with the family (including losing cribbage to my little brother and Bruce which just ain't right) I got reconnected to my farming roots.

Ha, ha ha, ha ha...the beauty of blogging is no one sees when I can't keep a straight face when I type B.S.

Dad has been back home for a few weeks helping out with the harvest. The Friday after Thanksgiving, Little Brother and I did a few rounds with Dad in a computer controlled, GPS guided techno wonder Case AFX8010 axial flow combine. I swear the damn thing had the same glass cockpit the new Boeing 787 has. But, the first thing I noticed was it had FM radio. That's probably one of the reasons why I'm not a farmer.

Just one reason.

Dad has officially been out of agribusiness for nearly 25 years but he still feels drawn to farming. He really loves making things grow, be it 100 acres of soy beans or an acre and a half of blue grass. I don't get it; never have, and I have a splotchy yard of bermuda, rye, and crab grass to prove it. And, he's always known that I don't get it. When I was 11 years old (right around the time of grain embargo stagflation) Dad told me if I ever said I wanted to go into farming he would hit me over the head with a baseball bat. Good enough for me.

I lack the focus and concentration the job requires. Like the time I was cultivating the north 80 acres between Kelly Lane and Highway 183. Not something I did often but there I was, guiding the International Harvester 6588 diagonally across the field, tilling what had been a bean field. Ok, I don't know for certain it was an IH 6588; it could have been a 4386, 5088, or even a 3788. Hell, it was red like all the other equipment Dad and Uncle Duane had. And only had AM radio. Anyhoo, cross the field, raise the cultivator, turn, lower the cultivator, cross the field, raise the cultivator, turn, lower the cultivator, what will I do this weekend, cross the field, raise the cultivator, turn, lower the cultivator, ask her out maybe, cross the field, raise the cultivator, turn, lower the cultivator, she'll just say no, cross the field, raise the cultivator, turn, lower the cultivator, why the hell won't she go out with me, cross the field, raise the cultivator, turn, go to the slab instead, lower the cultivator, maybe she'll drive by, cross the field, raise the cultivator, maybe she'll even stop, turn, lower the cultivator, cross the field, nah - probably not, hey, what the hell...

And, just like that, the same section of the field has been crossed four times and a thirty two foot section of barbed wire fence is stuck in one of the outer shovels of the cultivator. When my mind wanders so does the tractor. I was never asked to do anything more complicated than that. But, I think I would fare better with this newer, self guided heavy equipment. I don't intend to find out, though. Don't want Dad to crack me over the noggin with that baseball bat.

Be safe.

There is a friend who walks with me

The holiday season is upon us. Keep family and friends in your thoughts and be sure to take some time to just appreciate all you have.

Be safe.

Oh Maybelline, why can't you be true?

My student government career began as Junior Class President in 1984. It was a position I actually wanted because the Junior class was responsible for raising the money that would be used for paying for the Junior-Senior Prom and whatever was leftover would go towards graduation. I think we did pretty darn well in the fundraising department though after our last scholarship check our class account is now less than one Jackson from being zero (hint hint Class of '86).

My Senior year allowed me the chance to be Student Council President, the highlight of which was being on the school lunch menu committee. Oh, and speaking at graduation, but I've already written about that disaster.

All this experience was grooming for my service as a Government of Student Body Senator at Iowa State University (elected twice). I have very fond memories of taking part in a government that few knew existed representing people who didn't care about things that meant little to the pursuit of higher education.

I would have never been a GSB Senator if not for Alan G. He had held the same position as Senator for the residence hall in which he (and later, I) lived and convinced me to run for his seat when he "retired." It was supposed to be a "fun" diversion from my pursuit of a degree. It had its moments. Mr. Smith's assertion that Robert's Rules of Order is NOT a bag of tricks was dispelled quickly. Move to table the notion.

Part of being in the campus GSB was also being a part of my residence hall executive council. Oh, if only it were as cool as it sounds. Actually, there were several events, almost none of which were governmentalish, that were cool. The cookouts we did for the residents during Spring move-in, the Terrace Room parties in South Friley Hall, and DEBASH, all of which were social events and all of which were probably the most useful things student government did for the masses. Goodness knows the office hours each week were an unnoticed waste.

To fulfill an administrative requirement the executive council had to sponsor and/or present an educational program each semester. Most were quite forgettable, I assert this because I have forgotten them all.

Except for one. My final semester as a member of the council, we sponsored an all-day slate of mini-sessions. I don't recall the theme that tied all the sessions together, I only remember the one session in which I actively participated. "Understanding the Opposite Sex." Like that could be explained in just an hour.

It was a very well attended session. It was a panel discussion with the panel comprised of three men and three women. Any three of each gender in the session could be on the panel. In fact, the only way to participate - speak, if you will - is if you were seated at the front of the room. It was run like a huge tag-team match: a person would say her or his piece and then would tag-off with someone (of the same gender) in the audience and then the new panelist would be free to opine to the group. Surprisingly, a lot men and women had a great deal to say about the opposite sex.

Also, though not as surprisingly, I spent a great deal of time at the front of the room representin' the X-Y. Over the years I have learned a thing or two about tweaking, button pushing, and generally annoying the heck out of others so, for me, this was like shootin' fish in a bucket. During the discussion on "respect" I dropped a few "chicks" and "babes" which, I must admit, garnered quite an impassioned response. A reference or three to cooking and ironing shirts further stoked emotions. Salmon in a shotglass.

The part of the discussion I recall most vividly had to do with the disparity in preparation time each gender needed before leaving for a night out. The general consensus was the fairer sex required considerably more time than the gents. I had to tag my way back onto the panel for this. One of the distinguished ladies from Helser Hall posited that women possibly took a wee bit more time for personal preparation because (at that time in the late 1980's) only women wore make-up, something that men (again, at that time in the late 1980's) did not do and could not understand. Besides, women only wear make-up for the benefit of men anyway, so we should just shut the heck up about taking so long to get ready.

Oh, really? Well, I guess...

..."IF THE BARN NEEDS PAINTING, THEN PAINT IT."

I remember thinking "wow, did I really say that out loud?" A quick glance around the room, half of which was cheering and the women looking as pissed as Jane Fonda at a VFW convention confirmed that I had indeed verbalized my thought. One of my (former) female friends from Rowe House threw a fellow woman out of one of the panel chairs so she could offer a very voluminous rebuttal. I think it was a rebuttal, I don't know, I wasn't really listening.

OK, I admit it. The line wasn't mine. It went over big, made me a hero of sorts with chauvenist pigs in the room. But, it wasn't mine.

The same man who told me the joke that had "Two obese Pattys, Special Ross, Lester Cheese pickin' his bunions all on a Sesame Street bus" as a punch line also once said "If the barn needs painting, paint it." I thought that was so freakin' funny I filed it away in my noggin for a day when I could bust it out. Bust it out. Ha! I'm unstoppable.

He had driven me and the rest of the 1984 Southwest Iowa Honor Marching Band to Dallas, Texas to march in the Cotton Bowl parade. He also made it possible for me to get my first job with the Harrison County Secondary Road Department. He was the first Democrat for which I ever voted. On a sub-zero day in December of 1990 he and I emptied a diesel engine fuel filter into a sink in Hutton House in South Friley Hall. That same day we learned my four cylinder Isuzu pick-up didn't have the umph to jump start a V-8 diesel, even with ungelled fuel filters. I will always think of him as being one of the best county supervisors ever to serve Harrison County.

"If the barn needs painting, paint it."

I am going to miss Duane Grooms.

Be safe.

I kinda changed my direction, I guess I went and broke the family tradition

Something I don't see as much here in the 'burbs as I do when I travel back home is the graduation tassel a hangin' from the the rear view mirror of a teen ager's car. I see lots of bead necklaces (I don't want to know) and dreamcatchers but tassels, not so much. Maybe that's more of a rural thing or maybe it's just something that, like Wham! and Flock of Seagulls, didn't survive the 80's. Tradition.

I mentioned to someone down here that we turned our class rings so the year faced the right when we graduated - "out when you're out" - she said I was nuts. Then I said how some girls would put wax or string inside their boyfriend's ring so they could wear it on their left ring finger instead of putting it on a chain. Again, she called me loopy. Tradition.

One of the first time's I took my (soon to be) wife back home to meet my family we happened to be behind a pick-up truck that was just leaving the new high school, a young man at the wheel and a young lady sitting by his side. My wife mentioned how she hated that and would never sit by me like that. When I get a pick-up now, I get bucket seats - no sense in getting a bench seat now. I remember when my high school girlfriend sat by my side I was on cloud nine. It was just one of those things that was done when you had a steady. Tradition.

When I last visited back home I saw that the Class of 2008 had spray painted their graduation year on the grainery on the south end of Kelly Lane, as had been done by other classes since the 1970s. Someday I hope someone from their class can explain why they had to cover the entire side of the building unlike all the other classes. Tradition.

My high school graduation tassel hangs on a small wooden stand on top of my computer at home. The black and white one, I mean. For eight years it had been in a cardboard box with my varsity letters and medals that never got put on a jacket. Also on that stand is my college tassel, a bright orange shock of yarn that was is just ugly enough to represent the college of engineering. The third tassel that hangs from the clip is my favorite even though it is very faded from years of hanging from the rear view mirror of the Beast (before the mirror fell off). It was a maroon and gold souvenir tassel one I special ordered when we ordered caps and gowns and other shtuff for high school graduation (like Senior Keys, Memory Books, and Graduation Announcements - the Jostens cartel is quite thorough). I don't know if I ever really explained to everyone why I had pushed for our class colors to be maroon and gold: it was a nod to the people like my dad who had been a part of or graduated from the Modale High School whose school colors were maroon and gold; trying to keep some traditions alive.

Be safe everyone.

Earl W. "Snick" Kinart

From the Council Bluffs Daily Nonpareil:

Earl W. "Snick" Kinart, age 105, of Modale, Iowa, passed away on Friday, September 28, 2007, at the Community Memorial Hospital, in Missouri Valley, Iowa.

Snick was born, in Harrison County, Iowa, to William and Cora (Wilmontt) Kinart, on October 13, 1901. He was married to Glaideth Miller on June 19, 1930, at the Methodist Church, in Logan, Iowa. To this union two sons were born.

Survivors include his sons, Jerry Kinart and wife Lucille, of Hales Corners, Wis., and Duane Kinart and wife Nadine, of Battleground, Wash.

Visitation, with the family, will be held from 6 p.m. until 8 p.m., Thursday, with a Masonic Service at 7 p.m., at the Hennessey-Aman Funeral Home, in Missouri Valley. Funeral services, Friday, 10:30 a.m., United Methodist Church, Modale. Burial at Little Sioux Cemetery, in Little Sioux, Iowa.

In lieu of flowers, memorials may be given to the Modale Methodist Church.

When through the woods, and forest glades I wander, And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees.

I think we were in Kindergarten when went on our first school field trip. Of course it wasn't earlier but it may have been First Grade - I'm getting old and my memory is getting a little fuzzy on things that we did thirty-four years ago - but I'm thinking it was Kindergarten. For the sake of this voyage in the way-back machine, it was the Spring of 1974.

Kids in Kindergarten at the West Harrison Elementary/Junior High School campus at Modale went to the Henry Doorley Zoo at Omaha for their field trip. Beats the tar out of me what our future classmates at the Pisgah campus did for a field trip, my attention was already pretty focused on my little slice of the planet.

Because we were a group of twenty-one five year-olds we couldn't be trusted to explore such a big space with only Miss Allen and a couple of volunteer parents providing chaperon power. So, the Fourth Grade class also came along too. I imagine someone thought this would be a good idea for a couple reasons. Economy of scale: one trip, one bus, two classes. Added supervision: the buddy system would be employed and each Kindergartner would be paired with a Fourth Grader for the day. Like the Bowl Championship Series and Socialism, this was better in theory than in practice.

Random drawing, alphabetically, tea leaves, I don't remember how the hell we were partnered up, just that for that one day I was supposed to be "buddies" with a Fourth Grader named Jay Durnil. The joy and excited anticipation of going to the zoo for my first time was instantly replaced by dread. Although he was four years older than I, I was already very aware of my "buddy." "Bully" was the first word that came to mind. I was certain that the entire day would be filled with taunts, insults, and slugs to the arm.

A bit of luck fell my way just prior to the day we visited the zoo. Jay broke his leg (tibia fracture, I think) and ended up with a cast on the lower half of his right leg. By the time we actually boarded the bus to head down I-29 to Omaha to go to the zoo, he had healed enough that he could put weight on the leg and hobble sufficiently to get around. Mobile, but not too quick. My spirits lifted; there was a good chance I could out maneuver him and escape the brunt of his wrath.

It turned out I worried for nothing (a habit I've been told I still have today). Jay was just as excited to visit the zoo as I was, so much so that he totally forgot his ornery ways and acted more like a friend than a foe, often pointing to the animals to make sure I saw everything he was seeing.

I have two distinct memories from that day. One was the disappointment we all had when we entered the building that was the home of Casey the Gorilla. This was 1974 and the notion of providing zoo animals large areas similar to their natural habitat to roam was just coming into vogue but the renovation of the gorilla and orangutan buildings was still a decade away and 30 years before the Hubbard Gorilla Valley would be constructed. What we saw that day was a thick pane of glass that separated us from Casey. Glass that Casey had, in a fit of gorilla rage (probably from hearing that renovations were delayed), had scratched so badly that we couldn't see anything other than claw marks. No gorilla for us that day.

My second memory from that day was watching Jay Durnil, the bully with a broken leg, smiling and laughing, and often leading the two classes down the concrete paths, hobbling as fast as his plaster covered leg would allow, to be the first kid to see the animals in the next exhibit. I'm not going to say that I left that day with a new best bud - this was the real world and not an after school special - but I did see Jay a little differently. That day we had fun.

He moved away after that school year ended, to the town of Elkhorn just outside of Omaha. It was about a year later that he was abducted and murdered, found on the bank of the Missouri River, a case that is still unsolved. My young mind didn't understand it then and my old brain doesn't understand it now.

I understand there has been a lot of additions to the zoo since I was in Kindergarten: an aquarium, an aviary, a veldt for the big cats, an expanded area for the gorillas. People look at me strangely when I tell them I haven't been to the zoo in decades even though I lived just a thirty-eight miles from it. I probably will visit it again some day; it is the one of the best in the world, after all. I'm just not ready yet.

Be safe.

How Can You Have Any Pudding If You Don't Eat Your Meat?

At Modale Elementary of the West Harrison School District lunch was served on round brown plastic plates that were divided into three sections, much like a tv dinner. The main "course" took up the largest section - roughly half the plate - and the two remaining quarter sections
were used for the side dish and dessert. I'm not sure how the kids at the Pisgah campus did things, but in Modale we came to the lunch room as a class, single file, and started lunch by handing the school secretary, Mrs. Bolte, our lunch ticket which she would punch with a single hole paper punch. 5 day lunch tickets were made of a hideous pinkish peach card stock and 20 day tickets were an aqua color. It occurred to me today that the wives of both elementary school principals worked as secretaries for the school district. How convenient.

Anyhoo, after getting a nepotistic punch of the lunch ticket and grabbing a fork, spoon, and napkin, the cooks would load up the sections of the plate with the day's meal. After leaving the serving counter we would grab a plastic glass and fill it up with milk (chocolate milk on special occasions) at the big stainless steel refrigerated milk dispenser, deftly done by holding the glass under a white rubber tube and lifting the silver hammerheaded lever using the top of your forearm. With milk in one hand and the plate and tin silverware in the other it was off to the lunch tables where until junior high you sat by class next to the people with whom were in line before and after you. Of course some careful dawdling could alter the seating order if you were so inclined to want to sit next to someone special (wink, wink, no whut I mean, nudge, nudge).

Really the mechanics of getting the lunch are insignificant when compared to the hurdle to be cleared to eat dessert. Mr. Ulrich, in addition to being a junior high assistant coach and junior high science teacher (he once warned Mac, Paul F., and me to be careful with potassium nitrate because if could be dangerous as we mixed up a batch of gunpowder in an individual research experiment) was also the lunchroom monitor. He would walk around the lunchroom admoninishing us for not eating (or trying to eat) a sufficient amount of our lunch but this was only a secondary function of his patrol. His primary duty was to be judge and jury on when you could go back for a second helping or when you could eat dessert - his permission was needed for both. Point with the index finger on your left hand at the section of your plate you wanted to address: an empty section if you wanted more of something or the dessert if you felt you were deserving. Your right hand would be raised waiting for his critical gaze. He would appraise the plate to see if you had eaten enough of the main and side dish to be worthy of dessert or additional portion of something.

You also needed his permission to leave the table and go to recess - which would not be granted until the plate was empty "enough." The more food you left on the plate the later recess would start for you. For some menu items it would be a battle of wills of whether you would eat something you despised just to get a few extra minutes outdoors or second piece a particularly good dessert. He always won that battle.

Some days he seemed particularly surly and made lunch difficult for fussy eaters such as myself - it would be many years before I found out the cause of the surliness. Regardless of his mood, I rarely got much of a recess on the days we had eggs-ala-king or spinach and to this day eggs turn my stomach though I do make a few dishes using spinach as a minor ingredient.

Be safe.

Roam if you want to, Roam around the world

I learned how to drive on a Farmall H. I was in a 90 acre field of corn pulling a trailer loaded with 30 foot sections of 6 inch diameter circle-lock aluminum pipe that my dad and my uncle were unloading. Later the pipes would be joined together to bring water from a well to irrigate the field. Since they were walking along side the trailer dropping off sections of pipe every 30 feet, I idled in first gear with the throttle was set as low as it would go. Not Iowa Corn Indy 250 type speed but still, I was driving. I was about 10 years old at the time.

Later that summer when the H was being used at a different field I got to drive my uncle's pickup truck to pull the load of irrigation pipe. Nothing against the venerable Farmall, but driving a 3/4 ton Chevy pickup is much more cool, even if was just an automatic going so slow the needle on the speedometer didn't even lift off the peg.

It wasn't too long before I was driving from field to field taking a pickup to where Dad or my uncle was waiting after moving a tractor or combine. I almost always stayed on the gravel back roads; even the local authorities in a farm community would frown upon a 12 year old driving alone.

I think it was either the summer after our 5th or 6th grade when I first took Mom's Blazer (the truck that a few years later would become the Beast) out for spin without being specifically told to do so. I was playing Cub B baseball for the Modale-Mondamin team (the Mud Ducks). It was a Saturday and we had a game in Woodbine. For some reason no one was available to take me to the game. A couple other guys on the team, including my buddy, Troy, needed a ride, too. What the heck, I decided I could get us there. So, I jumped into the Blazer with my bat, glove, and cleats and headed over to Troy's place out south east of Modale. I picked up Troy and couple other guys and off to Woodbine we went. The trip was about 25 miles one-way, with way too much of it on paved highways. But, we made it to the diamond in time for the game and without drawing any unwanted attention. I don't remember if we won or lost; the real excitement was during the return trip. We were just a mile from Troy's house, driving a little too quickly down the gravel road that passed in front of his house, when the truck suddenly started pulling pretty hard to the passenger side and was really difficult to control. I managed to stop without slipping into the ditch on the right side of the road. We got out and took a look around the truck and found that we had had a blowout of the rear passenger side tire. And, for some reason, I had no spare. This predicament would become a recurring theme throughout my teen years. Fortunately, Troy's older brother also drove a Chevy truck and let me borrow his spare to get home. I had some 'splainin' to do for that one. I think I only owned up to going to Troy's house but not to the full 60 mile round trip across the county. Not the smartest thing I ever did but still one hell of an adventure for a preteen.

By the time I turned 14 and could finally get a legal permit to drive (to school functions only, of course) I pretty much roamed the roads and highways in the M Triangle (Modale-Mondamin-Missouri Valley) with impunity. The first vehicle that was assigned for my use was not the Blazer but rather a black, 2 wheel drive, 4 cylinder, 5-speed Ford Courier mini pick-up. My Grandpa Maule had taught how to drive a stick using this truck and since it could only carry three people (cramped) in the cab and would only exceed 75 miles per hour if going downhill it was deemed perfect for my use. The only things perfect about it were its ability to get 30 miles to the gallon and the ooogah horn gramps had installed. The most memorable trip I ever made in that little truck when I was 14 and milking my School Permit for all it was worth and then some. It was one night after watching a West Harrison High School football away game (rode the "Spirit Bus" to and from the game) that the girl I obsessed over during my early teens and I went on a cross country drive to avoid going home too early on a Friday night. Mondamin to Onawa to Tekehmah, Nebraska to Blair, Nebraska to Missouri Valley to Modale and, finally, back to Mondamin. It was a shade over 145 miles since we never got onto Interstate Highway 29. A long 145 miles of awkward silence since she knew I liked her a lot and I knew that she knew that I liked her a lot and I also knew she was totally not interested and was only with me because she couldn't drive yet. 25 years later and I still remember the trip and wouldn't trade the memory of that protracted, icy silence spent with her for anything.

I started driving the Blazer full time when I turned 16 and finally got a full fledged drivers license. The rest has already been pretty well chronicled here.

I would like to note that as strong as my love-hate relationship was with the Beast, nearly every truck I have owned since then (I'm on my eighth truck now since the Beast) have no resemblance to the Beast and look more like that black Courier that Grandpa taught me how to drive.

Be safe.

Me? Get juiced with The Cool Patrol?

The first time I ever heard the word "clique" was when I had the extreme misfortune of watching an episode of Square Pegs when I was freshman in high school. Mods, preps, valley girls: all the rage on the tv but nothing like the kids I knew in school.

I asked my uncle (West Harrison Class of 1978) what cliques our school had and he didn't even have to think about it. "Goons, Jocks, and Nerds." Goons drove the pick-ups and wore cowboy or seed company hats, jocks wore tennis shoes and played in all the sports, and nerds, well, nerds were nerds.

The thing about small, rural schools is the cliques weren't rigidly defined. You couldn't have a football team unless a few goons (a.k.a. goat ropers) took the field. The chorus wouldn't have four part harmony unless a few jocks lent their pipes. And, nerds, well, nerds were nerds.

I joke about nerds 'cause first and foremost, I was a nerd at heart. I liked geometry proofs, programming in Apple BASIC, playing classical music, wearing glasses. Maybe not wearing glasses, but I did have two perfect attendance certificates.

On any given weekend it was not unusual to find nerds, jocks, and goons gathered on the Slab. Nothing says truce like a lukewarm Milwaukee's Best. But, really, when you go to a high school of less than 150, the school itself is the clique.

Be safe.

To Go Boldly Where No Man Has Gone Before

When I was just a kid in the sticks, television viewing consumed a possibly unhealthy significant portion of my free time. Sure, I also read hundreds of books, but as I've written several times before, I watched a lot of the TV.

Fads go in cycles (I like to state the obvious) which is a shame because belted tee-shirts and leggings are trying to come back into style. As a toddler the Western genre ruled the boob-tube. Gunsmoke lasted 20 flippin' years, well past Miss Kitty being even remotely attractive. Seems like that map of the Ponderosa was burned every week for about as long.

When I entered grade school police dramas such as The Streets of San Francisco, The Rookies, Adam 12, and the like (with the tangential private eye shows like Barnaby Jones, The Rockford Files, and Cannon thrown in as filler) filled prime time and reruns. It's hard to write some of those names without adding "A Quinn Martin Production" at the end.

Junior Highschool was the time of Star Wars influence. My favorite movie just had its 30th Anniversary. I declined to celebrate because its creator has chosen to become the king of merchandising and a sultan of reissues, having not told a compelling story since the Empire struck back. However, riding the Star Wars coattails onto the small screen were V, Space 1999 (actually predating Star Wars), and Battlestar Galactica.

Sitcoms seemed to takeover for awhile ("Must See TV on NBC" got my attention every Thursday night). I'm hoping the aberration that is staged "reality" television dies an excruciatingly painful death - soon - and that a 100th incarnation of CSI never materializes called CSI: Ankeny. Somehow we skipped Westerns and have cycled back to the age of police dramas.

I thought of this triviality tonight as I stumbled across a rerun of the original Battlestar Galactica, thankfully at the end of the episode. I had forgotten that although groundbreaking in the special effects arena (for a television show) the interesting plot line was rendered impotent by sappy stories told each episode. Good thing for Maren Jensen and Laurette Spang or the show would have been unbearable. The irony of the old show reappearing in syndication is that the new and improved version just announced it is ending its run this season. Bummer. I'm still waiting for an explanation of how the Cylons' eye got built into the hood of K.I.T.T.

And, yes, I do know what the original Star Trek intro is "to boldly go where no man has gone before" but all the reading and several excellent english instructors taught me long ago that this is grammatically incorrect. To quote Mrs. Perly, "before you can break the rules you need to first know the rules." Captain Kirk used a split infinitive every week and it still bugs me a bit.

Fleeing from the Cylon tyranny, the last Battlestar, Galactica, leads a ragtag, fugitive fleet, on a lonely quest—for a shining planet known as Earth."

My only hope is that if and when they find Earth, they aren't so disappointed they return to the Cylons and surrender.

Be safe.

Peanut butter and jelly, taste so good in my belly

Peas, peas, peas, peas
Eating goober peas.
Goodness, how delicious,
Eating goober peas.

I love Mrs. Shelton to death but, honestly, some of those songs we sang in her music classes...What I wouldn't give to scrape those tunes out of my gray matter.

Be safe.

May 22 again

It doesn't seem like a year has passed already but time does seem to go by faster now. Thinking about that last night and this morning, I went through why it seems wrong to me.

I recently changed pick-ups and though it really matters to no one else but me, in my mind by not getting a Ford or Chevy the debate with Tobi about which is better stays unsettled. I would love to have gone pheasant hunting with Preston one more time. I should have told Eiron that he was a good dancer and that I didn't have the courage to get on that stage like he did. I should have driven Matt home from high school more often. I wish I had the chance to admit to Lori that I had a crush on her when I was a freshman. Lonny should have had the chance to just be a regular farmer. What I wouldn't give to take a family picture for Dena or two-step once around a dance floor with her. Danny should have had the chance to attend our reunions, even if it was just as a friend of the class.

I'll be coming back home Thursday night and will stay for a couple of days to visit some our friends I just mentioned. You can reach me at grandma's house.

Be safe.

Why don't you and the giant "laser" get a frickin' room

Betamax had lost to VHS but buying a movie on tape in the early 1980's would set you back nearly a hundred bucks. Blockbuster and the like (such as Captain Video in Missouri Valley) were just coming into being. Some folks just set their VCRs to record movies from their satellite dishes since stations like Home Box Office and Showtime actually showed uncut movies 24 hours a day - and hadn't yet scrambled their signals so anyone with a 'dish could pull in the stations for free.

The most distinct memory of cinemania for the homebody I have is from around 1985, though. Tracy B. had this thing that played movies from shiny discs the size of a vinyl 78 rpm record album. Laserdiscs they were called. The movies were stored on these large plastic platters as a series of tiny divots that were read by a laser as the disc spun. The nerd part of me was intrigued. Nothing to rewind, nothing to touch the media, and, they used a laser. Too cool. I thought they would be the end of tapes as we knew them. Then I tried to watch a movie at a party at Tracy's place one night. One of the drunkards in attendance - possibly even me - put a fingerprint on the disc as it was inserted into the player. Just a few minutes into the movie the picture and audio started skipping wildly, looking and sounding a lot like that Max Headroom dude. Tracy ejected the disc, cleaned it, then restarted the flick. Then 30 minutes later the movie stopped and the screen went black. He again ejected the disc but this time he flipped it over and put it back in. I stared in disbelief. I looked at the album-like sleeve and saw there was another disc in it labeled "Side 3." Two disks for one film? And one manual flip? No, thanks. Even with a laser that was not cool.

Well, for those very reasons, laserdiscs never really caught on like the video tapes did although they did improve significantly over the years, considered superior for their video clarity and ability to provide surround sound to the booming home theater market in the 1990s. The format was finally killed off by the advent of the Digital Versatile Disk.

In 1999, just before DVD players appeared I got my own laserdisc player, thinking of that party at Tracy's place as I placed my order. Why, you ask, did I get a piece of 80s era technology so late, especially after having seen less than stellar performance first hand? It was a very 1970s reason: It was the only way to watch the Star Wars trilogy, original cuts with Dolby Digital surround sound. Actually, until just last year, that was still the case. Yes, the force will be with me, always.

Be safe.

It was like lightning, everybody was frightening

Seems like the Missouri Valley Roller Rink reopened around 1977 or so, when I was in the 4th grade. It was on South 5th Street just north of the railroad tracks. I'm pretty sure Larry was the guy who ran the place. At first the floor was its original gray paint and was a bit rough, but not long after opening it was stripped and sanded down to the original tongue and groove hardwood surface. A smooth surface was imperative for the roller skates of the time: leather boots with two pairs of hard urethane wheels, a pair in front and a pair in back. These seemed a lot less forgiving to pebbles than the softer wheels on today's all-terrain in-line skates.

If you didn't own skates there was a wide variety of rentals available: guys skates were black, ladies were white, little kids got a dingy tan. Most of the rental skates were set up to be pretty stiff. The "plate" (the metal chassis on the bottom of the boot) had a adjustment nuts that could be reset to allow the front pair of wheels and the back pair of wheels to pivot more freely, making it easier to do sharp turns. That adjustment also made it easier to fall down. But, if you were a frequent customer of the rink and were on Larry's good side he would loosen the skates up a bit if you asked.

During 4th and 5th grade I spent most of my Fall and Winter weekends skating there, sometimes waiting at the door for them to open in the morning and being one of the last to leave the hardwood at the end of the evening. Who'd a thunk rolling counter clockwise for five or six hours at a time would be so entertaining? NASCAR, I guess.

The rink seemed huge at the time but I've been inside the building since it changed hands and now realize that it wasn't much bigger than a basketball court. The entrance opened into a cattle chute that funneled us to the cash register and skate rental desk. After paying and getting skates you would turn right to the lobby/changing area which had benches for changing out of shoes and into the skates and also had places to hang jackets, coats, and the like. The bathrooms were in this area, too. Left of the register was the snack area. It was at the roller rink where I learned what a fountain pop suicide was: Pepsi, Orange Nehi, Dr. Pepper, and 7-Up all in one cup - Larry would mix it but don't dare take it outside the very small snack area. God help the kid who spilled a pop or dropped a piece of candy onto the rink's hardwood.

Separating the snack area and changing space from the rink was a low wall that formed a semicircle with just a narrow opening in the arc's center to allow access to the skating area. The longest outside wall was cinderblock painted blue on its bottom half and white on its top. Its opposite was, too, but had a full length wooden bench for rest stops without leaving the rink. The far wall was square to the long walls where turning traffic would leave natural open areas in the corners which was usually used by novices trying learn how to stay upright. Although there were no lines painted on the floor anymore, it was understood that the middle of the oval was for skaters to spin.

Music was played non-stop, all vinyl 45s spun on a turntable, the sound blaring through a few in-ceiling speakers. Mostly disco crap and current pop'n'roll shtuff. Is there anyone over the age of thirty who didn't learn how to do the "YMCA" semaphore at a skating rink? There was also the Rick Dees classic "Disco Duck" to which we would crouch down onto one skate and stick the other skate straight out in front while keeping it off the floor (called "shoot-the-duck") - a skating style that would later be useful during the limbo.

From the white lay-in ceiling hung a disco ball in the center of the rink and equally spaced around the perimeter were the numbers 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6. The numbers were for something called the Dice Game which was a variation on Musical Chairs. Everyone would skate around the rink while music played and when the music stopped the skaters stopped under one of the numbers. Then Larry would throw a monstrous stuffed die. The group under whichever number came up from his toss got to stay and everyone else left the floor. Then the music restarted, the skaters resumed skating around the rink and when the music stopped, again the die was tossed, more people left the floor, etc., etc. until only one person was left who won either a pop or a free pass to skate. Great fun and a little foreshadowing of the gambling that would be a part of Iowa's future.

The disco ball was used for two purposes: the couples' skate and the Snowball, both of which were extremely traumatic. For the couples' skate you had to man up and ask a girl to skate with you while the lights were out and music like Bette Midler's "The Rose" played sappily over the sound system. If you weren't flat out told to go to hell you might skate hand-in-hand, or, if you found a partner who skated really well, the boy would put his hands on the girl's waist and the girl would put her hands on the boy's shoulders, the girl skating backwards the whole time - or until their feet got tangled up and they both crashed to the floor. The Snowball was as bad or worse because it started with one couple skating and the separating at the sound of Larry's whistle to go find two other partners from the dregs sitting on the bench along the wall. Much like being picked last for kickball, it sucked sitting on that bench waiting to be picked.

I feel as though I know Chubby Checker's "Limbo Rock" by heart because it played over and over and over while we skated under a limbo stick at least once and sometimes twice a skate session. "Older" kids only had a chance if they first skated a circle around the limbo pole and then shot-the-duck, leaning into the center of the circle just skated, hoping that the momentum and centrifugal force would keep them from tumbling while flattening out to go under the stick. Usually the contest was won by a girl less than five years old who was able to do the splits and shuffle her skates enough to slide under a limbo stick less than a foot above the floor.

The speed skate time was always a good time. Normally, if you skated too fast and/or recklessly, Larry would blow his whistle and tell you to slow down or, worse yet, sit down for awhile. But, twice a session for the length of The Sweet's song "Ballroom Blitz" he would allow groups of skaters, usually grouped by age and ability, to skate as fast as they possibly could. I think this is how the floor got cleaned, too, because a kid wiping out at full tilt would tumble quite a ways and pick up a whole lot of dust. At least I always did. I took a few lessons on speed skating/racing which is where Larry taught us to run on our toe stops for the first ten feet to start and that the best way to stop is to turn around quickly and, while rolling backwards, hop up onto the toe stops. Believe me when I tell you that neither of these are to be tried on in-line skates.

I don't know if it was the increasing time demands of being a teenager or if it was the rink going out of business that caused me to stop roller skating. It couldn't be that I outgrew it. Anyhoo, now the Missouri Valley Roller Rink is the Missouri Valley Eagles Club and it is available for parties, wedding receptions, family reunions, and the like. No skates required - or encouraged.

Be safe.

Y'know, any halfway decent girl can rob me blind, because I'm too torqued up to say no.

So, it was about this time of year in 1986 when we were at Lewis Central for a Large Group Music Contest, the last one of the year. Hundreds of musically inclined adolescents jammed into a single school building and gymnasium. Each school sent dozens of performers so these contests were always prime scoping ground for ogling the opposite gender from the other school districts. Say it with me: "Oooohhhh, yeeeaaaahhhhh."

As usual, each school set up a base camp in different sections of the gym where all the instruments, sheet music, good clothes (to change into an instant before the performance), and other contest necessities would be stored during performances. This would also serve as a rally point, a place for us to meet between performances. Don't know what the kids from the other places did but we often used the down time to ridicule the geeks, dorks, nerds, and dweebs seemed to make up the contingents from the other schools. Even though Bruce and Sharon ran a pretty tight ship we still had to have idle underclassman musicians to act as sentries while others performed, protecting the valuables while listening to cassettes of decidedly uncontest-like music emanating from large, battery powered boomboxes. Nothing counterbalances secondary school renditions of Chopin like distortion laden Quiet Riot (these go to eleven).

It was at this last contest that, despite the best efforts of our crack freshman security staff, I suffered my first loss. Someone swiped my denim jacket, which sucked. More important, though, was the contents of the jacket. Since I was a graduating in a few weeks, I was doing what many sentimental Seniors did at that time: trading name cards with other Seniors. You know, the little 3/4 inch by 1 1/2 inch white cardstock with our names printed in script on them? The ones that were to go in our graduation announcement cards that would be sent out soon. I had my only box of them in my jacket, hoping to trade a few with some of the few friends I had from outside West Harrison, so when my jacket disappeared, so did my box of cards. This displeased me greatly.

I was in a bit of a bind. The school spirit mob known as Jostens (purveyors of all things high school) couldn't print another set in time for my announcements to be mailed and Kinko's was still a couple of electronic copier generations and five years away.

Mrs. Gahm came to my rescue. Sometimes surly, occasionally moody, but always a good art teacher and a good person, Mrs. Gahm found some heavy parchment in the art room and let me and some good friends repeatedly type my name on it in Chuck's typing lab, then she chopped the typed parchment down to name card size using the monster guillotine of a paper cutter she had. Problem solved, crisis averted. I have one of each name card - original and replacement - still.

I wish nothing but ill-will upon the sticky fingered a-hole who heisted my jacket. But, it did make my announcements just a little different from everyone else's. Same but different, something I usually gravitated towards anyway.

Be safe.

Uh, oh. Sounds like somebody's got a case of the Mondays.

I don't know why this shtuff sticks in my noggin but this leapt into my mind this morning during my first cup of coffee:

Good morning to you,
Good morning to you,
We're all in our places
with sunshiney faces,
And this is the way,
To start a new day,
Good morning to you,
Good morning to you!

The song we sang to Miss Allen's piano accompaniment every morning at 8:35 in Kindgarten, August 1973 to May 1974. I also recall not liking that song very much.

Be safe.

The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball

The red rubber ball was essential for a proper recess. At the Modale elementary/junior high campus there were only five organized games for which the ball was required: kickball, basketball, kickback, dodgeball, and four square.

Kickball was the most popular and what we played the most until the arguments and bickering over out calls got the game made verboten. Kickback (punting the ball back and forth between two teams to see who could garner the most clean catches) was probably the second most popular ball game although basketball was a close third (it was tough to get one of those buggers through the hoop 'cause they bounced more than a regular basketball). Dodgeball wasn't played much outside because the ball went too far on an errant throw and the games took too long compared to gymnasium dodgeball. Four square, though, was very underrated. There were two four square grids painted on the asphalt portion of Modale's schoolyard, so it could be played when the kickball fields were muddy. Troy B. had one of the best serves that I can remember; it just dribbled from square to square and was nigh-on impossible to return. Highly competitive, non-contact, and (mostly) low impact - I'm surprised there aren't adult leagues all over the area like the dodgeball and kickball leagues that seem to be popular now.

Be safe.

And plant our dreams where the peaceful river cools, where the green grass grows

Although I grew up in a farm community in a farm family I never really considered myself destined to be a farmer. I never was able to develop the love for making things grow that my dad had. He must have known that, too, because he told me at an early age that if I ever said I wanted to farm he would hit me over the head with a baseball bat. I'm pretty sure this was his way of taking the pressure of continuing the family tradition off me. Pretty sure. President Carter's asinine grain embargo assured that many family farming traditions would die at my generation.

But, I did help a little with the farm operations, mostly with the movement of the irrigation systems and the associated miles of aluminum pipe. Seeing Dad slip in the mud and crack a few ribs while moving a section of pipe pretty much convinced me that the satisfaction of making corn grow tall with three ears on each stalk would never be a passion for me. Hoeing beans so that the field would be devoid of weeds never sparked any desire for the profession, either.

The last farm related job I had was putting up hay. It was the summer of 1986 and Marvin had been asked to help put up several hundred bales of hay. There were several others helping and Marvo knew I could use some extra cash to pay for the $1.35 per gallon gasoline (outrageous) the Beast seemed to use so much of. So I spent the entire 90+ degree day with about ten other teenagers and a handful of adults walking a massive, dusty pasture tossing 60 pound bales up from the field to the stacker on a hayrack being pulled by a small tractor. I'm pretty certain this was one of the hayracks we had made into a parade float for the Homecoming parade a year earlier. I think the farmer did his own baling because the bales were tight and heavy. A contract baler would have made them light and loose because he gets paid by the bale.

Being from a family of grain farmers and never having animals needing hay, I had never put up hay before. That day I learned there is an art to stacking. A good person stacking the bales on the hayrack can take the individual bales and form them into one colossal brick of hay that dwarfs the wooden platform on wheels that is the rack itself. A lazy stack would be seven bales high. A good stack would be eight bales high. Someone who is good at keeping the bales packed tight together can go nine or ten high. Maybe it was delirium from the heat but what kept us from keeling over that day was trying to toss the bales to the stacker so our rack would be filled as high as possible without falling apart. We didn't want to have to load the rack again if the stack fell apart while being taken from the field to the barn. The worst job was the one of stacker in the barn's hayloft. It had to be over 120 degrees up there with the added bonus of all the dust. Fortunately I just helped toss the bales from the rack onto the conveyor that took them up to the loft.

It was just a day of putting up hay but I've never forgotten it. A day at the Cooper farm up northwest of Mondamin. Rest in peace, Mr. Cooper. (10/03/42 - 02/28/07)

Be safe.

Hail to the busdriver?

It snowed a smidgen again this week. Back in the previous century when a storm like this one hit back home, the County and State road crews would have graders and trucks out pushing snow and we barely would have noticed the inch or two of white stuff had even fallen. Of course, we would have still tuned in to KFAB (1110 on the AM dial: "We invite you to leave it on eleven") first thing in the morning to listen to the long list of school names read over the air that would be starting late, or, rarely, canceling for the whole day. It almost never happened, but you had to listen anyway. I found out later there was a special number the superintendent called to let the newsies at KFAB know school was canceled but they would only broadcast it after a codeword was given. I may have even learned that codeword once but didn't use it.

I think we held school even during crappy weather because our bus drivers were nuts. Good drivers, but nuts. Dixie C. used to maneuver our old, yellow, POS through snow drifts that covered the river bottom roads around Modale that I'm not sure I would have taken the Beast through while sober. But, then again, there was more than once we sat for hours waiting for someone to bring a tractor to pull us out of a drifted over driveway that we had gotten stuck in. Mr. Wynn was the same way when I lived in Mondamin, only it was the roads in the Loess Hills that would sometimes trip him up. There were a couple of times he managed to scale the icy big hill in Melody Oaks to Hoffmeister's house only to get stuck while turning around.

That doesn't seem to be an issue here. Before a storm arrives all the local television stations start a crawl at the bottom of the screen showing all the schools that will be closed - before a flake even falls! Wimps.

The forecast is for additional flurries tonight. I believe I will hoist one in honor of the great bus drivers who used to get me safely to school.

Hail to the busdriver busdriver busdriver,
Hail to the busdriver busdriver man!
He drinks and he cusses and crashes our busses,
Hail to the busdriver busdriver man!
He skids left and skids right with a busted up headlight,
Hail to the busdriver busdriver man!


Be safe.

Jump up Jump up and get down

I often tell my big city friends that one advantage of attending a small school is the opportunity to participate in just about every activity. Academic Decathlon? Why not? Someone has to do it. Varsity track? Sure, which event is open? Band contest? OK, small group, large group, or both? All-school play? Alright, which role? It was all there, one usually just had to sign up and participation was assured. Which was fortunate for some of us, because limited talent wasn't necessarily a limiting factor.

I'm reminded of this as I view recent results from the West Harrison varsity basketball contests. Adversity builds character and there is a lot of character being built these days. It's an awful lot like when I played ball in the 1985-86 season. Not even six feet tall, no discernible ball handling skills, marginal passer, not much of a jump shot, unable to consistently hit free throws, my only tangible contributions, such that they were, were passable defense and an above average vertical leap. Not much to interest recruiters but good enough to play varsity. Like I said before, someone had to do it.

Another activity in which I was allowed to participate was Annual Staff. That was probably my favorite of all extracurriculars. I enjoyed photography and really liked developing film and photographs in the school dark room. To this day I still remember the steps to develop film: Developer, Stop bath, Fixer, Rinse, Photoflow, Rinse, Hypoclear. Photography is still a big part of my today although I've transitioned from wet chemicals for my photos to computers and printers. But, I digress.

There was one occasion when my dalliance in basketball converged with my duties on annual staff. It was near our publishing deadline for the yearbook our senior year. We needed an action photo for our boys basketball page. I took many of the photos used in the yearbook but wasn't allowed to take a camera on the court while playing so I couldn't get any inside action pictures. But, duty called and Mac and I had a plan.

Mac was also on Annual Staff but didn't play basketball our Senior year. On a night before we took the court to get destroyed again, Mac told me he would have one of the staff camera (a 35 mm Single Lens Reflex Canon AE-1 with Vivitar 285 flash and a 75 - 200 mm lens) and would be court side waiting for a good shot - and it would help if I would oblige with something worth capturing on film.

It wasn't too deep into the first quarter and we were already out of contention. So, one trip down the court, I received the ball at the right side of the key, just inside the three point line. Mac yelled from the sideline for me to take a shot. So, what the hell, I put up a shot. I saw the flash pop out of the corner of my just as I released the ball. The rock left my hand and arced straight and true. Not a bad looking shot, considering who took it. Then reality came crashing home as the ball fell two feet short of the basket. Did I mention my jump shot sucked?

So, that's the story behind the photo on page 35 in the 1986 yearbook. Had I gone to a big school I definitely wouldn't have been on the basketball court shooting an airball and likely wouldn't have been on the yearbook staff to develop, print, and publish the picture. And, I wouldn't have been able to ensure Stein's ballerina-like pose while grabbing a rebound was also included on the same page.

Wouldn't have traded it for anything.

Be safe.

It's Slinky It's fun for a girl or a boy

I happened across an infomercial the other day just in time to see a bowling ball dropped onto a mattress. Out of habit I said aloud the sound I was certain it made: SPROING. It's a word I learned from Beverly Cleary's Henry Huggins series of books; one that I've said for over 30 years whenever I see something springy. I've always found it to be a funny word though not everyone agrees with me.

A little girl who sat in the desk in front of me in our early elementary school days absolutely hated that word. She had brown, shoulder length hair with large curls in the back. Those curls looked to me like a whole bunch of soft, brown Slinkys, all within arm's reach of my desk. It was too perfect; who could blame me for reaching out and gently tugging on the end of a curl to make it sproing back into place? Of course, I had to make the sound, too. SPROING. Wow, did she ever hate that - and told me so. SPROING. Naturally, being the irritating person I am, I continued to sproing her curls every so often throughout the year - I wasn't even 8 yet so the novelty never wore off (for me). SPROING. I don't remember if she changed her hair style or if our desks were rearranged to put an end to the torment.

Her hair is shorter and straighter now but whenever I see her I still say "sproing" and she still hits me in the arm. And, it still puts a smile on my face. In just a few weeks she has a birthday and will turn, what is it this year Danya, 40 or 41? Anyhoo, if you happen to see our classmate, Danya, be sure to say "sproing" to her; her reaction makes it worthwhile.

As always, be safe.

Welcome Iowa Staters

For my fellow Iowa State University alums looking for the post about the Special Olympics Citation Airlift mentioned in this quarter's Visions, please click here (http://jdsqrd.blogspot.com/2006/07/compete-empower-unite.html)

Be safe.

Shall we play a game?

Among the hundreds of papers from high school that I have been sorting were a few dozen pages of computer printouts of ancient computer code. There were also several pages more of handwritten snippets of programming that never made it onto a floppy. It was all vintage BASIC, line numbers delineating the sequential order of progression, written long before WYSIWYG and Visual were notions, and is now nearly incomprehensible.

The most powerful computer at my disposal in high school had only 48 kilobytes of random access memory, compared to the 1 gigabyte of RAM my home computers have now - about a magnitude of 22000 change. To cram the farm finance program I wrote for my dad into 48k RAM, I dispensed with proper programming protocol and used neither remarks nor comments and used multiple commands per line number. But, it worked. Dad said when he took the year end printout to his tax preparer (around 1982 or 83) it was the first time the guy had ever seen someone with a computer generated report instead of a shoebox filled with receipts.

The program I wrote for Dad was a great learning experience about developing software to be used by people who weren't geeks, nerds, or technophiles. I figured out some tricks for trapping user input errors and also a thing or two about preventing the program from being accidentally stopped. Good experience for me since I was going to be a computer programmer when I grew up.

I programmed in BASIC partly because it was simple but mostly because it was what my TRS-80 Model 3 and the Apple II's at school booted to. That didn't mean much to most people not familiar with those machines but sometimes I used that bit of trivia to amuse myself.

When I was a sophomore in high school (1983-84) Mom drug me to the Westroads Shopping Mall in what was then west Omaha but is now central Omaha. While she and the sister shopped I ended up at the Radio Shack in the mall's lower level. Radio Shack was the distributor of the TRS line of computers (Tandy-Radio Shack) so I usually hung out there to see what the next generation of hardware would be. This particular day I was bored and all that was on display was a computer much like the one I had at home. When the lone clerk was off helping someone else I tripped the power button and waited for the prompt. When it appeared I typed in a quick hack of a program, keyed RUN, and then sat down on a bench in a common area that gave me a view of the computer.

The computer looked innocent enough, just sitting there on its stand at the front of the store with the straightforward question "Enter your name?" on the screen, the cursor blinking expectantly.

A family of three found it first, a dad, mom, and child of about the age of 10. It was as much an exercise of psychology as it was of program. This unfamiliar machine was issuing the man a command and he obliged. Maybe he saw it as a test of computer literacy, requiring only that he correctly type his name and hit the ENTER key. The father passed with flying colors. After he entered the data, the computer responded causing all three people to shriek and quickly walk away.

Next a group of four youngsters, each appearing to be twelve or younger, walked up to the display computer. The program had reset itself and was again awaiting a name.The first youth approached it and read the message. Using the two finger hunt-and-peck method, he quickly typed in his name. After reading the computer's reply he began to laugh hysterically. He motioned his friends over to the terminal. Each went through the same drill, each having the same reaction to the response. It was their collective laughter that snared my final victim.

The clerk was intrigued by the humor the demonstrator computer had elicited. Seeing the clerk approach, the group of boys scattered. When the clerk arrived the program again beckoned "Enter your name?" She complied. The screen then displayed the response that both the family and the group of boys had seen:

"Well, [clerk's name], I think you stink and I think your mother stinks, too!"

She immediately hit the BREAK button to stop the program. That did nothing because I had disabled it. When that didn't work she hit the power switch and turned off the computer - and didn't power it back up, ending my fun for the day.

I think the code I used was something like this:

10 CLS : POKE 16396,23 : INPUT "Enter your name" A$ : PRINT : PRINT "Well, ";A$;", I think you stink and your mother stinks, too!" : FOR X=1 TO 25000 : NEXT : GOTO 10

10 was a line number for this (one line) program. CLS cleared the screen of all text and graphics. POKE 16396,23 was a command I learned that disabled the BREAK key. INPUT A$ is the command and variable that was used to store the persons name. PRINT just put a blank line on the screen. The second PRINT put the words in quotations on the screen and also inserted the name that was entered. FOR X=1 TO 25000 and NEXT was a way to make the computer count from 1 to 25000, a crude way to delay the program from doing the last command until after the insult had been read. GOTO 10 was the final command telling the computer to loop back to Line 10 which started the whole process over (see beginning of this paragraph).

Well, Moore's Law outpaced my abilities and I never became that computer programmer I thought I would be. The world may be a better place because of that.

Be safe.

It's a high school, high school confidential

While back home to spend the Holiday with my family I took the opportunity to continue the transfer of childhood treasures from my grandmother's attic to my own house in Kansas. Thus far eight boxes of clothes, toys, books, and school papers have made the trip, leaving the chore half complete.

Except for concert jerseys, hats, and my first marching band uniform, the clothes will go to Goodwill - I understand large collars and bell bottoms are quite popular again. Most of the books will be integrated into my growing library. The toys are being sorted and anything not G.I. Joe related or having special meaning will likely go to the neighbors' children. This is not an easy process because I still refuse to accept I'm not 17 years old any longer.

The school papers have been the most difficult to cull. Mom saved every worksheet, picture, story, drawing; basically anything and everything I ever brought home from school from 1973 until 1977. I kept some samples from each year and a lot artwork so my wife will have some things to hock on eBay should I become fatally famous some day. Drawing of Mrs. Ulmer, a teacher remember not being particularly fond of but don't recall why. Keeper. List of 20 spelling words with two misspelled. Recycled. The invitation to Tobi's 6th birthday party and the floorplan for the new school that was to be built in 1974 were mixed in with several Big Chief tablets filled with my rendition of the alphabet (many letters done backwards). Keepers. And so it went for three year's worth of work.

I found smaller collection of papers from high school. Included in the high school papers was a large number of suggestions (anonymous) that had been submitted to the Student Council "Idea Box." Among the several profane ridden tirades about the (short lived) Mondamin curfew and the unimaginative proposals to fire all teachers and/or shorten the school year were a couple of requests for prophylactic dispensers in the bathrooms, turning one of the spare classrooms into a daycare center, and having a band for a school dance instead of a disc jockey. All fine, progressive ideas but I believe only one of the three ever was accomplished.

The most interesting "find" were the dozens of letters, notes, messages, etc. that should have been destroyed but still survive. Some juicy, most quite mundane, several from people I didn't realize I had been considered a confidant. More than once it was mentioned that "World History is boring." Study Hall was also mentioned using similar terms. There was much discussion about the stress caused by impending tests. And, a lot of angst over who was dating whom, who was stepping out on whom, and who secretly desired/despised whom. I'm going to guess that parents today don't see notes like these much since email, instant messaging, and cell phone texting has become so common. The notes that could be considered potentially damning or worthy of blackmail will be sent back to their original authors. Whether or not I kept a copy will remain an unanswered question.

Be safe.

And me all starry-eyed

The college football bowl season has just begun and to celebrate the weather dorks are all aflutter again. A minor storm is on its way promising to bring very chilly rain, a stiff breeze, and maybe even some thunder. But, it could get worse. Pardon me while I yawn. I've walked through considerably worse just to get an e.coli supreme from the Taco Hell up the street from Friley Hall.

Which reminds me of the 1984-85 bowl season. Bruce, who absolutely abhorred marching band (and pep band, too) but directed it because it was in his contract, got Laura H., John M., and I onto a Southwest Iowa Marching Band that was going to march in the Cotton Bowl Parade. Led by Lee Nelson, the band director from the Harlan Community School District (who was an anti-Bruce and reveled in teaching jazz, pep, and marching band) we, along with over 200 other musicians from the southwest quarter of the state gathered in Red Oak a half-dozen times over the summer and fall of 1984, learning to play Dvořák's "New World Symphony" and Asia's "Only Time Will Tell" while marching in unison, with a couple a fancy double time steps thrown in for pizazz. Grandpa Maule drove me to practice a couple of times and I remember him sitting in his red and black S-10 extended cab reading the newspaper or napping while the band (which was two to ten times larger than the school bands from which we came) marched all over the burg of Red Oak. For the majority of us, the only time we have ever played those two songs was in Red Oak.

Oops. Correction: most of us only played that song in TWO places: Red Oak and Dallas. Yes, we all said we would diligently practice at home but I never met anyone in the band who would cop to practicing anything ever. Sure, there were some ubergeeks who did, but most did not. The music wasn't that tough and most of the band members were quite good. I remember the drum line being scary-good. The cadence they played still runs through my head whenever I'm walking somewhere. The experience of playing in a band where there more than one or two of most instruments was indescribable. If you went to a big school you have no idea what I mean. The West Harrison marching band had maybe 20 people in it. I played trumpet parts on my tenor sax because we had too few trumpets to carry the melody. In this band, though, I was one of eight tenor saxophones. Wow, tenor sax parts are boring. We played the same harmony parts the barely-a-tones played. But, nothing sounds better than having all the instruments an arrangement requires playing in-time and in-tune. At full strength the sound was incredible and gave me goosebumps. Just like the Iowa State University Cyclone Football Varsity Marching Band does with their warm-up arpeggios; I am grateful our nephew plays in the ISU band and wish I had.

So, at the end of December in 1984, we all boarded Crusader Coach Lines buses (my bus was driven by friend and parent of classmates, Duane Grooms) and headed south to the Big D and I don't mean divorce. The Cotton Bowl game itself was to be between Boston College and the University of Houston. We all knew Boston College because of the pass that had been replayed ad-nauseum leading up to New Year's Day. The highlight of the trip occurred at our New Year's Eve mixer in the hotel's banquet room when Doug Flutie himself stopped by and waved 'hello' to us. Turned out he was staying at our hotel, too, to get away from the press.

The low light was the parade. An unusual weather phenomenon caused the temperature to drop below freezing. That would have been no big deal in Iowa where we had all left our cold weather gear but in Texas where it should have been much warmer it sucked big. I remember my thumb going numb before the parade even started because I had no gloves and the thumb rest on my sax was frozen brass. And, the parade route which appears to be miles long on the tv was actually only a few blocks, some of which seemed a bit seedy, and spectators were really only at the block where the television cameras were. Of course we totally rocked in a hypothermic way.

For our effort we got to attend the game. Where it started to snow. But, we sat there until the clock showed all zeroes and BC collected another "W." Some friendly fans from Boston even gave me an Eagles ball cap because the souvenir stands were all sold out. Not a great game but still the only bowl game I've ever attended. And, it kept snowing.

Texans are idiots when they get snow. Some would say most other times, too, but I won't say that here. Partly because of the 1 inch of snow that fell and mostly because of the numerous accidents the locals were having trying to drive on the white stuff, our trip was extended an extra night.

Over reaction to moderately crummy weather always reminds me of marching in the Cotton Bowl Parade. Maybe someday I will return to see my team play in it. Only time will tell.

Drive safe.

Rubber ducky, you're so fine, And I'm lucky that you're mine

Somewhere, either in my basement or in the attic of Grandma's house back home, is my Kindergarten copy of our first Reading class book, "A Duck is a Duck." Before our 2x10 Reunion this spring I searched low and high for it but it defied my efforts to find it. Well, as a gift to myself, I parted with $2.95 (plus $6.50 shipping and handling) and ordered a near mint copy of this treasure through an online used book seller. It arrived last night and, for the first time in over 30 years, I was able to reread that magical tale about Bill, Jill, the dumbass Ben, and that stoopid mutt, Lad, and their cavortings with the ducks by the pond in the park. Can I hear a "yippee skipee?"

This is Bill.
Bill is in the park.
Here is Jill.
Jill is in the park.
Here is Ben.
Ben is in the park.
Is Lad in the park?
Bill said, "Look here, Ben. Look at the ducks."
Ben said, "Here ducks." "Look here." "Get this, ducks."
Jill said, "Look, Bill. Look at Ben and the ducks."
Ben said, "Here is a duck."

and it only gets better from there.

Be safe everyone.

Snowblind

There was a little bit of bad weather here last week. As they are wont to do, the weather folks on the television predicted doom and destruction of near epic proportions. They were only marginally wrong. We did, in fact, get some freezing rain. However, depending on which part of the viewing area one lived, the paralyzing snowstorm either dropped a foot of the white stuff or, such as the case at my house, just a flurry that didn't even cover the ice.

Not the disaster that we went through in January of 1975. For most of my life I associated that blizzard with Kindergarten but we were actually in first grade when it hit. Either way, it was a big unscheduled break from going to school. We lived in the country northwest of Modale at that time. The official snowfall was somewhere between 12 and 24 inches but the 60+ mile per hour winds created drifts that were as tall as our house. Now I know that the windchill at the time was around 80 below zero (Fahrenheit, no metric crap here). That didn't stop me from going out into the storm, though. The drifts in the backyard by the windbreak that dad had planted were five high or taller - well over my head - and several had nearly vertical faces just begging for a kid to go tunneling. Which is what I did. Bundle up, scurry from the front door to the closest drift, punch a gloved fist through the outer crust of the drift (like breaking a styrofoam cooler), then create a snow cave to escape the brutal wind that was more frigid than a woman I briefly dated my junior year of college. Although it was probably just a few minutes, I remember just lying there in the snow cave I created staring into the whiteout outside, listening to the wind howl for what seemed like hours. We ended up getting much of the second week of January off because of the abnormal amount of snow and the unusually high drifts that were created. I spent much of the time turning our backyard drifts into Stalag 13, tunneling every possible until the sun turned it all into one big, sloppy puddle.

That storm is still my benchmark for bad weather. I haven't seen bad weather for 30 years.

Be safe.

Be safe

It's been six years now; so much time has passed but the memory of that weekend still remains fresh; it still seems as though it was only a few days ago.

I'm not a big fan of the holidays. Thanksgiving signifies the start of a six week stretch of time that is too busy, too commercial, and too stressful. I think Lincoln's astute observation on deception and the public has an ancestral corollary that is best exemplified during the holiday season: You can get along with all of your family some of the time, you can get along with some of your family all of the time, but you can’t get along with all of your family all of the time. More often than not my experience during those “special days” the last six weeks each year has been just getting along with some of the family some of the time (I really do need to try harder). This year started differently. It began with a calm, enjoyable Thanksgiving at the home of my in-laws; everyone getting along with everyone else.

The holiday tradition my wife and I endure is based on a marital compromise made early in our relationship. My parents live near Dallas, Texas (Oklahoma now); her parents live in Ames, Iowa.  Her two sisters live in Cedar Rapids, Iowa; my sister lives in Dewey, Oklahoma, my brother lives in Austin, Texas. Her grandmother lives in a small town in eastern Iowa; my grandmother lives in a small town in western Iowa. Since our family map looks like a double-ought buckshot blast aimed at a map of the Mid-West, we decided during our first year together that we would not be driving all over middle America each holiday just to make an abbreviated cameo at each family’s respective celebration. We adopted the “alternating plan:” Thanksgiving gets spent with one side of our family, Christmas with the other, and the following year the converse. We have had this plan in place for fifteen years now and it still has not received complete acceptance from either side of our family. I believe that mutual dissatisfaction is the indicator of a fair plan.

Thanksgiving this year was with my wife’s family in Ames, Iowa. I love the town of Ames. If the planets were to align properly and job opportunities for both my wife and I became available simultaneously, we would move there in a heartbeat. My wife grew up there and both she and I got our Bachelor of Science degrees from Iowa State University which is located near the heart of Ames(some of us believe it is the heart of Ames). She and I met in Ames, dated in Ames, and eventually got married in Ames. Though I only lived there for a little more than five years, Ames almost like a second home to me. Our careers took my wife and I to Kansas City but we have made Lawrence, Kansas, our place of residence - because we have found it to be a reasonable facsimile of Ames.

We made the four and one-half hour drive from Lawrence to Ames on Wednesday night. There were some snow flurries which kept some of the less confident drivers home and a few of the less skilled drivers in the ditches. This cleared the path for the likes of me, which I greatly appreciated. The night before we left I made a compilation compact disc of obscure and irreverent Christmas songs (“Blue Christmas” sung by Porky Pig, “Jingle Bells” done in done barks, “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,” and the other such fare). The last thirty minutes of the disc contained the entire audio track of our favorite Christmas cartoon “How the Grinch Stole Christmas.” We listened and laughed all the way to our traditional midway pitstop, the Qwik Trip in Bethany, Missouri (it has grown a lot over the last fifteen years). We listened to most of it again (still funny) before finally rolling into the driveway of my in-laws’ home at 10:34 p.m.

One of my sisters-in-law, Diane, and her fiancé, Lee, was already there. ; I was beat from the drive and after verifying that A) I was fine (mostly true), B) the cat still had a pleasant personality (still fat), and c) my job remains a vacuous endeavor (still sucks), I retired for the evening. My better half stayed up into the wee hours of the morning talking family matters. Christmas for this half of our family was to be celebrated the next day and it was my intention to be well rested for Santa.

I believe football was created to promote family harmony during the holidays. The Cowboys and Lions put a stranglehold on the male (and, to a certain extent, female) attention span every Thanksgiving. For that, I am thankful. My father-in-law, Gene, is a both a retired attorney and retired college instructor; my brother-in-law, John, has a Ph.D. in mathematics and is an honest-to-gosh rocket scientist; my future brother-in-law, Lee, is in marketing and sales; my nephew, Jay, only ten (too old to convince to run in circles until puking sick, too young to tell/hear crude jokes); my mother-in-law, Rosemary, is a retired college advisor; my sister-in-law, Karen, is a former CPA and full time parent; Diane is a computer network developer; my wife’s grandmother, Oma, is in her eighties and grew up in the communal Amana colonies, and my niece, Sarah, is only eight and suffers from the same limitations as her brother, Jay. We have a little in common, but, we all like to watch football (well, Oma and Sarah don’t, but we expect Sarah to come around when she gets older) and the traditional two Thanksgiving NFL games divert our attention from any meaningful conversation for nearly eight hours, the only interruption being the turkey dinner.

The mood this year was different. It may have been because of the recent retirement of both Gene and Rosemary which relieved some stress in their lives. It could be because Jay and Sarah are getting older and are in that transition from rambunctious children to surly teenagers. Perhaps it was that this was the first year that Diane’s ex-husband was not in attendance (and, therefore, not grating on everyone’s nerves). Or, maybe I’m just mellowing. Things seemed different; more calm, more relaxed, not at all unpleasant.

That evening with the turkey being eaten and the football games being finished, we exchanged gifts. The kids and I got several toys (I’ve been told I am difficult to shop for).  I was too busy playing to see what everyone else got. After all the presents had been opened and I had thrown my last scrap of wrapping paper at Diane, discussion of the biannual day-after-Thanksgiving shopping mission opened. I tried to tune this out – I don’t like large, unruly crowds. The main objective of this shopping foray was to be the many computer related items at prices too good to be true at Office Depot. I tried in vain to point out that this, being a college town, moreover, a technically oriented college college town, there was bound to be a mob of pocket protector clad techno-nerds charging the store. They probably were camping outside the store: an information age, Woodstock-esque gathering with stories of hard drive failures and website hacks traded while large quantities of Jolt Cola were consumed. The family dismissed my concerns as the rant of a paranoid agoraphobic. Perhaps they were correct. However, while they shopped, I intended to sleep.

It was then I discovered that Diane, Lee, Karen, John, Oma, and the kids were all going to return to Cedar Rapids Friday afternoon; this was two days sooner than I had expected. Ordinarily I may not have minded this. I had intended to visit campus, read a book or two, and, time permitting, even go pheasant hunting with a friend. But, it had been so enjoyable up to this point I was going to forego some of my plans to spend more time with the family and now felt a bit disappointed that it was going to end so soon. Of course, I was still going to sleep through what would assuredly be an unmitigated melee at the stores – rabid dogs could not chase me into a store the day after Thanksgiving. I did capitulate without resistance to meeting everyone for lunch at Hickory Park, the best bar-b-que restaurant in the Mid-West.

I awoke late Friday morning to the raised voices of disgruntled shoppers returning vanquished from Office Depot and other stores unnamed. I hinted around the “I told you so” phrase but refrained from saying it outright. I thought someone mumbled that I had been correct in my prediction but I may have just imagined it. I enjoyed the moment just the same.

Lunch was outstanding, as usual (I highly recommend Hickory Park – it’s on South Duff in Ames). Good-byes were traded and, what was to me all too soon, the Cedar Rapids portion of our family departed for home. It was now just my wife, her parents, and I. The quiet which I usually wish for had arrived and I found myself bored. Go figure.

A friend (and co-worker) also has in-laws near Ames and he, too, was up from Kansas City for Thanksgiving. Weeks earlier we had made tentative plans to go pheasant hunting the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Now that everyone had gone home, I gave him a call to see if he was still interested. He was in a small house with many in-laws, big and small, and was eager to get out for a morning. He would provide transportation, location, and a dog, three of the five most important elements of a successful morning of pheasant hunting. The forth and fifth are, of course, birds and prowess with a shotgun, neither of which can be guaranteed. All I had to do was show up.

With all the lack of activity in the house, I decided to go to bed early Friday night. I had a pretty mean case of indigestion – maybe from the bar-b-que lunch, maybe from the Pizza Pit pepperoni pizza for supper, maybe from the seven or eight Diet Mountain Dews I’d had in less than twelve hours. The cause was irrelevant; the effect was a very restless sleep with bizarre dreams. I have forgotten all but the last one. I was back in high school with several of my class mates. Paul F. was in the dream, even though he had moved while we were in junior high. There was Teresa B. and John F. and Troy B. and, well, there were a lot of them in my dream. And, they were all spies, just as I was. We didn’t know who was on whose “side.” We all were carrying pistols. Lots of shots were being exchanged, most of them fire at me – I guess they didn’t like how I planned the ten year reunion we had. I tried to defend myself but in Nightmare on Elm Street type irony, I could not get my pistol to fire. There is nothing like being chased and shot at by a murderous gang of spying classmates through a high school building (a building that subconsciously I knew had been demolished five years ago) to get your heart rate accelerated. I finally managed to get the trigger on my gun to operate just as my alarm clock started to chirp. I awoke to discover that I had slept on my arm funny and had cut off circulation to my hand. Of course I had trouble pulling the trigger in my dream – it took four minutes of wake time before I could even feel my fingers. The dream was unsettling enough that it is still pretty clear in my memory. It probably always will be.

I managed to shower, wake up, and pull on my blaze orange hunting ensemble, more or less in that order. I left the house shortly after 7:05 a.m. which should have given me plenty of time to find my friend’s mother-in-law’s house. Our day was to begin at 8:00. At precisely 8:07 I pulled into the driveway. I was late, which I detest. My friend was up and ready. The dog and his owner (my friend’s brother-in-law) however, had not arrived. Since his brother-in-law was actually providing the dog, the truck we would be riding in, and the property on which we would be hunting, I decided he could be as late as he wanted.

The day was cold, overcast, and windy. Not unbearable, not quite miserable, just not ideal. The weather turned out to be irrelevant. I loaded three shells of 7½ shot into my 12 gauge Mossburg shotgun at sometime around 8:30. Three hours and several miles (by foot) later I ejected those same three shells back out of my gun and put them back into their box. We saw nothing all morning. Some would consider this a failed day of hunting. I disagree with that assessment. For me it was a moral success – I had not missed a shot all day.

We returned to the house and I thanked my fellow hunters for allowing me to walk with them on this cold, windy day. We agreed that next time we would try walking through some fields that actually contained pheasants.

I got into my truck and started to drive back to my in-laws’ house. My cell phone had a voice mail message on it from my wife asking me to call her – apparently shopping on this day had not gone well, either. I called. She said she was just wondering when I would be back and she would talk to me then. For this I burned a couple of minutes of cell phone air time.

So, I continued driving towards the house. I talked myself into taking a detour through the Iowa State campus to reassure myself that no other campus landmarks had been demolished since my last visit. I stopped and took some photos of my old dormitory and the windows out of which some hooligans had once launched oranges using a catapult made of surgical tubing and a crude denim pouch. I recalled the oranges traveled about 300 feet over the street and splashed down in Lake Laverne. Bananas don’t fly as far. After I had nostalgia’d enough, I finished the drive back to the house.

I pulled into the driveway and crawled out of my truck; I was a dirty, sweaty, oxymoron of camouflage and blaze orange. I thought I would take a shower and a nap and then maybe take another nap. A mostly empty house does have its advantages. My wife had heard me drive up and came out of the house to meet me in the driveway. She gave me a hug and started to cry.

That Saturday morning I learned how much technology has shrunk our world. I have purposely kept our home phone number unlisted in a futile attempt to thwart those vile and repugnant violators of personal privacy, telemarketers. In spite of this impediment, it only took less than an hour that morning for three different people to find and call my in-laws’ house - call before 7:45 a.m. – looking for me.

The network of my family and the closest of high school friends found me that day, a testament to how close people from a small community are and remain even when they move away. My grandmother, my mother, and a close friend from high school stayed on the telephone lines that day until they reached my in-laws because they wanted to be sure that I was notified by people who cared that another good friend and member of the West Harrison Class of 1986, Dena Globe, had died in a car accident just a few hours earlier.

Thanksgiving is still a sad time for me but still I give thanks for the wonderful family and friends who have blessed my life.

Have a safe holiday season.

Country boys and girls gettin down on the farm

This Friday the missus and I are going to a party. It's at a friend's house and there will be several coworkers and their spouses in attendance. I'll have a beer, maybe two if I'm feeling particularly rambunctious, because it's the only way I can listen for extended periods of time to talk of business deals and childrens' soccer games. It will be a very pleasant time.

But, it won't be a West Harrison type party. A Friday night should be at, let's say Bobby H.'s house. When the parents were away the ceiling fan blade breaks away, right, Robert? It was always worth the drive to the outskirts of Pisgah. Cars and trucks parked in the driveway, on
lawn, on the road, and, usually at least one in the ditch. To this day I don't have any idea how or why I ended up driving Tony V.'s silver '84 Chrysler Laser at that last one, but I swear I wasn't the one who broke the window crank. (Stoopid things turned the wrong way so it was bound to happen sooner or later). A party indoors, though, that was rare and didn't really capture the ambiance and character of...

...the Remington boat docks out west of Mondamin, past the overpass and beyond the Burcham place. A full moon, the brown water of the Missouri bubbling by, a fist-fight over Bocephus or Bon Jovi, and 16 gallon aluminum cylinder of Milwaukee's cheapest. As the commercial used to claim: "It don't get any better than this." This is the same boat ramp that one snowy, winter day Jerry H. got a county maintainer stuck in the river. He had been clearing the secondary roads and snow pack built up on the v-blade on the front of his 'grader; his idea to remove it was to nose the blade into the river and have the snow washed away. The road crew guys laughed hysterically when he called over the radio that his rig was stuck in the river and he needed to be pulled out.

For me the key to attending these parties was knowing when to leave. There was bound to be something broken, a fight was going to happen, somebody was going to hurl and/or pass out, and someone was going to put a vehicle into a ditch and maybe on into a cornfield. There was a birthday party at a farm near the boatramp that I missed the exit time sweetspot by about 30 minutes. It started with Birthday Boy and Best Friend arguing and ended with Best Friend driving over Birthday Boy's foot with a four-wheel drive pickup. Or, it might have been the other way around; I was too busy trying to not get run over by said truck as it sped away from from the smooshed foot.

Aileen reminded me of the park south of Little Sioux that was a popular gathering spot. The last time I stopped to visit the revelers were starting a bon fire to keep themselves warm. Wood was scarce and a split rail fence disappeared shortly after I departed. No one froze that night.

There is still a battle scar in my own home from nothing that nobody ever did during a gathering that never occurred that probably involved a portable television being moved from one room to another by someone who was never at my house. A pretty good gash was put into the drywall but the next day John M. came over and played the part of Bob Villa and gave me a demonstration on the proper application of spackle. That's the only incident I will ever, ever, ever remember not happening at my house and I suggest that no one else remember anything more, too.

Out west of Modale, towards the sand pits near Tyson's Bend were any number of timbers and fields that are perfect for a large group of people to congregate. As I mentioned another time, the drawback to being in a field with only one entrance is that there's a bottleneck when people need to leave quickly when, say, I arrive with a red rotating light on the top of my truck like I did out by Dugdale's place near the Powell house, or when real police officers join the party as they were wont to do.

Some people liked the spillways up north of Little Sioux, others liked the unmaintained road to Sawmill Hollow but after Lonnie's accident I stayed away from parties near water. The abandoned missile base south of Missouri Valley was another place I never visited, partly because I didn't want to have the Beast breakdown somewhere very inconvenient, mostly because no one asked.

It's going to be fun Friday but sometimes a cold one on the Slab sure sounds like a good time, too. The Slab will always be my favorite spot to gather (hiding in plain site, as it were). Maybe the Voster classic Nova or Shelton Trans Am or Kress Mach 1 Mustang, or even the Grooms Impala would be there, trunk open so the 6x9s and 100W amp could play Z-92 loud enough to hear over the occasional Union Pacific coal train. Not a necessarily a good idea, just a good time.

Be safe out there.

If you're gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right

It seems these days I can't scan through all 74 channels of my basic cable without finding at least six stations airing poker games. Bravo, ESPN, Travel Channel, Fox Sports, TBS, the traditional networks; seems like there needn't be any relevance to the stations primary focus as long as they can find a dealer and a group of characters to bet, bluff, and bicker.

So, card playing is now a national craze and everyone hopes the River will complete a straight or a flush. Big whoop. Cards were a part of growing up back home but the games relied less on chance and more on memory and strategy.

A family tradition was playing cribbage at every holiday gathering. We were taught the game as soon as we were old enough to be able to count to 31 quickly. Grandpa would play a couple of practice games with the kids before moving up to the real games with my uncles. It was a real privilege to be asked to join the grownups' game. I still get a thrill when beating Uncle Bruce, partly because he has played the game so much on a computer he knows virtually every possible hand in the game, but mostly because he's Bruce.

However, most people I knew played Pinochle, Euchre, or Pitch. I played all three, liked Euchre the best, didn't really get into Pinochle, and played Pitch the most.

Like cribbage, I learned how to play 5 Point Pitch from Grandpa Maule. The rules of the game aren't overly complicated: deal out six cards, go around the table bidding on how many of the points you can make, high bidder leads out the first card which determines the trump suit of that hand, all the cards in the hand are played in 6 rounds (tricks), high card wins the trick unless a card of the trump suit is played then highest trump wins the trick, after all six tricks are played out points are awarded for high trump card of the hand, jack of trump (awarded to whomever captured it in a trick), single joker (awarded to whomever captured it in a trick), low card of trump suit (awarded to whomever played it), and game (determined by whomever captures the most face cards and 10's). The first person (or team) to get 21 points wins the game. Oh, and if a bidder fails to make his bid (goes "set") s/he loses the number of points of her/his bid . To spice up the game, there was also a "shoot the moon" bid where you were guaranteeing to make all five points which, if successful, meant you scored 21 points and won the game. The advantage of being the high bidder is being able to name trump, making it easier to take points; the fun of not being the high bidder is to take points and set the bidder.

Like the current television shows, though, playing for points isn't quite satisfying enough; real players played for cold hard cash. Much like being asked to play cribbage with the adults at Thanksgiving or Christmas, it was an honor to be invited to play in a Pitch game for money. The stakes were high: typically twenty-five cents to get into the game and a ten cent fine for going set, though some hard-cores would play dollar games with quarter sets. The money, though, was secondary to the reputation. More important than winning the pot of anywhere from $1 to as much as $2 was becoming known as a good player, someone who not only knew the rules of the game but also knew how to count the cards and knew the tells and tendencies of the other players.

I played at home with family, at my neighbor's house, at Iverson home in Mondamin, the Gochenour's by Magnolia, at the Office Bar and Grill in Mondamin (high stakes dollar games there), as well as other card parties around Harrison County, but the greatest place with the best players was at little white wooden shack of a country store just down the road from my house.

A wonderful woman named Pearl ran a small gas station/store/produce stand walking distance from home. She had a table, chairs, and a soda cooler that was always stocked with 10 ounce bottles of pop, (including my favorite, Strawberry NeHi) which went for a quarter. A quarter, which coincidentally, was also the price of admission into a game of Pitch at Pearl's table.

Some of the greatest cardplayers I've ever known let me into quite a few games at the table in Pearl's store. There was always a deck of cards on the table (dusted in a bag of cornstarch to keep the old cards from sticking together). She also had a small ceramic container on the table which looked like a large, white porcelain thimble which was just big enough to hold the quarters (and all the dimes from the sets) of the card players: the kitty.

The games were played mostly on rainy days and during the winter (there was farming to be done most of the other time). You could play with just three but most games were with four or more and usually played as partners in the four and six person games. Partners was the best and how you earned a reputation; you wanted to be a person that others wanted in the game. I could hold my own and usually did well enough to pay for my NeHi and a Hershey's. What I appreciate more now are the memories. Pearl, the sweet lady who never got too upset when her own kin broke into her store (allegedly) was a ruthless player and would work as hard as anyone to set someone, smiling the whole while. Mervin Earlywine, a great player who always overbid his hand, lead a deuce, and never went set because "your partner's good for one point." Raymond Iverson, the only man I've ever seen lead a Joker on the first trick and name the trump suit- and still take the trick. My Grandpa Maule who could remember every card played and had a quip for every trick, as good a partner you could ever have. My friend, Matt, the Jeff Gordon of Pitch, brash and skilled enough to make his boasts come true. Mary Jo, one of the harshest and outspoken critics at all our high school sporting events but one of the most clever sharps to sit at the table. Pat Patterson, a large, bald, imposing figure, would set a person in a heartbeat and never stop smiling. There were a few others who would drop in and play a hand or two but these were the "regulars" I remember. Nothing would make a miserable afternoon pass faster than any four or six (one time we even had eight) of us sitting around that lopsided table, the kitty filled quarters - and a few dimes, cards being tossed onto the old vinyl table cloth (white with some flowers, I think), and a scrap of paper with the scores dutifully recorded. The hours passed twenty-one points at a time.

Never lead a Jack and you'll always be safe.

Seventy-six trombones led the big parade

So, I was standing in the drizzle and near freezing temperature as a stiff north wind made the day seem even colder while the Iowa State University Cyclones Varsity Marching Band began playing their first warm-up chords; I shivered. Over two-hundred strong, the sound easily overwhelmed the wind - and was surprisingly in tune. Goosebumps again. I hung up my saxophone in May of 1986 and haven't played it since. It's been even longer since I marched. The chills I got when the final chord of the arpeggio blared was probably just from the weather. Probably.

'Cause the 21 member West Harrison Hawkeyes Varsity Marching Band never quite sounded like that. 3 flutes, 2 picalos, 4 clarinets, 2 trombones, 1 baritone, 2 alto saxophones, 2 tenor saxophones, 1 tuba, 2 snare drums, 1 tympani, and 1 bass drum. Sure, we gave it the old high school try (sort of) but we didn't drown out the wind. We were lucky to be heard over the rustle of the pom squads pom shaking. But, considering we usually played current hit songs like "Night Train," "Bill Bailey," "Mame," and "Peter Gunn," as well as thin versions of "Star Spangled Banner" and our school fight song, "Illinois Loyalty." We were few in number, off in tune, and not always in step, but we were the band.

B-sharp and be safe.

I Really Want to Know: Who Are You? Who? Who?

About a year and a half ago I started posting stories about the period of my life spent in Harrison County, Iowa. It was my way of kick starting the reminiscing for the West Harrison Class of 1986 10x2 Reunion. Well, that has come and gone, but there's still a few stories left to tell so I'll keep at it until people stop reading. Back in July I started using the StatCounter service which is pretty interesting. Over the last few weeks I have found that this blog has a wider audience than I originally thought and it has me curious. There are a few classmates we couldn't find for the reunion and I'm wondering if they are my mystery readers. My Farmers Insurance reader who checks in daily; sorry I don't post more frequently, but thanks for looking. Parker, Colorado, welcome to the blog. Urbana, Illinois, yes, small town life really is like this. Reston, Virginia, thanks for reading. And, all of you in Omaha, Nebraska, the Prime Rib at Gurneys in Mo Valley is still the best I've found in the Mid-West. But, hey, please do me a favor and send me an email so I know who the heck you are - it might remind me of another story or two to post. As it has been been for the last nine years, my address is jdsqrd at yahoo dot com.

No matter who you are are from where you hail, thanks for reading and be safe.

Time Well Wasted

A while back I described the thrill of cruising Mondamin. Although shooting the loop with three or four other cars in a town of 400 where not even the gas station stayed open past 5pm may sound like the pinnacle of weekend excitement, truth be told, Missouri Valley is where cruising on Friday and Saturday nights usually happened. When I was really little sometimes the family would stop by the Dairy Den in the Valley for soft serve ice cream (chocolate-vanilla swirl in a sugar cone, in a paper cup for my accident-prone sister). The Dairy Den is just a small shack about twenty feet wide and thirty feet long. Since there's no seating, you order at one of the three windows and then eat in your car. As good as the ice cream was, the best part of these family outings was backing into one of the six unmarked parking spots around the little brown treat hut and watching the cars cruising. Ideally located near the west edge of the businesses on the south side of Erie Street (which is also U.S. Highway 30 as it passes through town) and with a half asphalt-half gravel circle driveway, the Dairy Den was the west end of the Mo Valley loop. Option One of the west end, actually. The gas station one block west on Blaine Street was Option Two. We would watch for half an hour or so as sedans, pick-ups, econo boxes, station wagons, and even an occasional sports car bounced over the pot-hole filled driveway as they changed directions and turned to head east back down Erie to cruise back to the east side of the Valley. Every once and awhile a rusted out POS would stomp on the accelerator and spin one rear tire for a few feet. The sports cars, however, almost never did that; usually they did just the opposite and stealthily eased back into traffic. Dad told me it's because when you've got it you don't have to show off. Still, every once and awhile, there would be a Camaro/Trans Am, Mustang/Thunderbird, Monte Carlo/Cutlass/Regal, or classic Nova that drop the hammer and get a posi-traction second gear scratch. Then the trip around the loop begins. Heading east on Erie from the Dairy Den starts with five blocks of houses on the left and houses on the right, some with people sitting on the porches watching the automotive spectacle. Then, where Highway 183(1st Street) from Mondamin and other northern locations links up with Highway 30 (Erie) was the Li'l Duffer, Mo Valley's "fast" food place. The Duffer had a huge parking lot which was a good place to park your car if you were meeting someone or to pull in for a chat. And, if you were desperate, you could even eat the food there. Three blocks further to the east, past a couple of banks, the Breadeaux Pizza Shoppe, and the closed Rialto movie theater, was the most important part of the loop, the City Hall/Fire Station/Police Station/City Jail building. When nothing is happening, there would be three police cars parked next to the building. A typical night would have just two police cars parked. Busy nights there was only one parked; none would be there during crisis or the county fair. It was important to make a count on your first trip around the loop so you would know how many of the Men in Blue were out patrolling. There was one summer night that Al and I brought a bunch of water balloons with us and chucked them at people walking on the sidewalks. We didn't count the police cars and didn't realize there was more than one officer patrolling so it wasn't long before the one cop we hadn't kept track of pulled us over (right after we tossed our final barrage of balloons) and issued us a stern warning for unlawful use of dihydrogen monoxide. We never did that again. There was the lone traffic light. If you kept a constant 30 miles per hour the light would be green every pass (or red if you were out of synch). Another couple of blocks and Highway 183 breaks off and heads south to Council Bluffs. Just two more blocks and the east end of the loop is reached. Turn left across Erie, hit the 8th Street entrance to the Kum 'n' Go, bounce across their busted up concrete, and exit through their Erie Street driveway and the flip is complete, now traveling west on Erie. Like the Dairy Den at the other end of the loop, the Kum 'n' Go gas station is the most convenient place to change direction. Further east was another ice cream shop, Al's Dairy Sweet, which also had the soft serve ice cream and cute girls taking orders but the mystery burgers weren't as tasty as the Dairy Den loose meats. A Pizza Hut was out that direction, too, but its steep driveway was not conducive to turning around. Even further east was the Sunnyside Inn Truckstop but that was too remote to be in the loop. Many summer (and spring, fall, and winter) nights were spent driving the Mo Valley loop, radio tuned to Z-92 the Rock(92.3 on your FM dial) with Def Leppard blaring through the lone in-dash speaker of the Beast, windows down, usually with a truck full of friends, sometimes a girlfriend, sometimes alone, honking and yelling at other people on the loop, who were also driving the vehicular grapevine hoping to hear of something to do. I was with Matt E. one night in his Grandpa's '84 metallic blue Ford pickup (only 2 wheel drive) and he threw my baseball uniform hat out the window into the center of Erie. Ha, ha, very freakin' funny. The car behind us did its best to swerve and run over it but missed. Everyone else on the circuit got it, though, including Matt on the return trip; the hat was a total loss. Such was the enterainment on the loop. If you were lucky you find someone on their way to a party (there were parties every weekend but if you didn't know to which cornfield or timber to go you'd never find one) or hook up with another group of bored people on their way to Council Bluffs or Omaha to see a movie. Or, sometimes just cruise until it was as empty as the Mondamin loop and go home. I still make a lap around the loop when I go back home just to see how it's changed. There's two more traffic lights which really screws up the timing, the Li'l Duffer is now some pizza place, the Rialto shows movies again, Breadeaux Pizza (better than the Hut) is gone, and there's a Casey's General Store at 1st and Erie. But, with all the new fast food places out by the intesection of Highway 30 and Interstate 29 outside of the west end of town it doesn't seem like there's as many kids cruising. Or, maybe I'm just old.

Be safe everyone.

Can I borrow your towel for a sec? My car just hit a water buffalo.

1) Must like football (the real kind, not that soccer fad), 2) must like cold pizza (the food, not the crummy morning show on ESPN), and 3) must like the quote machine movie "Fletch" (the original, not the piece of crap sequel). These are three qualities the perfect woman would possess - according to my friend, Todd. He was joking. Ironically, these happen to be among the many fine qualities his fiance JAN, possesses (they actually have considerably more in common). Congrats you two.

But, my friends and classmates from West Harrison, I learned an appreciation for football from my wife, never liked leftover pizza unless it was properly nuked, and "Fletch" always reminds me of standardized tests.

It was early in June of 1985. It was a Friday night and we had played a home baseball game in Pisgah against a team I don't recall with a result that is irrelevant. I remember sitting on the hood of the Beast parked across the street from Siebel's IGA Grocery Store and talking to Trisha T. (and a few others but they don't stand out in my memory) until around 2 a.m. I'm pretty sure refreshments had been provided by the Hinkel twins. I should have been at home but Trisha had not spoken to me like a real person for any amount of time before so far be it from me to bolt early. Funny the stuff you remember after 20 years. Right after she left I told the others "I gotta go, I have to take a test tomorrow." Such was my preparation for the ACT.

Our Guidance Counselor, Mr. Reichart, was a pretty cool guy but in some ways I wish he would have stressed a few things a little more, like, say how important that stoopid test could be. I was only 16 - how the hell was I supposed to know half asleep and hung over was no way to go into the test? Actually, it turned out OK but then I've always been pretty good at faking my way through multiple-guess tests. Besides, he did make sure I at least signed up to take it. Since there was only a handful of us from West Harrison taking the test we had to go to the Big City to take it at a larger venue. Even though we were going to an Iowa school we took the test at the University of Nebraska - Omaha. I hitched a ride with Cathy G. in her maroon Cordoba (with a bitchin' 360 c.i.d. engine but no Corinthian leather seats) which was nice for my headache. I'm thinking Mac and John F. went with too but I could be wrong. I remember nothing of the drive down or the test but oh, the relief when it was done. It was early afternoon on a Saturday and after making pretty patterns on bubble sheets for several hours we all needed a pick-me-up. Someone said "Movie?" and the rest of us said "sure." So, most all the West Harrison kids left the exam room and met at the theater. The film that day? "Fletch." Laughed our butts off for two hours. Now, whenever I hear "Moon River, wider than a mile" I think of "Fletch" and the exam, the ACT exam. And, I've never watched the movie all the way through again since.

Be safe everyone.

9 - 1 - 1

I wrote the following on the afternoon of September 11, 2001. Those who know Sandy and I know that we have no children, just our cat, Friley. Many of you also know that because Friley and Marsie could not get along, Marsie was adopted by a good friend shortly after this was written and left our home.

I stayed home today to babysit Marsie, our new kitten. She and Friley, our first cat, are still struggling with sharing the house and needed extra supervision. Repeated little kitty pouncings forced me out of bed shortly after Sandy had left for work. It was only a little before 8, but I turned on the television anyway.

I wanted Sports Center but one of the news channels came up first. It was broadcasting live from New York. Apparently an aircraft had just crashed into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. I was stupified. A plane had to have been suffering severe mechanical failure to veer that far off course and strike that deep into Manhattan. I picked up a phone to call my office to let them know of the incident; reporters may be calling for information and my coworkers would need to be reminded of the PR office number. I glanced at the screen. It was now filled with a view of the tower, smoke getting heavier on the upper levels. As I picked up the phone's handset, I watched in disbelief as a large, twin-engine jet crashed into the other tower of the Center. I set the phone down and went numb. One crash is a tragic accident; two can only be a deliberate attack.

I finally made the call to the office. The news had not made it there yet. I expected my office to be better informed. I imagine Managers were monitoring the events; but, the troops at my level had been told nothing. I told a fellow radar engineer that our country was under attack. He asked if it was Middle-East terrorists or the Mid- West militias. It made me sick that we would even have to wonder.

I could hear Marsie munching at her food bowl - her third breakfast of the morning. She was oblivious to the act of war carried out with global televised coverage. The talking heads were stunned and audibly shaken. "Words cannot describe what have just witnessed." Many words followed. The Center employs nearly 50,000 people though no one was certain how many may have been inside. More importantly, though, was that the Dow Jones and New York Stock Exchange would be delaying their openings.

I turned all the TV's in the house on to different networks, hoping to glean nuggets of fact out of all the hear-say they were broadcasting. I held onto Friley. He didn't understand it, either, but he knew something was wrong. We watched the kitchen television bring us pictures of the fires growing out of control. Friley struggled free - even he had seen enough. The chaotic scene is described as resembling "a war zone." They don't get it yet - it's not a "resemblance," this was an act of war.

Marsie joined me in the living room as I scanned all the networks for anything of substance. Marsie crawled onto my shoulder and purred. Camera views shifted from the inferno at the towers to the Pentagon. A bomb, a helicopter, another airplane - all of those three were attributed to causing the smoke and carnage now emanating from headquarters of the world's strongest military force.

"Marsie" is short for Marston, the name of the building where I first studied engineering at Iowa State University. The building was named after Anson Marston, a civil engineer and former professor at ISU. I looked down at Marsie, now sleeping on my shoulder as one of the two towers of the World Trade Center collapsed from structural failure caused by the impact and subsequent fire damage. She stirred a little as the second tower came down upon itself and the hundreds of police, firefighters, and survivors below it. In 1973 no one foresaw such an extreme act of malice. Marston and I learned a little more today.

As I check on Friley, reports that the three airplanes were all hijacked begin to firm up. An "expert" who's name means little foreshadows that when we begin to analyze this day we will likely find how incredibly simple it was to orchestrate this attack. I wait for them to speak of the horror the passengers of these flights must have undergone before being sacrificed for the good of a "cause." I think of the airline employed "guards" manning the x-ray machines at the
terminal gates pulling down slightly more per hour than a drive-thru window cashier at any McDonalds, the airline ticket takers who won't even enforce carry-on baggage size limits, the baggage handlers mangling/stealing/losing luggage out on the airport ramps - is it really a question of how this happened or more of how did it not happen before now?

The FAA shut down all airports in the United States. A prudent move since own infrastructure has been used against us. The criticism for this action will likely come in a couple of days - people have been inconvenienced, after all. As Friley and I watch the split screen views of the rubble in Manhattan and the fire at the Pentagon, I notice the custom banner at the bottom of the screen: "America Under Attack." The graphics department does fast work. Or, maybe this
one was already in the can. Occasionally the cameras pan to the sky where F-15s and F-16s now orbit above New York and Washington. American Airlines (an intentional irony I am sure) has acknowledged that two of its airliners are missing. As Friley turns to look away I wonder what rules of engagement our Air Force has issued now that every airliner in the sky is a potential threat. A rumor of a fourth hijacked airplane is quickly disseminated as fact by all the news wires - it is allegedly on a path to the Pentagon. Friley lifts his head in heightened alert, his ears sweeping back and forth. Another plane has crashed, this time in a wooded area in Pennsylvania. Friley relaxes and goes back to sleep. The two minutes expire with no planes other than our own fighter jets ever getting near the Pentagon. I feel sympathy for those fighter pilots; it would be difficult to have to fire on a domestic passenger 'liner.

As Marsie heads for her litter box one of my least favorite news anchors says that there have been several groups claiming responsibility for the attack though none he deemed credible enough to air. Later, he would announce in excruciating detail the location of the President, Vice-President, Secretaries of State and Defense, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and several congressional leaders. He also does frequent updates of movements of our battle ships and an aircraft carrier along the east coast. Some of our national leadership were going to "undisclosed locations," which seemed to irritate all of the news teams. However, an update was promised.

Thousands have certainly died today but there has been little speculation on just how many. As my little ones both sleep the speculation as to "which known terrorist organization" may have had the ability to plan and execute such a brazen attack. "Which known terrorist organization." "Which" meaning there are several. "Known" implying there may be others yet to surface. "Terrorist" - well, terrorists are just a cowardly minority seeking publicity for "causes" that can't be trumpeted using any form of logic; today they have succeeded. "Organization" - today, "organization" has taken on a new dimension. I fear the vermin responsible have acted on behalf of God. I have never imagined that God would be so intolerant that He would want people killed rather than taught.

Marsie is fast asleep, oblivious to the magnitude of this morning's events. She is just a thirteen-week-old Siamese kitten. Friley is nine, middle-aged by cat standards, and doesn't comprehend the day, either. As I look at them I feel sad. Sad not just for the thousands of lives that were and are irreparably altered, but for all the parents and teachers today who will have to try to explain the unexplainable events of today to our children.

It has a nice beat and you can dance to it

I rarely liked the music. It was usually disco or bubblegum pop. The dancers were obviously left coasters with too much to spend on goofy looking outfits. And, it only takes one or two shows of television and movie bloopers and blunders before that schtick wears thin. But, seeing a post stroke Dick Clark on the Emmys tonight still made me sad. If Dick Clark can age what hope is there for the rest of us?

Live long and prosper. And be safe.

Of travel I've had my share, man

Last week I had the pleasure of taking a (work related) tour of the north border of my adopted home state of Kansas. It took the better part of six hours to drive I-70 west from Lawrence up a continuous yet imperceptible incline to Goodland, just spitting distance from Colorado. Holy Snooze, Batman! What an incredibly nondescript drive that is, virtually devoid of any topographical variation. The four day return trip eastward on Highway 36, however was markedly better, mostly because it reminded me a lot of back home. Hills, valleys, trees, streams, and the occasional stench of an all-to-close Nebraska when the breeze was from the north, each town I passed through brought me memories of Modale, Mondamin, the Siouxs, Pisgah, Missouri Valley, Logan, Magnolia, Dunlap, even Moorehead. Except for Cawker City where I drove by the world's largest ball of twine (really more of a cylinder of twine since it is sagging under its own weight); nowhere in Harrison County is there such a magnificent monument to string. As soon as I left Goodland, folks started giving the familiar rural wave when I met them on the road. A couple of times I even saw high school aged sweethearts sitting side-by-side in pick up trucks rolling down the road, something my wife thinks is so corny yet I distinctly remember as being pretty cool twenty years ago. After making stops at St. Francis, Oberlin, Phillipsburg, Norton, Stockton, Beloit, Smith Center, Plainville, Clay Center, Concordia, Belleville, Washington, Seneca, Sabetha, Hiawatha, Marysville, and Atchison (Amelia Earhart's birthplace) and passing through a dozen other towns, I had a hankering to visit home. So, home is where my trip eventually took me. And, despite all those blasted new Stop signs stuck in silly places in Modale, it sure was nice to be back on Highway 127, Highway 183, Highway 30, and Iowa 75 and all the roads now named funny things so the city people could make 9-1-1 work in the country, even if it was for just a day. No matter where I live, now and in the future, Harrison County, Iowa will always be home. A home that is always difficult to leave.

It was roughly twenty years ago this week that I loaded all my clothes, a handful of toiletries, some prized mementos, a tiny refrigerator, and my favorite pillow into the Beast and headed east to Ames. It was the beginning of the drifting apart that the Class of 1986 would undergo. The seeds of this diversion had been sown several months earlier for many of us. I'm not sure how others handled this but here's a snippet of my planning for the Fall of 1986. Because I freely gave out my name and address to college recruiters I received a little over two grocery bags of informational pamphlets. It was a huge variety; brochures from places as diverse as the California Institute of Technology, Friends University (Wichita), Yale, and Northwest Missouri State. Decisions, decisions, descisions. For months I really intended to go to a school Alan G. had identified to me: Rose-Hulman in Indiana. It is a private, small engineering school; so small that the classes would be only slightly larger than classes at West Harrison. Their hook was the ingenious recruiting booklet that understated their technical prowess by using nothing but tinkertoys as visual aids. Tinkertoy U. They even sent me a great poster - which I still have - "Ski Terre Haute." It was a photo of a snow skier in a snowy field of corn stalks but the photo was taken at a thirty degree angle (as evidenced by the silo in the background). I took my only school visit to Rose-Hulman with my Uncle Barry B. the fall of 1985. A small campus, top notch facilities, small classes, and a pretty decent chance I would be able to play baseball for them; it had a lot pluses and I had even submitted an application to attend. But, in the end, the distance was too much. My folks were already half a country away in Arizona and the thought of moving away from my grandparents and other special people back home was more than I was able to handle so I rushed the paperwork for ISU into the mix. I was accepted to school but applied so late that I was placed on a waiting list for housing. So, as I pulled out of the driveway with my truck full of stuff, I was bound for ISU, specifically Wallace Hall's basement where I was to live in a storeroom with 15 other procrastinators in the makeshift temporary housing. That was OK, though, because even in that cramped space overcrowded with disorganized freshmen, I knew it was home. That Heather C.'s temp housing was a luxury hotel room on campus will always be a travesty. But, I'm glad we were on the same campus in our home state. FFE, right?

Be safe everyone.

Anything travels that far oughta have a damn stewardess on it, don't you think?

This may look familiar to some of you but I had writer's block and had to regurgitate a story from an old email.

In the summer of 1985 Ed K. got married. I believe the ceremony was in the Mondamin Catholic Church but the wedding reception was in Modale at the Legion Hall. In typical small-town Catholic tradition there was an open bar - and no one was checking IDs. Most of the West Harrison baseball team was there and most of us celebrated the event quite heartily. I had to leave the Beast parked in Modale that night because, well, because it was the prudent thing to do. Mike P. (Class of 1984) was back from Morningside and attended the festivities and somehow ended up driving me home. I don't remember what kind of car he was driving but I do recall it sat low to the ground. Really low. This was a problem that night because the county hadn't mowed the brome grass growing along side the road between Modale and Mondamin so it was standing tall and proud at near car window height. As we entered the portion of the road with those sharp s-turns, the sensation of being in a bobsled flying through the chute was enough for me request Mike to stop the car. STOP IT NOW! I felt really bad about wasting all that beer and cake but it had to be done; fortunately I didn't get any hurl in the car. That night I forever lost my love for peppermint schnapps. I, as well as most of my teammates, woke up the next day with colossal hangovers. Unfortunately for us, we had an afternoon ballgame with Dow City-Arion (I think it was DC-A, anyway) that day. Coach C. had strongly suggested that we not go to the reception and was extremely pissed when we all showed up at the team bus looking very pasty and lethargic: obviously hung over. Needless to say, it was a very quiet ride to Dow City (or wherever it really was). We followed up that miserable, stuffy, bumpy bus ride (thank god there wasn't tall grass on both sides of the highway or I would have spewed again) with an equally pathetic performance on the ball diamond. Most of us were half a beat late on our swings and didn't generate much offense; our defense was equally sloppy. One (mis)play I vividly recall was when a well hit fly ball came towards right-right center field, pretty much where I was standing. I started in when I should have sprinted out, the ball sailed over my head (which was throbbing unmercilessly), bounced between the two wooden power poles that were in right center field, and rolled towards the cornfield that defined the extent of the ballpark (they had no fence). Tony C. got to the ball before I did and threw it in just as the in-the-park home run was completed. Not a bright moment for those of us wearing the Black and White. Coach C. was livid and screamed at me that he hoped I had fun the night before and then benched me, for which I was quite thankful. I had seen the Coach pissed before but that was as close to postal I'd ever seen him. We lost the game pretty handily that day and got an ass chewing on the way out of the parking lot followed by a very stony silence for the rest of the ride home. I think of this game often now as I watch the Kansas City Royals bumble about the diamond this season. There must be a lot of ball players getting married this summer; nothing else could explain their play.

Be safe.

Revenge of the Nerds

This one is for my geeky friends out there. I hope both of you like it.

I read a column this week in the trade magazine, Infoworld, written by a programmer who believed he wrote the first computer virus in 1990. More proof-of-concept than malicious, it was only designed to replicate but not harm. Good for him, I say. But, I don't necessarily agree.

Gary M., West Harrison Class of 1984, was a pretty sharp computer programmer back in the day when Apple II computers with green monochrome monitors reigned supreme. During the 1983-84 school year he created a graphics editing program that would allow a person to make computer art. It used all 64 available colors at a near Atari 2600-ish resolution which may not sound impressive in today's 32 million color, HD world but back then it was almost a decade ahead of Photoshop. He used most of his spare time before, during, and after school in the computer lab tweaking his code.

That same school year I spent quite a bit of time in the computer lab, too. Having already completed an assignment to write a program to play the computer a game of 21, rewrote to play a betting version of Blackjack using a virtual deck of 52 suited playing cards (shuffled after every hand), rerewrote it to fix it so the computer would win most of the time, I moved on to more practical endeavors. I had written a program to track the farm expenses using a format similar to a checkbook register, separating out income and expenses into various categories to help with figuring budgeting and taxes. Like Gary's program, my program was massive. Several hundred lines of BASIC code, written in poor, multiple commands per line number, un-commented form to conserve memory, it just barely fit into the 48kB (kB meaning "kilobyte" - most of today's personal computers have a million times more memory than this) Yeah, like hundreds of other kids those days, the opportunity to make millions was in my grasp, I only needed to name my program "Quicken" and market it. A key part of my checkbook program was making it save monthly data to a 5 1/4" 140 kb floppy disk. In learning to do this I learned that the disk drives made a lot of racket when reading and writing data.

I admit that I probably started it. Gary and I weren't usually in the lab at the same time but we were aware that we both spent a lot of time in there. One day as a prank I moved the floppy disk he used to store his work to a different location. After recovering from near cardiac arrest and locating his wayward floppy, he figured out who moved it and reciprocated by putting a fake label on my disk. I escalated by inserting a couple of lines of code into his bootup program calling him a crude name. He did the similar to my disk. I think Splitt enjoyed this battle of twits because he assisted each of us in the next round. He showed Gary how to name programs using control characters which did not appear on the monitor when the index of the disk was viewed. Gary renamed his programs with control characters embedded in the file names so I couldn't alter the code anymore. I was bummin. About two weeks later after the hijinx had subsided due to Gary's defensive ploy, Splitt then showed me a nifty little program that made control characters in program names visible. I was back in business. My final volley ended the pranks for good. Gary put his disk into the drive and booted up a trusty black Bell&Howell II+ and was greeted with:

The Program
21 [disk drive grinding sounds]
has been deleted.


The Program
checkbook [disk drive grinding sounds]
has been deleted.

The Program
graphics [disk drive grinding sounds]
has been deleted.

and this continued listing every program on his disk. I understand he went ballistic when this started appearing on the screen. I probably would have, too, if I thought all my classwork - and personal work - had just been erased. I may have been ornery but I wasn't cruel. I didn't actually erase anything; it was just a simulation. I had noticed that erasing programs from a floppy disk sounded exactly like reading data from the disk so I had created a database of his program names on his disk and inserted short bit of code into his bootup file so that it would display "The program" on the screen, query the on-disk database of filenames to get a name and, more importantly, make the sound like something was being erased, then display that filename followed by "has been deleted." I put it into a loop that would continue until all the names had been read from the disk. I thought it was clever but apparently it was too mean. I was given a cease and desist order from Splitt on all computer room pranks. I complied out of respect for him - and because I knew I couldn't top that one. Although not a virus, I do believe, however, that I may have possibly authored the first bit of computer "malware." I believe Gary is an inventor for LSI Logic now but I'm surprised considering what a pain in the ass my pranks were he didn't end up at McAfee instead.

Be safe.

Compete - Empower - Unite

For this post I'm deviating from the West Harrison Community School reminiscing that comprises most of this blog.

Over the last fifteen years, in addition to sitting in a dark cubicle working on project drawings and specifications or trying convince my airports that "I am really here to help," my job has allowed me to do a cool thing or two. Seeing the first jet land on the new runway in St. Louis, standing at mid-field watching Steve Fossett take off on the first round the world solo trip, moving an irreplaceable radar system across a busy city using a Ryder truck, just to name a few. It's had its ups and downs but my career has been pretty decent and I've had a good life.

It was at this year's winter meeting of the Kansas Association of Airports that I learned of the project. This type of meeting typically deals with issues of regulation, operation, and, of course, funding of airports, etc. - all necessary and important subjects, but often (always) quite dry meeting topics. However, at this meeting there was a presentation that was just a bit out of place. Marilyn Richwine of Cessna Aircraft was to give a multimedia presentation on a philanthropic project sponsored by her company. The Cessna jet models known as Citations are built in a plant at the Mid Continent Airport in Wichita, Kansas. I had toured the plant with my supervisor and the airport manager about this time last year so I was familiar with the Citation line of executive/corporate aircraft. The tour ended with a visit to the Sales and Marketing building where full scale fuselage mock-ups of the various Citation variants were outfitted with the most popular interior options. Leather seats, minibars, flat panel televisions with surround sound systems, wood trim - accoutrements worthy of the Warren Buffet ilk. Of course, not all of the planes are sold decked out as well as the marketing props, but if people weren't buying then they wouldn't be showing. I learned that day that a plane-jane small Citation could be had for mid seven figures and the newest, largest Citation X, may reach the mid eight figures. Very nice. But, it would be over half a year later before I would learn of the Citation Airlift.

I won't go through all the details of Marilyn's presentation except for the basic premise of the Cessna project that she coordinates. The idea was hatched in 1985 after two Citations were used to transport members of the Kansas Special Olympics team to Salt Lake City for the International Winter World games. The pilots found the experience so rewarding that they worked with Cessna to expand the program to include more aircraft to assist more athletes. Cessna contacted its customer base and found that there was considerable support from the individuals and corporations who owned and operated the Citation jets. In 1987, coordinated by Cessna, dozens of entities donated the use of their aircraft - and ponied up for operation costs as well - to transport Special Olympics athletes from all over the United States to the international games. Done again in 1991, 1995, and 1999, the number of owners and aircraft increased - all had found their experience with the athletes and the athlete's enthusiasm and excitement - many of whom had never been on an airplane before, let alone private airplanes likely outfitted in limousine-esque interiors - was unparalleled. Marilyn showed a video of the 1999 Airlift effort and made a very simple request: the first ever National Summer Special Olympics was to be held in 2006 in Ames, Iowa, and the Airlift would be on July 1st and 8th using the Des Moines International Airport as the staging ground. They needed volunteers to help with the effort on the ground. You couldn't see the video and not want to help. I took one of Marilyn's business cards after her presentation and promised to volunteer.

So, unlike my promise to finish our basement, I followed through and contacted Marilyn to sign up as a volunteer. Even though my wife didn't see the video and hear the presentation, she signed up as well. Filled out the Cessna volunteer forms. Later, filled out another form. My exuberance to help nearly got us left out completely - I had emailed several folks coordinating the effort so many times that each assumed the other had assigned us to a task. Finally, two days before we left for Ames to help, my wife told me to lay off and she would handle things. She got hold of Trina, one of the coordinators in Ames, and got us jobs as volunteer baggage handlers during the mid-day shift. We were told we would work from 10:30 to 2:30 and that we should arrive an hour early so we would have time to park and get trained on our task. (Upon return to my office I discovered an email from late Friday that my help wasn't needed; I'm glad I missed that message)

My wife's parents live in Ames so we drove up the night before. I awoke at 5:50 and had us driving to the airport by 7:30. As we crossed eastward on Highway 5 we could see Citations of varying sizes approaching and departing the airport every couple of minutes. I had us at DSM at 8:30, an hour before the hour before the time we were told to report. We rode a shuttle bus from the volunteer/spectator parking area (an abandoned stretch of old Army Post Road) and were taken to a hangar that was being used for the coaches and teams to gather before getting on the buses to go to the Iowa State University campus in Ames. We were given volunteer hats, shirts, and identification badges and told we could wait up on the air cargo ramp where the incoming flights were disembarking the athletes. We walked from the hangar up a path made of compacted asphalt millings past a group of Ames High School cheerleaders (Go Little Cyclones!) and waited at the "Red Line" painted on the pavement which separated the Aircraft Operations Area from the area for the rest of us. As we arrived a jet completed taxiing into a parking space and we saw for the first time an Airlift landing.

As the plane came to a halt, a Cessna VIP and a group of photographers and videographers rushed to the door of the plane. As the group exited the plane they were greeted by the VIP and the camera people did their thing. Imagine the President arriving in Air Force One, well, anywhere and the greeting he gets and this was it only with a smaller plane. Even though we were 150 feet away we could see the huge smiles of the passengers as they stepped off the aircraft. Then the applause began. All the people standing where we were clapped as the athletes and their coaches walk across tarmac towards the registration hangar. Some wave, some hold up their forefinger, some just look to the ground overwhelmed by the attention. The Ames High cheerleaders formed lines on both sides of the path and performed cheers as the team passed through as members of the Special Olympics Torch Run team gave the athletes high-fives. It reminded me of the Jordan era Bulls during pre-game introductions only without the laser light show. We had been there maybe twelve minutes and it was already obvious there was no better way to spend the day.

As we watched and cheered the arrivals of several more jets, I spotted a couple of people with whom I used to work. They had been in Des Moines for the past few days setting up a mobile airport traffic control facility that was being used to augment the control tower for this event. After my wife and I were relieved by the next shift of volunteers, Rodger, Josh, and Larry gave us a tour of the mobile facility for which they were responsible.

This mobile control tower was a white fifth-wheel camper that would be the envy of any NASCAR fan. Constructed on the front of it was an elevated, enclosed observation deck looking over the aircraft parking area. We entered it through a door in the aft of the trailer and walked past a row of radio racks, beige colored metal cabinets six feet tall that stretched from the rear of the "camper" for another ten feet towards the front. They were tuned and ready to for action, standing by as back-ups to the back-ups of the airports communications system. The real action, however was up front on the observation deck. We climbed up four steps to the deck where three people were staring intently at color flat panel monitors, speaking every so often into their mic'd headsets. All three wore hats that said "Dove Control."

The Citations participating in the Airlift were called "Doves." Each was assigned a specific departure and arrival time so that the Des Moines airport would not be overwhelmed. Each Dove flight was also given a flight number as an identifier for the controllers to use to coordinate the flights. Dove 1 was a jet from Des Moines which brought in the first Airlift passengers around 7:30 that morning. By 8 a.m. that same plane was on its way to the West Coast to pick up another group of athletes. It would later return to Des Moines around 6p.m. as Dove 237, the last Airlift flight of the day.

I looked at the monitors the Dove Controllers were viewing. The monitors were connected to the national air traffic control system and were showing the weather and every aircraft in the United States. There was also a blue line that stretched from the Rockies to the Mid West. I assumed it was a storm track but I was wrong. When I leaned in for a look I saw that it wasn't a solid line but was a series of closely spaced blue dots all heading to Des Moines. The blue dots, we learned, were Doves. The controllers in this trailer were in contact with all of them, working with the pilots to adjust the spacing so that the arrivals - and eventual departures - worked like a well oiled machine.

After our brief tour of the mobile control facility, Josh, Rodger, and Larry showed us one of the more important aspects of their duties. In addition to setting up the mobile facility, connecting it into the airport and national infrastructure, and standing by to address any equipment or logistical issues that may arise, these 3 three had a very crucial task. Ever Citation that arrived had to first taxi past the mobile tower. And every plane was greeted by these three waving. It probably sounds trivial but for the scant amount of time my wife and I spent with them next to the trailer, waving at every plane that went by, and seeing the smiling faces and excited waving through the plane windows, it was priceless.

At 10:30 we found Trina and got directed to where we would be working for the next few hours. I had hoped to help unload the planes but that was not to be - they had professionals for that. We joined the crew loading the bags, luggage, and equipment onto the buses that would take the teams to the Iowa State campus. Turns out the teams would be staying in the same residence halls in which I lived for five years as a student. As the aircraft continued to arrive every few minutes the luggage from those planes would be brought from the cargo apron to the backside of the registration hangar where the charter buses were queued. We loaded the luggage into the cargo holds of the buses, which was a little physically taxing for a dweller of cubtopia such as myself, but not overly mentally challenging. The bonus, though was when the teams boarded the bus. We were the last people to see them off from the airport.

It was a volunteer named Ryan, the son of a flight attendant, who really started it for our shift. As the teams approached the bus we all started clapping. Ryan went the extra mile of getting right up to the team and high-fiving everyone and telling them to "have a great week." It snowballed from there. Soon we all were giving high-fives, shaking hands, encouraging the teams to "have a great week." The smiles got bigger, the "#1's" were raised in the air, and swaggers showed up. It was really something to see, to be a part of. These were kids who obviously had difficulties, some physical, some developmental, but for that moment they were heroes heading to competition. I will never forget seeing one particular competitor from Tennessee make his way from the hangar to the door of the bus, both legs in braces, using a walker, about to head up to my alma mater to compete. My most difficult day will never seem all that tough anymore.

And so it went for four hours: we loaded the buses and cheered the teams as they headed north to the Games. Connecticut, Indiana, Florida, North Carolina, South Carolina, North Dakota, Tennessee, Ohio, Maryland, Arizona, Texas, Alaska, Kentucky, Alabama; I can't even remember them all now. 2:30 came and went, a new shift of baggage volunteers arrived but I stayed to help for another hour longer. It felt great to give a send-off to the teams as they left for Ames but loading bags in Iowa's July heat and humidity finally got to me at 3:30 and I had to relinquish my baggage handling duties to the next shift.

I haven't sweated my butt off like that since I put up hay back home some twenty-five years ago. What really got to me though, were the coaches and parents thanking me/us as they boarded the bus. Thank me? It would do a disservice to the people I saw that day to try to describe the challenges and difficulties over which they persevere. Just getting through the hangar to the buses was obviously a monumental struggle for some and yet they were on their way to Ames to compete in sporting events. At times it was difficult to not be overwhelmed by the emotion of the moment. I imagine these athletes were going to have a really tough go of it in life, much more difficult than anything I will likely ever experience. This was their week and I was only going to be there for a few hours of one day. At one point I had to ask Trina a question. Before I could even say a word one of the athletes standing next to her informed us it was group hug time and before I knew it, it was indeed group hug time - one of the most emphatic group hugs of which I've ever been a part. I've never felt less deserving of a thank you. Ever. The hand shakes, the smiles, and high-fives bordered on indescribable. A site I will never forget is that of one young man walking past us as we cheered, totally stoked, arm raised into the air, showing the world a #1, as he led his team to the bus. The highlight of my day, though, was when I held out my hand for a high-five and said 'Welcome to Iowa' and instead received a huge hug from one of the athletes just before he got on the bus. No more 'thank yous' necessary.

Be safe everyone.

Now That's a Fire

John F. had the first comedy album I ever heard. Sure, I had seen Flip Wilson do his schtick on Johnny Carson and his own show and Bob Hope trot out his retread jokes on all his USO shows (Ann-Margret...mmmmm) But, recorded comedy was something new. John had an actual black vinyl LP with static-ee grooves. It was Steve Martin's "A Wild and Crazy Guy" album. It had classic bits like the song "King Tut" and, naturally, a solo version of the "Wild and Crazy Guy" bit. It was 1978 and at that time it was the most hysterical thing we had ever heard. Way better than Rich Little or Bob Newhart. I can still envision the clip-on rabbit ears and white suit Steve wears on the album cover but it's John singing "Grandpa bought a rubber" in synch with the original wild and crazy guy that I will always remember. Being an LP though, meant we could only listen to it on a turntable at one of our houses. We tried listening in a car but it skipped too badly. Besides, by the time we could drive (legally) our tastes had grown more "sophisticated."

Even after Mr. Martin stopped being a regular host we continued to watch Saturday Night Live. This enabled us to discover a new, fresh, and, dare I say it, funnier guy named Eddie Murphy. He was funny on the TV but he was outrageous on cassette (which don't skip when played in the car). Before he was "Raw" he was just "Eddie Murphy." Hit by a Car? Damn funny at the time though I don't see the humor as readily now. Drinking Fathers? Universal humor. And, we also laughed our asses off at the "Comedian" to which we listened over and over and over. No longer could we barbeque at Preparation Park without asking someone to "bring all five gallons of gasoline" over to assist with igniting the charcoal. If we tripped or stumbled while taking the stairs from the lunchroom up to study hall, at least one witness, if not more, would call out "oh, my shoe!" I don't know that it ever occurred to any of us that our entire school, no, entire county was a different race from Mr. Murpy; he was funny, we laughed, and that was all that really mattered. Why then, were we inflicted with "Party All the Time?" As we cowered in embarrassment at Eddie's really bad Pop career, we were saved by the discovery of a relatively fresh tape from an old comic hand.

The felon George Carlin had released "A Place for Your Stuff" just prior to the Murphy singing debacle and Sweet 98's incessant playing of said garbage. I think it was Alan G. who got this tape and whenever a group of us would go somewhere with him in his yellow car with the kick-ass stereo we would listen to it. "A house is a big pile of stuff with a cover on it" sounds superb when played really freakin' loud. To this day, whenever someone says "have a nice day" I mentally respond "Yeah, yeah. Give me my (bleeping) change." The word "stuff" took on a life of its own with the several of us who listened to this tape, way, way too many times. The pinnacle of stuff-dom was when Al was interviewed on an early morning weekend farm report television show (representin' the 4-H, yo) and managed to sneak in a few "stuff"s. Epic. When Carlin came to the Orpheum in Omaha in 1987, Al, Mac, and I were there to hear that "there've been a few words added to the list." The new list of things you can't say on television and radio took nearly 15 minutes and I doubt that venerable opera house had ever heard such a string expletives. Ever. Thank goodness we went to see him that year (pimping his "Playing with Your Head" cassette) because his material started becoming more preachy and political after that and I haven't had the urge to see him ever since.

Have a nice day and be safe.

Hail Hail, The Celts are here, What the hell do we care now

With the U.S. team peeing all over themselves and exiting this World Cup thing early, the six or seven soccer lovers around here can finally shut the hell up and quit turning the television sets at the local bars to the matches. I would rather watch another error riddled, bean-ball filled, walkfest between the two worst teams in Major League Baseball, a.k.a. Royals v. Pirates, than sit through a viewing of a bunch of unkempt Euros (mostly) running themselves silly with only a nil-nil score to show for the effort. Here in the States Baseball is played with a ball and the players run bases and Basketball is played by tossing a ball into a basket. Other places have games played with wickets and stumps called Cricket; Badminton uses rackets and shuttlecocks; and Quidditch has bludgers, beaters, quaffles, and snitches; and we're supposed to allow the one bit of eurosanity when they claim soccer is the true football? I non-concur. Ole, ole, ole. Ole, ole, oh give me an arrogant American break.

On Monday, with the Royals on an off-day, the interminable NBA play-offs taking a break for an evening, a final NHL Championship game remaining to be played in the traditional hockey bastion of Raleigh, and no real football for months, I got sucked into a lunchtime conversation about the game that apparently a couple of billion people outside of North America do give a rip about. I was eating with coworkers, good people from my generation, when one of them asked if any of the rest of us had ever played soccer. I cast aside my usual shy and introverted demeanor and told them of my brush with futball at West Harrison Elementary - Modale Campus.

Mr. White, the Physical Education teacher, taught us all about the game in, well, Phys Ed, when we were in 2nd grade. He had been in the Navy and traveled the world so who better than he could teach us, a bunch of simple rural kids, such a foreign game? Quite an easy game, actually: the ball is round, can only be kicked - no hands, and had to be kicked between the two orange traffic cones to score. Oh, exception to the 'no hands' rule was the person standing between the two cones - a "goalie" if you will - could use hands to keep the ball from going between the cones. After a few classes we learned you could also hit the ball with your head IF you were able to successfully get your noggin in the right place at the right time and actually make contact with the ball.

Anyhoo, after we first learned of this "new" game, a few of us decided during recess one day that we would play soccer instead of kickball. We took a red rubber ball to the only pitch sized patch of school yard and started dribbling that overinflated and extra bouncy ball around. This lasted for about 5 minutes. Another group of kids interrupted our game. This part of the playground was also the kickball field and we were told it was kickball only, no soccer allowed. We were there first and disagreed most vociferously with the assertion. As the argument grew in tenor, Miss Allen, the Kindergarten teacher, who had drawn the short straw that day and had playground duty, came over and intervened. "We were here first" was our opening statement; "it's the kickball field" was the rebuttal; "why should it matter?" was our closing argument; "because it's a kickball field" was theirs. I was certain justice would prevail. However, the one and only time I was ever disappointed by Miss Allen, was that day when she decided that kickball fields were for kickball and that soccer would have to be played on days when nobody was on the kickball field - playing kickball. She could have said that soccer would be allowed only on full solar eclipses falling on the 30th of February and had the same effect. I was crushed. One of my favorite teachers was down on soccer. It had to mean the game was bad - maybe even un-American. That day I said "phooey" on the stoopid game and I still say it today. Phooey.

Be safe everyone.

It's a Fine, Fine Day for a Reunion

I've been out of town quite a bit for the past few weeks so the blog has suffered. Some people have asked how the reunion went so here's a brief rundown:

Friday night I pulled onto the Slab in Mondamin, parked next to the Car Wash coin-op vacuum, and prepared to wait. It was about 8:31. The wait was short, however, since Brian W. arrived just a few minutes later, the first member of West Harrison's Class of 1986 I would see reunion weekend. We sat on the Slab in our trucks and talked for the better part of two hours, far longer than we ever had in high school. Twenty years after graduation and we discovered we had more in common than we ever knew. Around 10:30 we gave up on anyone else showing - apparently the same law enforcement agencies incapable of stopping a day light bank robbery in a town of 400 do have the wherewithal to prevent people from socializing in public spaces. Guess everyone has to excel at something. Anyhoo, I was glad I had the chance to talk to Brian.

Saturday night supper at the Pink Poodle in Crescent was a moderate success. My wife and I pulled into the parking lot the same time as Laura and her husband. We found that Tracy B. and his wife, Dawn, and Teresa and her husband, Brian, were already there. Shortly after we sat down several others trickled into the room. Stewart and his wife; Patricia, John and Dawn; Gina and her husband, Craig; Mark and his girlfriend, Tammy; Bobby and his fiance, Laura; Jana and her husband, Tony; Jodi and her husband, Pat; Cathy and her husband, Patrick; Aileen; and Tom rounded out the supper attendees. The drinks were cold, the food was good, the tales were tall, and the company was outstanding. We ate, drank, and told stories in the Pink Poodle dining area until they started turning off lights and flipping chairs upside down around us. Many of us then retired to the fine drinking establishment known as "Denny's" (a local bar, not the greasy spoon of Grandslam Breakfast and gastrointestinal distress fame) where several games of pool were played (poorly) and more lies about our school days were told. Back in the day we would have stayed out until dawn, maybe even had a cup of coffee at the Sunnyside Inn, but Sunnyside is now a church and none of us could stay awake past 1 a.m. so that's when we all left the watering hole and went home.

Sunday was West Harrison Day at Rosenblatt Stadium. Attended by Aileen, Angie, Jana and her family, Laura and spouse, and Tom and his family, we by far were the most boisterous group in the stands that day. Despite the strike-out that directly resulted from the "Heeeyyyy, badda, badda, badda, badda, SUH-WIINNNGG BAADDDAAA!" led by Tom and the jumbotron performance of "YMCA" by Laura's Mark and yours truly, the O Royals fell to the Memphis Redbirds. Other highlights of the day included the foul ball Angie took home and the welcome message to the "West Harrison Class of 1986" shown on the jumbotron in the middle of the fifth inning. And, Tony and I decided that it was the ballfield in Dow City that had a cornfield instead of an outfield fence.

And, finally, on Monday Aileen, my wife, and I did our best to beautify the area in front of the West Harrison sign along Highway 127. Some ornamental grass, seedum, and mulch made the area look a little better. We then went over to the Mondamin City Park and had a cookout. Teresa and, a short while later, Tom stopped by the park shelter, too.

And that concluded the festivities of the Class of 86 2x10 Reunion. Plans for the 25th will begin in about 3 1/2 years.

Be safe.

Graduation 2006

I attended the West Harrison Community School District's 2006 commencement. Some things were just as they were 20 years ago when it was our graduation, some things...not so much. I honestly checked the forecast prior to making the drive from Lawrence to back home. Really, I did. It was to be 75 and partly cloudy. I believed the weather geeks when they told me this. And, I think it really may have been only 75 and partly cloudy. Problem is, when there are a couple hundred people in that old, unairconditioned, brick gymnasium, it becomes a furnace regardless of the conditions outside. So, my belief that a nice, cool day would make wearing a suit for the ceremony less uncomfortable was horribly, horribly incorrect. And, no, I have not developed a liking for the formal wear; I still feel like a little kid playing dress-up when I throw on a jacket and tie, but I believed it was warranted. We received 10 applications for the Class of 1986 Memorial Scholarship this year. Our class officers evaluated the essays and recommendation letters and, after deliberation, chose this year's recipient. That is why I was roasting in the coat and tie Sunday: on behalf of our Class I presented a certificate and $500 check to this year's awardee. This was the third time I've done this and I have to say it is both a burden and an honor. I know what we've done is really an insignificant part but I believe the positive reinforcement we provide is invaluable. If I ever hit the Powerball, our scholarship will be expanded to include all the kids every year. But, I digress. Just as it was in mid-May of 1986, the gym was flippin' hot. I perspired like a, well, whatever sweats a lot, back then and I was doing the same again in '06. Parents and grandparents had bolted into the gym as soon as the doors were opened and staked out all the "good seats" and set up their video cameras (much smaller than the VHS units a few people had back in the 80's). Elgar's Pop and Circumstance was played as the kids processed into the gym. I noted the Juniors who led them to their chairs did not look exhausted and hungover as I did when I was an Attendant for the Class of 1985's graduation. A small chorus sang some songs. Two (only two? Two others were given at Baclauriette which is now on a different day and is optional) students gave short speeches. Then things changed from past practice. In previous years when we gave out scholarships, I hid out in the old Music Room outside of the gym along with the "regulars" who presented awards and scholarships. Anyhoo, this was not how things were done this year. Instead of allowing the people who were presenting awards, stipends, grants, scholarships, etc. to do so from the podium on the stage, the guidance councelor did the verbalizing while we mutes performed the "present with left, shake with right" maneuver. This was the first year for this and it was intended to "speed up" the ceremony. In the past there had been many presenters to hand out awards, this year there were three of us. As Mr. Hansen used to say in Chemistry Class "Coincidence? Perhaps." I suppose it sped things up but I believe it shortchanged both our Class and the graduates being honored. I know the audience never knows it, but when I took the stage in 1996 and 2001 (I don't think I presented in 1987 or 1991) I didn't go onto the stage alone. I always brought with me onto the stage our classmates, Tobi, Danny, and Dena, some friends of our Class, Eiron, Matt, Preston, and Lonny, and far too many instructors to name - and the list seems to get longer each time. This year we stood on a small platform on the gym floor. It wasn't as much a slight to the presenters as it was to the kids who had concluded 13 long and difficult years of education but, to save fifteen or twenty minutes, they were not allowed to receive an honor on the stage, just on a plywood box a few inches above the old basketball court. It shouldn't matter to me but the setting just didn't seem adequate for honoring those friends of ours. But, the memories of them was with me when I presented the award. This year, the scholarship presented in memory of the classmates and friends of West Harrison's Class of 1986, a scholarship we present each year in which we have a reunion, was given to Nikolas Glennie.

Be safe.

May 22

When I was six or so, my three favorite toys were GI Joe (the real 12" ones, not the teenie cartoon inspired ones), Legos (I still have enough of them to build a small village), and Hot Wheels.

Back before the 70's peaceniks ruined the GI Joe and made it impossible to get decent uniforms and small arms and munitions, I had an assault squad of Joes who regularly skirmished in my back yard. Mac and I even made several single passenger space capsules by taping coffee cans to Quaker Oats containers (they are the same diameter) and launched our own Mercury missions with Joe-stronauts.

I first discovered Legos around 1975. I found a small 15 piece Police car Lego kit at the Sears store at the Crossroads Shopping Mall in Omaha (it had the region's best toy selection). I had never seen this type of model before but the kit was priced at $0.99 and I had a dollar bill so I thought I would give it a try. I took it to the register to purchase and then got my first lesson on Sales Taxes. Instead of getting a penny in change I was told I was 4 cents short. I was about to return it to its shelf when a generous lady in line behind me fronted me a nickel and I completed the transaction. After carefully following the illustrated instructions and completing the fabrication of that little Police car, I was hooked on Legos. Somewhere in the several hundred legos I still have are those original 15 pieces. I don't recall anyone else in my class who found them quite as interesting.

Hot Wheels, on the other hand, had a bigger following. My uncle had a great assortment 60's era Hot Wheels which were almost completely metal, were extremely heavy, and really sailed down those orange ("oinge" in Heather speak) sections of track. I started acquiring my own Hot Wheels when I couldn't talk my uncle out of his (saved them for his own son, naturally). Mom fueled my Hot Wheel craze by picking up a whole bunch of track at a garage sale, about 40 feet worth, which was plenty to create a two lane run down a long hallway. I was always setting up different configurations of dragstrips with loops, jumps, and even a speedometer, trying to find the fastest car in my collection - a childhood lesson in the conversion of potential energy to kinetic energy. The heavier cars went the fastest, natch, but I found the more interesting races were between dragsters. They had bigger wheels in the rear and really thin wheels in the front which differed from every other Hot Wheel type of car. There weren't many made, they couldn't loop, they needed shallow slopes or would high center, and they couldn't handle turns. They just went straight and fast. Every few weeks on ABC's Wide World of Sports there would be drag races which almost always culminated in a showdown between Don "Snake" Prudomme and Tom "Mongoose" McEwen; that's what I always imagined my drag races to be: Snake v. Mongoose. Unlike Legos, I discovered that other guys in my class were into the Hot Wheels. There was even another guy who liked the dragsters. Danny and I got together a few times at on another's homes to race our cars. We had a standing $2 pot (a buck each) that would go to the owner of the fastest dragster. The last pot went to Danny who found a speedy rail racer that was half yellow and half clear - a real Odd Rod - which easily outran my purple Zap dragster and just barely nipped my Stagefright dragster. The dragsters were so few in production - we had raced most of the '75 thru '77 models - that we called off the competition after the Odd Rod outpaced Stage Fright. Tucked away in the attic back home is a large, black wheel with about a dozen Hot Wheels, including Zap and Stage Fright. I still look through each year's new production run to see if there are any new dragsters; there still aren't many. That's ok, Dan, I'm content to keep second place.

Daniel Carl McFerrin (5/27/68 - 5/22/94), twelve years gone but not forgotten.

Be safe everyone.

Commencement, Sunday, May 18, 1986

Class Motto: Today We Prepare for Our Dream of Tomorrow
Class Colors: Maroon and Gold (Modale High's School Colors)
Class Flower: White Rose

Junior Class Attendents: Troy H. and Jennifer L.
Ushers: Larry H., Craig B., Tina C., and Amy G.

Commencement Addresses:
Jeff M., Class President, "Turning Dreams into Reality"
Jeff D. , Student Council President, "Without Dreams There is No Tomorrow"
Angie O., National Honor Society President, "From Dreams to Reality"

Without Dreams There is No Tomorrow

Thirteen years ago, a group of young people entered two school buildings for the first time in their lives as regular students of the West Harrison School District. It was a new and exciting experience that many of us can still remember even today. It was our first chance to meet many people our own age and was the start of many friendships that would last for a very long time. We had entered a new phase of our lives; we had entered the world of education.

We entered kindergarten with great enthusiasm. Learning was becoming a part of our daily lives. Our lives were beginning to take new direction. We each had our own dreams of what the future would hold.

Throughout grade school, each day meant something new would learned. Individual interests began to become more apparent as time passed. It was clear that we wouldn't all be policemen, movie stars, or soldiers as we had once dreamed; newer dreams had replaced the old, and our futures were being revised.

Being well into our educational careers, our feelings toward school itself were taking shape. Many of us enjoyed going to school, being able to see friends daily while learning of things we've never heard of before. Some of us were indifferent; school was not exactly always our favorite place to be but it was better than the same old syndicated reruns. There were even a few of us who felt that school was definitely not for them - but they frequently came anyway. We were starting to daydream of the day we would be promoted from the eighth grade.

We entered high school as timid freshman, graduation and college being the furthest things from our minds. Getting out of school in 1986 was just something we dreamed of during boring study halls.

It was during high school that we could tailor our studies to suit the needs of our futures. The classes we'd take would now have direct impact on what we would to in the future. We were no longer grade school students learning about time by anticipating recess and lunch. We were no longer junior high students concerned only about who had the loudest shirt or which episode of Friday the 13th was the most gruesome. Our dreams of tomorrow were becoming a reality.

We were starting to learn more about responsibility. Budgeting time and money became more important than who had the most baseball cards. Careers were no longer a thing just for "01d people," they were something we had to start thinking about for real.

This became quite clear during our Senior year. As mail began to stack up from various institutions, final decisions for next year were being made by each of us. We were beginning to realize that the faces we have become accustomed to seeing dai1y won't necessarily be there next fa11. It was apparent that our dream of graduation was about to be rea1ized. Once again o1d dreams were being replaced by new ones, for without dreams there is no tomorrow.

[This is where I was supposed to say "and our next speaker is Angie O."]

Doesn't really seem like twenty years, does it?

Be safe everyone.

I Was Born in a Small Town

I put together this collection of stories for the family and friends who were a part of the first twenty or so years of my life. I've been intentionally vague with some of the names, places, and dates, but, let's face it, it's a small community and we were essentially one big family and know who did what to whom. But, I recognize there's an off chance that some outsider may stumble across this and there's no sense in divulging all the secrets now, is there? For those who aren't familiar with the County of Harrison in Iowa, here's a quick primer on the part to which I will often refer as “Back Home.” When I return from my adopted home in Kansas it's via Interstate Highway 29. The area around Council Bluffs is where everything starts feeling like old times. Twenty or so miles north of Council Bluffs just east of the intersection of I-29 and U.S. Highway 30 is Missouri Valley, a big town with a population of almost 3000 and three traffic signals (two more now than when I was cruising the loop in 1986). Continuing another seven miles north on I-29 brings one to my first hometown of Modale. This town of nearly 300 covers basically 10 blocks, including the three blocks the grain elevator takes. Every 100 years or so the town enjoys a visit by the Missouri River which in Iowa parallels Interstate 29 and runs only a few miles to the west of Modale. When I was young Modale had two gas stations, two grocery stores, two cafes, a bank, a library, a bar, a post office, several churches, the American Legion Hall, and an elementary school for the children of Modale and Mondamin. I always drive through Modale when I go Back Home though now there is just a cafe, a bank, a library, a bar, a post office, a few churches, the American Legion Hall, the (expanded) grain elevator, and the elementary school which is now an antique shop; the rest has folded. Both the two lane Iowa Highway 75 and I-29 North from Modale will take you to what will always be home for me, Mondamin (there is also a rail line that runs parallel to I-29 to the east that will also take you to all points north but those stories are for another time). The 411 inhabitants cover the better part of 19 blocks though, again, the grain elevator takes up three of its own. Modamin, too, once had several businesses including two gas stations, two grocery stores, three cafes, a bank, a library, two bars, a post office, a hardware store, a welding shop, an antiquities dealer, several churches, the American Legion Hall, and the high school for the children of Modale, River Sioux, Little Sioux, Pisgah, and Mondamin. And, much like Modale, less than half remains: a gas station, a cafe, a bank, a library, a bar, a post office, a welding shop, an antiquities dealer, several churches, the American Legion Hall, the elevator, and the high school. Another seven miles north on I-29 (or Austin Avenue) brings you to the four blocks of River Sioux and its dozens of residents (I think during the summer there may actually be more people camping at the Woodlands RV Park just west of River Sioux next to the Missouri River's edge). River Sioux is also home of the great watering hole known as Ab's Place (at least it was great before the fire). The ice cream shop I used to frequent near Ab's is gone, too. East out of River Sioux just one mile on Iowa Highway 301 is Little Sioux, the yang to River Sioux's yin. Roughly the same number of people as Modale, Little Sioux bettered River Sioux by having a post office, a gas station, and the gymnasium left from the days when Little Sioux had its own school. Taking Easton Trail east out of Little Sioux will allow you to take a brief tour of Iowa's geologic wonder, the Loess Hills formation and eventually (five miles) brings you to the 20 plus blocks the over 300 people of Pisgah call home. Like the other towns, Pisgah had its share of gas stations, stores, and restaurants, half of which are now gone. Similar to Modale, Pisgah had an elementary school for the children of Sioux (both River and Little) and Pisgah. However, unlike the other towns, Pisgah had an automobile dealership (Ford), the high school baseball diamond, and, most importantly, the Old Home Fill 'er Up and Keep On Truckin' Cafe of Old Home Bread television commercial fame. Drive south on U.S. Highway 183 out of Pisgah skirting along the base of the Loess Hills then west on U.S. Highway 127 for three more miles back into the Missouri River basin and you are back in Mondamin and have done the West Harrison lap, visiting all the communities that (then) made up the West Harrison Community School District, home of the only decent Hawkeyes in the State of Iowa. That's the setting. The character called the Beast was the rusty 1974 Chevy Blazer with full time four wheel drive and 454 cubic inch engine that I drove with reckless abandon. And, many of the things described here are quite stupid, however a few go above and beyond the call of absurdity and are flat out stoo-pid. Enjoy – I did.

Be safe.

STOP Me if You've Heard This One

So, one Saturday evening in the summer of 1986, T.C. and I were leaning up against his S-10 that was parked in front of his future wife's house. We had just wasted the better part of a day sitting a boat in a lake outside of Modale not catching any fish. It was one of those "King of the Hill" moments: just guys standing there, aluminum beverage cans in hand, with the chirps of the crickets and birds interrupted only by the occasional "yep" and/or "uh-huh." The novelty of the conversation disappeared rapidly. Then, without a word - or, any rational thought - T.C. performed one of those random rebellious acts of stupidity that bored teenagers are often wont to do. He walked over to the a street sign that was on the corner of the block. It was "School Crossing" sign that faced the traffic coming from the east on Highway 183/127 on the north side of Linda G.'s house. I'd seen Kevin K. do this before and knew what was going to happen next. He grabbed the creosoted 4x4 post and started shaking it back and forth violently. This had been done not only by Kevin - and now T.C. - but by several others, too, so it took very little time for the post hole to enlarge so much from the shaking that when T.C. grabbed the sign post and lifted, it came right out of the ground. He tossed it down next to the side walk and returned to his truck and retrieved another cold one from the cooler. "Yep." "Uh-huh." But, abject vandalism seemed too hollow. I walked over to where the sign now lay on the ground and looked around a bit until I spied the bit of irony I felt the situation needed. There was a stop sign just a few feet from the fallen sign facing the northbound cross traffic at the highway intersection. As T.C. had done a few minutes earlier, I shook the sign post until it lifted easily out of it hole. But, unlike T.C., instead of just callously tossing it aside, I placed it in the hole left vacant by the school crossing sign, facing the Highway traffic. Then I picked up the fallen crossing sign and placed in the location previously occupied by the stop sign. As I was completing the switch, T.C. tossed his empty into the back of his pick-up and ran across the highway to the opposite corner and performed the same switcheroo with those signs. Anyone could (and often did) jerk a sign out of its hole and throw it to the ground and that didn't feel right. Swapping signs around, well, ok, that wasn't right either, but it did seem funny at the time. To T.C. and me, anyway. It wasn't until the following Monday when I next saw T.C. and heard who did not see the humor in our redistribution of traffic control devices. Apparently a law abiding out-of-towner and his spouse was driving through Mondamin the morning after the switch was made and came to a full and complete stop at the our freshly re-signed intersection. One of our local law enforcement officers who was born and raised in our community was just coming on duty and was following the out-of-towners. I understand he was swearing profusely after nearly rear ending they who had inexplicably stopped on a State Highway. The couple was equally shocked that a member of the law enforcement community nearly clobbered them at controlled intersection. After they proceeded - after visually verifying there was no speeding traffic on the side street - the reason for their unexpected stoppage became apparent to the officer. He was in the midst of a controlled intersection that had never before existed in his lifetime. He was still swearing loudly as he ripped the stop signs out of their now ill-fitting holes and tossed them to the ground. This was all witnessed by the inhabitants of Linda's house, who watched him drive off in a huff. Some things to be learned here: 1) Be alert - I recently had a similar experience as that Trooper only I was in Modale - who the hell put up those signs? 2) Traffic Control Devices should only be installed and maintained by trained transportation officials, 3) Unexpected Change is not necessarily good, and 4) I'm not much of a fisherman.

Mistakes were made, others will be blamed. Be safe.

Our Next Speaker is Angie

A few years ago Angie O. forwarded an email to me. It was one of those chain emails demanding that the recipient forward it to several people to keep the story alive. It was about a jock who helped a nerd pick up his books that some bullies had knocked out of his hands starting a friendship that lasted until their graduation when the nerd/valedictorian confessed in his speech that he was thinking of ending his life when the jock befriended him and showed him things weren't so bad after all.

I don't usually reply to this kind of message. They are usually works of fiction or recycled urban legends. I actually looked through several myth and hoax databases to find some verification that the speech was never actually given; I found no evidence to disprove it. This story bothered me then and still bothers me to this day. I have received it several times and always deleted it. But, when it came from Angie, I felt it was just too ironic to not reply. She and I gave speeches at our graduation.

It took me nearly half a year to respond because though I thought of it daily, I was never able to put together the words to fully articulate how it compared to my memories of our graduation day and the speech I gave.

I still have my speech - the version of it that Mrs. Junck typed, that is. It's still in my Memory Book next to our Commencement Program. I think she put my original hand written draft in the round file. What a transparent ruse that was. We all had taken either Typing I or Personal Typing and could have easily typed the speeches ourselves but the Principal "graciously" offered the services of his secretary to type up the final draft. Like we didn't realize that they just wanted to ensure that nothing controversial would be said. I was a little ticked at this because I actually liked to type. The whole semester I had of typing I always tried to sit in front of Missy B. so I could attempt to keep pace with her typing. I would listen to her IBM Selectric pounding out characters and try to make my fingers match hers. It was just a couple of years ago that I confessed to her that she was my keyboard role model and that because of her I managed to bang out around fifty-five words a minute. So, the only copy of my old speech that I have is the double spaced text that was preapproved and typed by someone other than myself. C'est la vie.

What I had been thinking since I received the message was not so much what I had said that day - I don't recall any of the words - but more so of some of the things that happened and how certain scenes from our graduation still replay clearly in my mind. I remember the rehearsal that we had a few days before graduation when we practiced walking into the gym, blocked out how we would move to the stage and back to our seats for the choral numbers, how the presentation of the scholarships would be done, and, finally, how we would receive our diplomas. Jeff M., Angie O., and I stayed and went through our speeches at the podium on the stage once for practice. I understand they still use the same old, rickety, white ply-wood stairs to get up to the stage from the gym floor. I think it's still the same walnut stained podium with "W-H" on the front, too. We speakers were given just one instruction: "after you finish your speech introduce the next speaker." Pretty simple.

"Without Dreams There is No Tomorrow." Reading it now only takes about 93 seconds. Not very poignant or memorable, nothing to evoke an emotional response. But, I remember being near tears when I finished and leaving the stage without introducing Angie. As I spoke about starting school in Kindergarten and how we matured throughout our school years, developing friendships and relationships that at that time I was certain would last forever, I was thinking we were one student short at this graduation.

Tobi and I - and others, as well - used to argue about what pick-up was the best. Ford or Chevy (nobody drove a Dodge when we were kids) it was almost as heated a debate as the John Deere versus International Havister conflicts. Heck, we were little kids, our favorite truck was the one our Dad drove. I was staunch Chevy supporter until Dad broke with tradition in 1982 and bought a Ford. Tobi was always a Ford man. It's sad now that I look back on it that of the three or four most vivid memories of him from the ten years I knew him, the bickering over a stupid truck always comes to mind first. What's even more ironic is that since striking out into the real world I owned four different brands of pick-ups: Isuzu, Mazda, Dodge, and Toyota, before breaking down and getting a GMC. The GMC was a compromise - maybe if I don't ever get a Chevy the argument will never be settled.

Anyway, as I was talking about how tomorrow doesn't happen without dreams, I was thinking how Tobi should be there with us. I saw his mom, Marlene, in the crowd. My speech was quite trivial when compared to the big picture of real life. It was an exciting day - the most important day of our lives to that point - and all of the sudden it seemed a little empty. I don't recall saying a word at the podium but I remember walking back to the edge of the stage where Angie was standing and somebody said something about not doing the introduction. And then my memory was blank until we all were standing on the gymnasium floor in front of the stage after the ceremony had concluded, greeting our friends and family as new graduates. Even though we had all agreed we would throw our caps into the air, we chickened out just like every other class before us. I had my prescription mirrored shades on - "too cool for school," right? I was back to being pretty chipper at this point. Then Marlene came through the line and shook my hand. I didn't feel all that cool any more and had to take my sunglasses off. I think she knew what had been going through my mind on stage. Ironically, she thanked me for being a friend of Tobi's. I was thinking I hadn't been enough of a friend when the chance was there. I still see her at events when I go back home and she always makes it a point to talk to me. I never know what to say.

I guess that's why I still search the 'net for proof that the email story Angie sent me is fiction. I was not able to change my friend's future. All I could do was talk of the future but think of him in the past tense. I spoke at the National Honor Society Induction Ceremony a few years ago. The theme of that speech was leading by example: "You never know who might be watching or what they may see." It's the little things that people remember: saying "Thank you," an unsolicited "I love you," holding open a door, or, maybe even the acknowledgment that Ford really does make a pretty decent pick-up truck.

I have a good friend, Soomi, who said to me once "You are a very nostalgic person." I guess she was surprised at how many stories I remembered from grade school, junior high, and high school. I just believe that no one should be forgotten.

What I have learned is that a person needs to take a personal inventory of the special people in his or her life. Take a few seconds to let those friends and family know that they are important to you and that your life wouldn't be the same without them having been in it. If I had that podium again, that would be my speech. Say "thank you for being my friend" now because tomorrow that opportunity may not be there.

Be safe.

Country Roads, Take Me Home

For the handful of you who read my blog regularly, I apologize for the lack of new material the last couple of weeks. It's that time of year when I feel a little down: you know, Springtime, birthdaytime, and, worst of all, baseball time. It's too early in the season to say the pitching sucks and the manager is a moron but the early results are trending that way. Oh, and, SCREW YOU, SKANKEES.

For my friends from West Harrison: When we were sophomores Mike P. and Todd S. got summer jobs working for the Harrison County Secondary Road Department on the survey crew. They always showed up about half an hour late for baseball practice during the week because there is no direct route between the County Shop in Logan and the ball diamond in Pisgah. The stories of goofing off, screwing around, and occassionally working were enough to entice Mac, Tom L., and me to apply for similar positions when we became Seniors. What a great plan. Too bad it didn't work out according to plan. Instead of being assigned to the survey crew we were given chainsaws and sent out to the county's backroads to rid the right of ways of unwanted brush. Eight hours a day (15 minute breaks at 9am and 2:30pm and 30 minutes at noon for lunch) five days a week we cut sumak, black locust, wild plumb, cottonwood, birch, pine, cedar, walnut, and, once, I think, even a sequoia. And ran the refuse through a massive wood chipper. For the first few weeks the most interesting part of our job was seeing how big a chunk o' tree we force through the chipper. That got old fast. We moved on to seeing what various objects did when sent through the chipper. Surprisingly, once you've seen a chipped Twinkie, you've peaked at that game. One afternoon during break one of the guys from the Woodbine shed started hitting rocks with a limb from a young oak we had cut up. From that simple act sprang forth a new breaktime (some breaks went a little long) activity of Stick-Rock Homerun Derby. As we cut up brush we were on the lookout for a better "bat" and at lunchtime as we ate our meals sitting on the shoulder of the finest gravel roads in the great State of Iowa, we scavenged for smooth, semi-round rocks to hit. The chump of the day would don a hardhat and lob rocks to the batters who would have to hit said rocks past the nearest road sign to count as a homer. The one with the most homers at the end of break won. Won nothing tangible other than the admiration and respect of his peers. Line drives back at the pitcher were a bitch but still part of the game - hence the hard hat. Surprisingly, I managed to escape injury while playing the game but did get a slight concussion when one of my fellow brush cutters managed to drop a 20 foot tall cottonwood on my head. I choose to believe it was an accident. I think Tom and I once dropped a tree on a car that had ignored our Brush Crew signs. I also accidentally took out power lines when a pine tree I notched fell the wrong way and crossed some overhead lines. What a pretty fire that was. Eventually I was promoted from the brush crew to driving the roller on the road crew. Some of the full timers didn't like that much (it's a union thing) but none of them liked the roller and I was the only person who could drive it for eight hours straight without falling asleep. Working on the road crew taught me a lot of things about road design and public works projects, knowledge I draw upon even today. How not to design, how not to use in-house labor, how not to construct, etc. I did, however, get to work with some really great guys: Jim Pelton, Jim Clark, and Bill Hrabek come to mind first and foremost. All good at what they did, patient enough to teach me the finer points of County work, and always willing to buy me a beer in Moorhead's bar even though I was three year's underaged. It was because of that job and those guys that I can honestly say on my resume that I can drive a maintainer, dump truck with 2-speed axle, roller, sheep's foot, and anything with 3 on the tree transmission. Not proficient at any of them, but I have wheel time at them all. Another side benenfit besides becoming adept at hitting rocks with a stick was learning all the gravel side roads in the north half of the county. All of them. You never know when you need to be somewhere really fast that someone in, say a brown Crown Victoria, can't or won't follow at as high a rate of speed.

Be safe out there.

Thanks for the memory, Of things I can't forget

So, my Clones fired a coach and hired a coach in less time than it took Miz-eeeewww to assemble an ineffective selection committee. Welcome to ISU, Coach McDermott.

For my friends at West Harrison: I've noticed after spending a few years in the 'burbs that school ain't much like what it was when I wasn't old. All sports seem to begin much younger and the seasons from softball to soccer now seem to continue nonstop. When we played Pee Wee baseball (Richard Powell and Verne Gute were my first coaches), we started practice the last week of may, played our first game the second week of June, and six games and a second round tournament loss later the season was over. With a whole month of summer vacation left to enjoy. I understand 50 or more games in a season is not uncommon now - when's a kid gonna have time to get into trouble? The end of the school year is approaching and it's got me a bit befuddled. The parents I know down here have all these ceremonies to attend: Kindergarten promotion, fifth grade promotion, middle school promotion, graduation; what the heck? And, the kids wear caps and gowns to all of these celebrations. We had two occasions to eagerly anticipate: high school graduation, naturally, and eighth grade promotion. My thoughts on graduation some other day. Eighth grade promotion: we wore our Sunday go-to-meetin's, the 6th and 7th graders provides the music and play together as a band for the first time, and there were only two speeches. The two things I remember specifically from ours are 1) I had the phrase "memories we will never forget" in my speech which my mother suggested I delete because it is redundant (I always remember that when I hear it in other people's speeches) and 2) Laura started her speech with a riddle: How do you catch a one of a kind rabbit? You neek up on it. Not only words to by which to live, they're part of a memory I'll never forget.

Be safe.

Take off to the Great White North, It's a Beauty Way to Go

It's not easy being Cardinal and Gold. The question was "Which is worse: a party animal coach who belittles his own team to opposing team fans or a coach who appears to cheat and still doesn't win at home?" Answer: both are unacceptable and both get to explore job opportunities. It's so bad I could not even take joy in that turn-coat Haluska missing his last shot. Iowa State Basketball is rapidly approaching Mizz-eeewww level and that's not cool.


For my West Harrison friends: Every day, 2nd period, as regular as Bob F. before weigh-in at wrestling, were the Daily Announcements. Often they were banal and inconsequential with such tidbits of information as this from our last day of class on May 9, 1986: "Seniors: you may turn in locker padlocks during morning study halls or during lunch hour. If you lost it, you owe the office." Riveting. The best part of the Daily Announcements were the Faculty Announcements at the bottom of the page. Students weren't supposed to be privvy to that information and the teachers were supposed to detach and dispose of that part of the page but it was always easy to find a sheet with them still attached. For instance, on May 13, 1985 the lone Faculty Announcement read "STaff [sic]: if any seniors failed a class for you for the 2nd semester, please inform me by 3:30 today. Hope this is not too much of a rush. Thanks, Mark" Ho-hum. But, on 5/16/85 one of the two Faculty Announcements was "Attention faculty: please drop D--- M--- from your class rolls." confirming what many of us had heard: D--- had dropped out of school. Not earth shattering but interesting. However, in the Spring of our Junior year there was a series of announcements that I thought were intriguing. On Tuesday, May 14, 1985, amongst the usual drivel in the Announcements, there was one that literally commanded my attention: "Attention: any high school 4-Hers interested in the Mapelleaf Canadian Trek please contact Floyd Perkins - 456-2938." I was a 4-H'er. Sort of. I was very involved in 4-H during my pre-teen years and then sort of involved when I was in High School. On Wednesday, May 15, 1985, there was a follow-up announcement: "4-Hers--anyone interested in the Mapleleaf Canadian Trek sign up right away. Deadline is tomorrow. Call Floyd Perkins 456-2938 before tomorrow night." I hadn't called yet and thought it odd that this trip wasn't something I had heard about at the 4-H County Council meetings. Somehow, even though I hadn't had an entry in the County Fair for years I had managed to become treasurer of my Club and put on County Council with my friend and mentor, Alan G. Thursday, May 16, 1985, had yet another announcement about this trip: "4-Hers: remember, today is your last day to sign up for the Candadian Trek. Call Floyd Perkins at 456-2938. You must be 17 years of age." Funny thing about the Daily Announcements back in our day: each day they started as just a blank sheet of paper on a clip-board on the secretary's counter in the principal's office; anyone could walk in and write almost anything on that piece of paper and it would be read. Anyone. I studied several weeks' worth of announcement pages to see if it was possible to insert subliminal messages into the page vertically by carefully choosing the words but Mrs. J. changed the margins on her typewriter so often that it couldn't be guaranteed from day to day to be the same. On Friday, May 17, 1985, there was a final Canadian Trek message: "Floyd Perkins would like to say he's sorry for having to turn people down. Due to the influx of last minute calls, seats were limited. If you have questions, please call 645-2497 and ask for Marlin." I was very surprised by this announcement because it was the only one I hadn't fabricated. Late Thursday (5/16) afternoon I had received an official Telephone Message taken in the principal's office. It stated that Floyd Perkins called for me and requested that I return his call; his message read "Glad to hear you are willing to co-sponsor our great Canadian Trek. Please call me back for further details!!!" You can't tell me Mrs. J didn't have a sense of humor. It was Spring, near the end of the school year, and I was feeling prankish so I had penciled out a series of seven bogus announcements to insert into the mix of real announcements but Mrs. J was on to me half way through the series. She wrote the 5/17 one on her own and sent me the phone message to let me know the jig was up. It wasn't like I was being overly clever with my messages but kudos to her for keeping with the spirit and playing along.

Be safe.

Imitation is the Sincerest Form of Flattery

The Clones exited the Big 12 Tourney much the same way they pissed away much of the regular season. Unfocused for much of the game and then rallying too little too late. Surely the good people running the NIT will not ask us to humiliate ourselves in their post season tournament. Hopefully, there is more leadership and direction from staff and team next season.

For my West Harrison friends: I was talking to a recent W-H grad who was telling me how she and her best friend had "the run of the school" their senior year. A few years ago I remember one of my cousins saying essentially the same thing. I imagine every year there are a few Hawkeye seniors who believe that they rule the school. I won't go so far as to say I had total campus control but for much of 1985 and part of 1986 I did enjoy essentially free reign of the hallways. The statute of limitations has probably run out by now so I can 'fess up. Besides, I did some time for this one so I guess double jeopardy allows me to come totally clean. I was once a forger. Actually, I was usually bored, so out of necessity I became a forger. Study Halls were too quiet and too unproductive for my taste, so I chose to leave them at every opportunity. That was usually pretty easy; everyone knows that Bruce would always oblige a request to come down to the Music Room to practice for whatever concert or contest that was coming next with a pas. One day I had forgotten to ask Bruce for a hall pass to escape Study Hall and was stuck. Or, was I? I engaged the Study Hall monitor in a bit of witty, inane banter that had to be clever only to me. The quality of the reparte was immaterial; the verbal diversion allowed me to palm a book of yellow hall passes off the desktop. Back at a corner table in the Library I wrote myself a pass and scribbled a BNor-scrawl at the bottom. Not a very good likeness but I was desperate to escape. A bit to surprise it worked and I was free for the hour. Of course I actually went down to the music room - what the hell else is there to do in a 9 through 12 high school in a rural town of 400? But, I gained a new hobby: perfecting the BNor-scrawl and writing passes for myself - and for others needing temporary freedom. After a bit of practice even Bruce couldn't tell my signatures from his own. Of course, he never really questioned how so many ended up in his music room every day so there is a good chance he didn't really care that someone else was writing passes for him. Once I became proficient with Bruce's John Hancock, I became bored with it. My handiwork was indistinguishable from the original - where's the thrill in that? So, I began working on others. I could do a passable Mr. Reichert, an ok Huffman, but the one of which I was most proud was the principal's D.Penkert. I had it down cold. I could only use it on rare occassions - the principal doesn't give out many passes. This proved to be my undoing. We had a substitute for several days in a class - a subject in which the sub readily admitted she knew very little. After the third day of no lecture and a short assignment of reading and problems to keep us busy I got bored. So, on the fourth day I wrote myself a pass out of class. I used the Bruce signature. In retrospect, maybe the principal's would have been a better choice. Sitting there, bored, would have been the wise course of action, but I wrote myself a pass anyway. Somewhere between the classroom and the Music Room a couple of intercom calls were made. Although the signature was flawless, the pass' purpose and validity came into question by the sub. By the time I got to the Music Room a new pass was waiting for me - to the principal's office. Getting myself out of a boring class got me into three hours of detention - my first and only detention ever. Of all the pranks I played, turned out I ended up in detention because a temp asked the main office why I needed to go to the music room. I considered myself lucky. I finished out the remainder of our Senior year using only real passes with authentic staff signatures. I still have two of the passes I wrote - one Bruce and one Penkert. Side note: anyone interested in autographed sports or movie memorabilia should visit my store on eBay...

Be safe out there.

This Space Intentionally Left Blank

All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up

Well, the Clones' regular season came to a disappointing conclusion. The best guards in the Big 12 and that's the best we could do? Not even winning four straight in Dallas this week will make up four this mismanaged season.

For my West Harrison classmates: The 78th Annual Academy Awards are being broadcast right now. I never used to watch the Oscars when I was growing up. Although I watched hundreds of movies on the ol' TV during my formative years the Academy always seemed to award actors who meant little to me playing roles for which I had no interest in films I never saw. Well, in many ways that hasn't changed. I haven't seen any of this year's nominated films although I will rent several of them once they are issued on DVD so's I can watch them at home where there are no laser pointers dotting the screen and the popcorn and sodas don't require a mortgage. Watching a montage of previous Best Film winners, I find that I have, in fact, seen several award winners, just years (decades in many cases) after their release. I didn't develop an interest in the classic greats until 1985 when Mac introduced John F., Don Juan, and me to the Summer Film Series at the University of Nebraska - Omaha. We saw several that summer, including these greats: "A Boy and His Dog" (Winner of a Hugo in 1976 for Best Dramatic Presentation) starring a young Don Johnson wandering a post-apocalyptic world with his telepathic dog, "Repo Man" (Winner of a 1985 Saturn Award from the Academy of Science Fiction, Fantasy & Horror Films for Best Supporting Actor - Tracey Walter) starring Emelio Esteves as an apprentice repo agent who stumbles onto a UFO coverup years before Mulder and Scully, and, the greatest work of art we saw that summer, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail" (Nominated for a Hugo in 1976 for Best Dramatic Presentation) the documentary about King Arthur's search for the Holy Grail. All masterpieces of their genres. Besides never forgetting seeing these fine films for the first time on the medium screen in one of UNO's auditoriums, the other thing I will never forget is the pre-movie supper we had prior to seeing "Repo Man." We got to campus too early and decided to grab something to eat before the movie started. Slim budget eating choices are, well, slim, in that area of Omaha. We ended up at the Burger King on Dodge Street east of campus, somewhere in the 35th Street area. Like all Burger Kings, the food was quite unremarkable. The clientele and ambiance, however, was unforgettable. There was an extremely intoxicated and presumably homeless gentleman (no, not me) in the BK, and he was stumbling, bumbling around, blabbering incoherently, and generally making a scene. No, it wasn't Bobby H., either. We observed the show before the show as the rowdiness increased for no obvious reason other than substance abuse. The climax was when the drunk toppled to the floor in a heap. The conclusion was when he lost control of his bodily functions; self-deficating humor, as it were. With a vile stench starting to waft through the King we decided to exit [stage right] and head back to UNO to watch the movie. Both shows made us laugh hysterically. I still like the movie "Repo Man" but I don't eat at Burger King as much as I did my Freshman through Junior years.

Be safe.

Eat at Joe's

Saturday, Steve McWilliams mentioned a few memories of being raised around Modale, stuff I had nearly forgotten. Like getting a pop at Fat's. Fat's garage/gas station, there at the terminus of County Road F50 and Main Street, with its main garage door in front seemingly always open. Dad said that the pop machine in Fat's place would dispense a soda for a nickel. And, when the distributor raised the price so that a pop would cost a dime, instead of paying to upgrade the coin mechanism on the machine to take a dime, Fat put a cup on the machine. A pop went up to 10 cents: when you put your nickel in the machine you were supposed to drop a nickel in the cup, too. But, that's not what I remember about Fat. Whenever Dad and I went into the garage Fat would always give me a stick of Juicy Fruit gum that he kept in the top drawer of his desk. There were a few times he didn't have any gum - he said that some kids had broken in and stolen it and I always believed it. In retrospect, he was probably just out of gum, but that's not a very interesting story.

Steve also talked about Joe's Store. At one time there were two stores in Modale: Harlan's and Alexanders. When Harlan retired that left just Joe and Gertie Alexander as the sole purveyor of sundries. As a small child I always thought the two story gray metalclad building with small round windows that housed Joe's store was actually a Missouri river boat that had grounded itself next to the American Legion. He had a little bit of everything and Gramma D. thought he altered expiration dates on the food packaging though that was never proven. I was with T.C. one day when he bought a single pack of Topps baseball cards that had a Reggie Jackson card in it - the only time I ever saw anyone get a top-name player from a store bought package of cards. Dad and I usually grabbed a bottle of pop from the pop cooler and an aged Hershey bar off the shelf. And, sometimes a model car that we would put together a little bit each night for weeks.

Now Joe's is closed and after Fat passed away the pumps were pulled out from the garage. I asked Mom and Dad what Fat's name really was. They didn't think they had ever heard him called anything else. Grandma M. didn't know either. Dad called my Aunt Bev and she couldn't remember. She said to call Snick Kinart. For those who haven't seen Snick on Good Morning America, Mr. Kinart is a Modale resident. One who has lived in the area for 104 years. Not only has Snick seen a century worth of local history, he vividly remembers it all. So, Dad gave him a call. Not only did Clarence George "Fat" Middleton come right off the top of his head (Clarence was a portly child and picked up the nickname when he was very young), but Snick had some other interesting observations. For instance, this dry spell we've been having in the Midwest apparently is virtually the same weather pattern that Snick remembers occurring in 1934, 35, and 36 - the Dustbowl years. The farmers back home have been taking advantage of the unusually warm weather and have been disking fields since last month. Mr. Kinart says that never in his lifetime has he seen farmers working the land in January and February. When a centigenarian says something like that, I start to be concerned. I know that a hundred year sample period out of 4.5 billion years of weather isn't really a statistically significant indicator of weather change, but you still have to wonder about this alleged global warming theory...

Snick, by the way, was born William Earl, and people started calling him "Snick" when he was just four weeks old.

Be safe.

Nip it in the bud

It's been a tough couple of weeks. The 'clones are stinking up the hardwood and I'm rapidly losing faith in the ability of the coach to extract the best from the talent he has, let alone coach up the less capable. It's nearly March and I am mad but not for the right reasons.

Back in the day when I used to stay with Gramma D. in Modale, we would sometime watch this show about a hack reporter who worked for a crummy Enquirer-like rag, always chasing stories about the supernatural. It was called the Night Stalker and it was one of my favorites. There was nothing like it at the time and after it had it's two season run there wasn't nothing like it again until the X-Files.

Mom and I used to watch old movies on television. The westerns were our favorites. The classic Waynes were the best: "The Sons of Katie Elder," "Big Jake," "Rio Bravo," etc. The spagheti westerns not so much. One of the oldies that I liked a lot that she didn't was "The Shakiest Gun in the West." Sometimes you just gotta laugh.

In the early 70's one thing we rural folk could look forward to seeing was a television show about a plain spoken New Mexico sheriff who moves to New York and teaches the city slickers
a thing or two about good old fashioned horse sense.

Darren McGavin, Don Knotts, Dennis Weaver: Your talents will be missed.

Be safe everyone.

Janet, Janet bo Banet Bonana fanna fo Fanet

For my friends from West Harrison: For several years I have had a real weakness with people's names. I remember John O'Keefe was a good friend in Kindergarten. I had "difficulties" with Shaleen Schaffer in First Grade. Cindy Cates went to school with us in Second Grade. Angie Enfield joined us in Third Grade. Deidra Lair was in our Fourth Grade Class. John Reisz was in our Fifth Grade class. Those are just a few names that leap into my mind when thinking of West Harrison - Modale. But, now when I meet someone, regardless of how many times I silently repeat the name to myself or how many nemonic devices I employ, the name is instantly gone. I thought it was just a result of becoming middle-aged but the roots actually extend much further back. One afternoon when we were Juniors I made the mistake of being in the high school gymnasium when Mr. Smith was doing a sound check on the public address system. There was going to be a wrestling meet that evening, the last home dual of the season, so it was Parents Night. Though I had never done it before, Mr. Smith chose that night to have me do the announcing for the meet. Since it was Parents Night I wouldn't be just introducing the wrestlers but also their parents. He handed me the team roster for the meet and told me to announce the parent names and ask them to stand after I gave each wrestler's name. No problem. I had know most of these guys for over a decade; I could do it in my sleep. So, I winged it. 103, 112, 119, 125, 130, 135, 140, 145, 152, 160, 171, 189, 215, 275; if we had a competitor for the weight class, I belted out his name and the name of his parents and had them stand up. There was a murmur that ran through the crowd when I gave out Brian L.'s name but I didn't pay any attention to it. I learned later it was because I announced the wrong names for his parents: got his step-dad's name correct but said the name of his step-dad's ex-wife instead of Bri's mom. Crap. My war with names began in 1985 and I have been losing it ever since.

Be safe.

Rubber Mallet of the Gods

A home win. 'Bout freakin' time. In your face Ralphie. Next: neutering the KSU kittens.

For my friends at West Harrison: While channel surfing last week I had the misfortune of bumbling onto the winter X games on ESPN. Normally, I only give each channel five seconds, tops, (it's part of the Guys Code) but between seconds three and four at the Entertainment and SPorts Network, I paused. Had to, really. I thought I had found a rerun of the "Hellraiser" movie but I was mistaken. Some dude with a 1 by 12 strapped to his feet had just attempted a "frontside 1080 into a cab 1080" on some snow covered silage pit the announcers called a "Super Pipe." Unless all that jargon is new slang for "the agony of defeat" I still don't know what it means. Dude went grill first down most of that snowy hill; should've knocked him (more) senseless but he hopped right up and ambled over to the camera and the Gen Why announcer-babe. I was about to pull the trigger on zapping on to ESPN2 (the Duece) when the snowboarding klutz pulled off his helmet and baklava to reveal a face perforated with piercings. What the hell? It looked like he had done a face-plant into a tacklebox and bore a slight resemblance to Pinhead (look it up on IMDB.com). Anyway, as the "athlete" stammered through an nearly unintelligable string of "dudes" and "ya knows" I returned to channel surfing dreading the future that awaits those of us Gen X/Gen Y 'tweeners. What depressed