Today, I was driving home from the Birthday Party of one of the WEEC Auxiliary members, and the thought of a Music Ministry came to mind.
I guess you could say that I grew up in a musical family. My dad was a “bass” singer; Mother, an “alto”; Miriam, a “soprano”; and I, mostly a “tenor”.
As a teenager, I sang in the choir of our local church - along with the rest of my family. Though my voice has ALWAYS been in the “tenor” range, for some reason, I sang bass in the choir at times. I think it must have depended on how many “basses” or “tenors” were available that week.
As a result, I learned to read music. At least when to go “up” or “down”. I never developed what some call “perfect pitch”. Though, I don’t think one can “develop” a “perfect pitch”. I believe it’s God-given. This feeling was further substantiated by learning of when Gil Meade, an organist and choral director at Moody Bible Institute, found “perfect pitch”. I learned that when he was a child (under 10 years of age), he could distinguish one tone from another, by naming the spot on the musical scale that the sound made. An automobile horn, for example. Or a train whistle. Or any other musical sound. When he heard it, he would exclaim, “B flat”, or “A”, or whatever note the tone sounded.
I think I developed what people call “relative pitch”. That is, hearing what one note on the scale sounded like, I could “sing” the note a “third”, or “fifth” above or below that, and, find and sing the other notes also. That only comes from experience, if one doesn’t have “perfect pitch”.
Though I regularly sang in church, that wasn’t the ONLY type of music I liked. I was into “popular music” also, and in much later years, “classical” music. I liked the “Big Band” sound of Glenn Miller, Kay Kyser, Benny Goodman et al. What just now comes to mind (I do this all the time) after listing these, was that overseas during World War II, we had the privilege of having been visited by the band of Kay Kyser. He regularly had a “quiz” on his show, that he called “Kay Kyser’s Kollege of Musical Knowledge”. And, though Glenn Miller had been killed in a plane crash in Europe while entertaining the troops, we had also a later visit from “The Glenn Miller Orchestra”, led by Tex Beneke.
Back to earlier years.
At about age 15 or 16 I think, some of my friends and I were attending the Champaign County Fair one time, when someone noticed that there was a booth that featured a disk recording device, that when sung into, made a flat plastic recording. Somewhat like the 78 RPM records of that day, only much smaller, and certainly not professional. It was also a 78.
One of my friends, knowing of my singing, suggested I step up and make a recording. I finally acquiesced, and ended up singing one of the popular songs of the day, “Oh Johnny!” (Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny, how you can love. Oh Johnny, Oh Johnny, heavens above. You make the whole world…………. etc.) I can almost remember the whole song, unfortunately.
Then, I remember, a year or so later, I began singing solos at church. One piece I remember was the classic “O Rest in the Lord, wait patiently for Him, and He shall give thee thy heart’s desire, O Rest……etc.” I think I can sing (to myself) all the way through the song. The amazing thing is that the last time I sang, or even saw, that song, or the Scripture that it’s based on, was maybe 70 years ago. The memory is an amazing thing. Or, as I think I have said before, “My memory is perfect. Recall is my problem.”
Remembering those words reminds me of another song from years ago (at least when I first sang it), the song, “Little man you’re crying, I know why you’re blue, some one took you kiddie car…………..” I can sing that one all the way through also. To myself, of course. I now remember that Jean and I sang that one to some of our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
And, even YEARS later, I still remember the words to one or two verses of maybe 30 Gospel Songs of bygone eras.
When I joined the Radio Ministry of the Moody Bible Institute in 1954, and after I was promoted and had a steady daytime schedule, I attended Evening School there, and, along with some Bible classes and Christian Education courses, I took Music, including song leading, and choral conducting. That was the most formal music training I ever had.
At our church in Chicago at that time, we had a Choir Director who was outstanding. His name was Mel Kasen - since deceased I’ve learned. He developed such a following at church, that one year at Christmas, we had 50 to 60 voices (my son Jim helps me to remember) when we performed several parts of Handel’s Messiah. I NOW remember (I hadn’t thought of it until just now), that I sang the Tenor recitative “Comfort Ye My People”, and the solo, “Every Valley Shall Be Exalted”.
During that same period, I served as Assistant Sunday School Superintendent, and then Superintendent after one year, and after some Christian Education training at Evening School at Moody, I began organizing the Sunday School, and reaching out to the community.
In addition to Evening School, I got involved in the National Sunday School Association, headquartered in Chicago, and attended several Sunday School Conventions that they sponsored. I learned how to successfully “run” a Sunday Bible School. One of the crowning achievements of our Sunday School Staff, was a record attendance of 426 one Sunday, during a contest. This beat the previous record of 425.
When I retired as Superintendent, Mel Kasen asked me if I would accept the position of Assistant Choir Director, and kinda supervise the overall program - including section rehearsals, etc.
The time finally came when Mel retired as Director. I THINK he moved to Wisconsin, but I’m not sure.
I then got the Choir Director’s job by default. (Job is the operative word here, since the position paid a modest salary.)
Beginning in the fall of that year, we began rehearsal on a monumental Christmas program, consisting of maybe twenty different songs or pieces. We even had a printed program, listing all the music, as well as the groups who performed. We even had some “antiphony” groups in the back balcony.
Another “crowning achievement”!
Then, God called us to leave Chicago, and join Christian Radio Station WEEC in Springfield OH, as General Manager. Previous postings tell of this experience.
Shortly after our arrival in Springfield our church needed a Sunday School Superintendent, and I was elected. It seems to me that at about the same time, I became the Choir Director also.
We all had a wonderful experience in these ministries, culminated in my thinking, by a magnificent (in my opinion) rendition of “The Seven Last Words of Christ”. I can STILL see the choir, and FEEL their sad, but glorious singing of that Cantata. In the part where the crowd is depicted as saying about Jesus: “Take Him! Take Him! Let us crucify Him!”, I could FEEL the choir entering into the telling of this terrible experience of the Lord Jesus.
Very gratifying!
Music and Christian Education had been my church work for 10 or 15 years, in at least two churches. I have fond memories of both experiences.
Praise the Lord!
My music interest wouldn’t be completely told without mentioning my antipathy toward “out of tune” pianos. That is, a piano being “out of tune” with itself. And, over 11 years of hearing the pianos in Studios A and B at WMBI, I developed an “ear” for pianos that are out of tune with themselves.
Let me explain: The upper register of keys on a grand piano have 3 strings for each note. Toward the middle, there are 2 strings per note. (These are called “Unisons”.) Then, in the Bass section, just one string. In tuning a piano, the tuner must “tune” all three strings exactly alike, or it will sound “tinny”. (Like the proverbial “bar room piano” we hear described on TV.) And, the two string notes tuned exactly alike, as well.
Aside: To get the “bar room piano” sound purposely for a TV story, one or more of the 3 strings is just SLIGHTLY “de-tuned”, as might happen over a long period of time without tuning. It now sounds “tinny”.
Pianos don’t stay in tune - perfectly that is - for too long. Humidity, temperature or other outside factors affect that. And, heavy playing would gradually stretch one of the strings in the set of 3, and then sound “out of tune”, at least to me.
At WMBI, and I assume for all of the pianos at Moody Bible Institute, our pianos were completely tuned once a month. Virgil Smith, a Music Department instructor got training and experience in piano tuning. In addition, every Saturday morning, he came to the Studios, and “trimmed” the “unisons” and “octaves” of both of the 9 foot Grand Pianos. That is, one or more of the 3, or the 2 strings could slip some and be “flat”, or “out of tune” with another string, or a note an octave higher or lower. Virgil could correct that, and he did so every week.
Even professional recordings that are sold and aired on radio stations have “out of tune” pianos. I’ve heard them. That is, the piano is “out of tune”, with itself.
Finally, my music interest is shown by the latest recordings on my iPod that I carry with me all the time. Earlier I described the iPod. Three days ago, I downloaded some CDs to it, and now have 785 songs of all kinds (including Gospel Songs and Hymns, of course), plus reading chapters of the Bible - 21 from The Gospel of John; 28 from The Acts; 16 from Romans; 6 from Ephesians, and 10 Psalms.
My practice is to listen to the iPod in bed before I go to sleep every night. I think I’ve missed three nights in the last 3 months.
Whew! This is the longest posting I’ve made on this blog. I just hope it fits in the space provided.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Familiar Voices
I’ve been “blessed” (or “cursed”, some would say) with a distinctive-sounding voice. People seem to recognize it right away, if they’ve ever heard it before. I don’t know why that is - or what are the distinctive characteristics of my voice. I would not be able to disguise my voice over the telephone, to try to fool anybody.
This came to mind now, because last Sunday at church (my third Sunday in a row of visiting that church after returning to Ohio), the Usher who has given me the Bulletin each Sunday said, “By the way. This is your third Sunday here, and I don’t know your name.” “Mike Maddex”, I said. “Oh - WEEC! That’s why I recognized your voice.”
See what I mean? I haven't been on the radio much for 10 years!
I’ve been “flabbergasted” several times the last 3 weeks at so many people saying that. Well, it has been that way ever since shortly after I arrived at WEEC in 1965. But after being retired 10 years? Really!
But, now, at my age, my voice has lost so much of its “timbre” (pronounced “tamm-bur”, which has to do with the tone and sound quality of speech or voice), that I’m surprised ANYBODY recognizes it. You see - it’s just my peculiar voice that people hear. Though it once may have sounded like a “radio voice”, surely it no longer does. But………WEEC listeners still recognize it.
Even now, when I greet my longtime friends with my usual “Have you got the Victory today, brother”, even on the phone, they know who it is.
That reminds me that years ago, when BOTH of us were still active in the radio ministry, I called my friend Al Sanders in California, and when he answered, I said, “Have you got the victory today, Brother.” Knowing right away who I was, he said, “When did you mail it?” That’s Al.
And, MANY years ago, Jean and I were traveling in the Southwest on the way to some Christian Radio conclave, and we stopped briefly at what I call a “Jot-‘em-down” store along the highway. Inside the store were bookcases that provided aisles to walk through. I said something to Jean about an item on one of the shelves, and from the OTHER SIDE of the bookcase, a voice said, “Mike Maddex” real loud. I was dumbfounded. Shortly the person saying that rounded the corner, and though I didn’t know him, he recognized my voice. It turned out that he was a listener to WEEC, traveling in the same general area as Jean and I were.
Weird!
I sometimes wish I had made a study of the “timbre” and sound of voices, to better understand why there are so many distinctive sounds that may be recognized.
One of the gentleman residents here has a distinctive voice - though it is very high pitched, and almost sounds like a lady. I can hear him and recognize him in the Dining Room, without knowing he’s anywhere near. It’s not a “bad” voice, but just different.
And, what about voices like Bill Pearce? Or Paul Harvey? Or George Younce, the Bass Singer in the old Cathedral Quartet. I often yearned for a voice like one of them.
Then there’s the high tenor voice of Jay Parak, whom Tracy Figley thinks is the highest tenor in Gospel Music today. These voices are distinct. People who have heard them talk or sing, would immediately recognize them.
Voices are used for communication - orally. They are used to convey thoughts, or songs, or ideas.
Most are distinct. Don’t sound like anyone else.
OK. Now that I have established that there are different voices - yet generally recognizable - what about what the voices have to say? Or sing?
When speaking, the voice is generated “by a larynx”, or “voice box”. However, what the “voice” says is governed by the mind, or thought. And, the specific words are articulated by the tongue - using the larynx for the sound.
I can’t help but recall the Epistle of James in the New Testament, which has a lot to say about how we use our tongues:
“Even so the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth. And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity:…..”. James 3:5-6.
Whew!
I didn’t know I was going to say that when I started talking about “Familiar Voices”. My fingers just started to write, following the thoughts in my mind.
Such is the life of a “blogger”.
This came to mind now, because last Sunday at church (my third Sunday in a row of visiting that church after returning to Ohio), the Usher who has given me the Bulletin each Sunday said, “By the way. This is your third Sunday here, and I don’t know your name.” “Mike Maddex”, I said. “Oh - WEEC! That’s why I recognized your voice.”
See what I mean? I haven't been on the radio much for 10 years!
I’ve been “flabbergasted” several times the last 3 weeks at so many people saying that. Well, it has been that way ever since shortly after I arrived at WEEC in 1965. But after being retired 10 years? Really!
But, now, at my age, my voice has lost so much of its “timbre” (pronounced “tamm-bur”, which has to do with the tone and sound quality of speech or voice), that I’m surprised ANYBODY recognizes it. You see - it’s just my peculiar voice that people hear. Though it once may have sounded like a “radio voice”, surely it no longer does. But………WEEC listeners still recognize it.
Even now, when I greet my longtime friends with my usual “Have you got the Victory today, brother”, even on the phone, they know who it is.
That reminds me that years ago, when BOTH of us were still active in the radio ministry, I called my friend Al Sanders in California, and when he answered, I said, “Have you got the victory today, Brother.” Knowing right away who I was, he said, “When did you mail it?” That’s Al.
And, MANY years ago, Jean and I were traveling in the Southwest on the way to some Christian Radio conclave, and we stopped briefly at what I call a “Jot-‘em-down” store along the highway. Inside the store were bookcases that provided aisles to walk through. I said something to Jean about an item on one of the shelves, and from the OTHER SIDE of the bookcase, a voice said, “Mike Maddex” real loud. I was dumbfounded. Shortly the person saying that rounded the corner, and though I didn’t know him, he recognized my voice. It turned out that he was a listener to WEEC, traveling in the same general area as Jean and I were.
Weird!
I sometimes wish I had made a study of the “timbre” and sound of voices, to better understand why there are so many distinctive sounds that may be recognized.
One of the gentleman residents here has a distinctive voice - though it is very high pitched, and almost sounds like a lady. I can hear him and recognize him in the Dining Room, without knowing he’s anywhere near. It’s not a “bad” voice, but just different.
And, what about voices like Bill Pearce? Or Paul Harvey? Or George Younce, the Bass Singer in the old Cathedral Quartet. I often yearned for a voice like one of them.
Then there’s the high tenor voice of Jay Parak, whom Tracy Figley thinks is the highest tenor in Gospel Music today. These voices are distinct. People who have heard them talk or sing, would immediately recognize them.
Voices are used for communication - orally. They are used to convey thoughts, or songs, or ideas.
Most are distinct. Don’t sound like anyone else.
OK. Now that I have established that there are different voices - yet generally recognizable - what about what the voices have to say? Or sing?
When speaking, the voice is generated “by a larynx”, or “voice box”. However, what the “voice” says is governed by the mind, or thought. And, the specific words are articulated by the tongue - using the larynx for the sound.
I can’t help but recall the Epistle of James in the New Testament, which has a lot to say about how we use our tongues:
“Even so the tongue is a little member, and boasteth great things. Behold, how great a matter a little fire kindleth. And the tongue is a fire, a world of iniquity:…..”. James 3:5-6.
Whew!
I didn’t know I was going to say that when I started talking about “Familiar Voices”. My fingers just started to write, following the thoughts in my mind.
Such is the life of a “blogger”.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Widower Musings
Looking at this title reminds me that this is the second time I’ve used the word, “Musings” on this Blog. Maybe I should use “Thoughts”. Or, “Ideas”. Or “Complaints”. (Oops. Was that a “Freudian Slip”?)
Let me pause a minute here.
Since not everyone means the same thing when they refer to a “Freudian Slip”, it seems rather prudent for me to relate MY understanding of the words - at least as far as this posting is concerned.
I think of a “Freudian Slip”, as a statement, or thought that comes out of one’s mouth, that wasn’t intended to be said, though it was being thought of, while saying and/or writing something else. It seems to come from the “sub-conscious”, as I see it.
Thus, in the first paragraph above, my intent was to mention and/or re-live some experiences of this Widower keeping my own house. Sub-consciously, however, I was silently “muttering” to myself about how difficult it is for me to properly fold a “fitted sheet” that I had just laundered. I hadn’t intended to mention the “difficult” parts of this arrangement until later. However, the “Freudian Slip” brought out the more embarrassing thoughts that I had “suppressed” - I thought.
Wait a minute! Isn’t it dangerous for me to open up my thinking that much, at least on a Blog that many people are reportedly reading? I think so, but I’ve been, for nearly four months, doing just that, to a certain extent. And, most of my meanderings come right from what comes to mind at that time.
Thus, this “interruption” of my thoughts, right after I started. We’re looking for “honesty” here. Not as someone said, “The important thing to remember is sincerity. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”
(Supposed to be funny.)
Back to the Widower’s Housekeeping.
I suppose it would be likewise prudent, for me to mention that, of all my abilities, or lack thereof, “housekeeping” SURELY makes the top of the “lack thereof” category.
Maybe I should have thought of that when I began wondering if the Lord would have me move back to The Grand Court where Jean and I spent 2 wonderful years, but now WITHOUT Jean.
I should hasten to add that, though this posting will seem to be a “complaint”, I am perfectly happy here, and feel comfortable in the “Lord’s Will” living here - difficulties of “housekeeping” notwithstanding.
Did I once before say, “Back to the Widower’s Housekeeping”? I’m now saying it again.
“Back to…………..”, etc.
Let me mention some pleasant things first. (Unless, of course, old “Freudian Slip” rears its ugly head again.)
First, I couldn’t be in a more pleasant place. Jean and I learned that 4+ years ago when we first moved in here.
An aside - though Jean wasn’t sure she wanted to sell our Mobile Home and move anywhere 4 years ago, when she was wheeled into the living room of the 2 room “display” apartment here, she said right away, “We’ll take it!” And, we got it - THAT one!
Back to the pleasant things:
1. The apartments are clean, bright and “heat/cool” comfortable.
2. The bath and shower are very adequate, and easily used.
3. There’s a sliding door to a “concrete slab”, screened-in, patio out back.
4. I have an adequately sized refrigerator at my disposal.
5. A Microwave is available for making hot tea, soups or other food.
6. The kitchenette also provides a sink and garbage disposal.
7. There are cable connections for TV, as well as Internet access.
8. There are emergency “call buttons” in both living and bath rooms.
9. A neck style “pendant” for emergencies is also provided.
10. There is an electric range, as well as over-head cupboards.
11. A very adequate “clothes closet” is provided.
12. All meals are provided in the Dining Room, with waitresses taking our orders.
13. Housekeeping (the cleaning type) is provided once a week.
14. There are more “free” activities provided than I can participate in.
15. A van/bus will take us to the doctor, grocery or shopping regularly.
16. Security is almost absolute.
Others would come to mind if I waited long enough, but these surely will tell of my satisfaction in this place.
However, if I could just get someone to do my laundry, fold the clothes, and especially, the “fitted sheets” on my bed. Of course, if I had the money and felt disposed, I could HIRE someone to do any of these unpleasant tasks - including, getting me out of bed.
But, don’t I have some PERSONAL responsiblity for my well-being? Of course. And, though I may complain to myself when I fold the sheets, or do the laundry, or take a shower, or, “get out of bed”, these are things that I committed to when I decided that the Lord would have me move back here.
Hey! I’m happy here!
It was the Apostle Paul who said, “….for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.” Phil. 4:11
And, I AM!
Let me pause a minute here.
Since not everyone means the same thing when they refer to a “Freudian Slip”, it seems rather prudent for me to relate MY understanding of the words - at least as far as this posting is concerned.
I think of a “Freudian Slip”, as a statement, or thought that comes out of one’s mouth, that wasn’t intended to be said, though it was being thought of, while saying and/or writing something else. It seems to come from the “sub-conscious”, as I see it.
Thus, in the first paragraph above, my intent was to mention and/or re-live some experiences of this Widower keeping my own house. Sub-consciously, however, I was silently “muttering” to myself about how difficult it is for me to properly fold a “fitted sheet” that I had just laundered. I hadn’t intended to mention the “difficult” parts of this arrangement until later. However, the “Freudian Slip” brought out the more embarrassing thoughts that I had “suppressed” - I thought.
Wait a minute! Isn’t it dangerous for me to open up my thinking that much, at least on a Blog that many people are reportedly reading? I think so, but I’ve been, for nearly four months, doing just that, to a certain extent. And, most of my meanderings come right from what comes to mind at that time.
Thus, this “interruption” of my thoughts, right after I started. We’re looking for “honesty” here. Not as someone said, “The important thing to remember is sincerity. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”
(Supposed to be funny.)
Back to the Widower’s Housekeeping.
I suppose it would be likewise prudent, for me to mention that, of all my abilities, or lack thereof, “housekeeping” SURELY makes the top of the “lack thereof” category.
Maybe I should have thought of that when I began wondering if the Lord would have me move back to The Grand Court where Jean and I spent 2 wonderful years, but now WITHOUT Jean.
I should hasten to add that, though this posting will seem to be a “complaint”, I am perfectly happy here, and feel comfortable in the “Lord’s Will” living here - difficulties of “housekeeping” notwithstanding.
Did I once before say, “Back to the Widower’s Housekeeping”? I’m now saying it again.
“Back to…………..”, etc.
Let me mention some pleasant things first. (Unless, of course, old “Freudian Slip” rears its ugly head again.)
First, I couldn’t be in a more pleasant place. Jean and I learned that 4+ years ago when we first moved in here.
An aside - though Jean wasn’t sure she wanted to sell our Mobile Home and move anywhere 4 years ago, when she was wheeled into the living room of the 2 room “display” apartment here, she said right away, “We’ll take it!” And, we got it - THAT one!
Back to the pleasant things:
1. The apartments are clean, bright and “heat/cool” comfortable.
2. The bath and shower are very adequate, and easily used.
3. There’s a sliding door to a “concrete slab”, screened-in, patio out back.
4. I have an adequately sized refrigerator at my disposal.
5. A Microwave is available for making hot tea, soups or other food.
6. The kitchenette also provides a sink and garbage disposal.
7. There are cable connections for TV, as well as Internet access.
8. There are emergency “call buttons” in both living and bath rooms.
9. A neck style “pendant” for emergencies is also provided.
10. There is an electric range, as well as over-head cupboards.
11. A very adequate “clothes closet” is provided.
12. All meals are provided in the Dining Room, with waitresses taking our orders.
13. Housekeeping (the cleaning type) is provided once a week.
14. There are more “free” activities provided than I can participate in.
15. A van/bus will take us to the doctor, grocery or shopping regularly.
16. Security is almost absolute.
Others would come to mind if I waited long enough, but these surely will tell of my satisfaction in this place.
However, if I could just get someone to do my laundry, fold the clothes, and especially, the “fitted sheets” on my bed. Of course, if I had the money and felt disposed, I could HIRE someone to do any of these unpleasant tasks - including, getting me out of bed.
But, don’t I have some PERSONAL responsiblity for my well-being? Of course. And, though I may complain to myself when I fold the sheets, or do the laundry, or take a shower, or, “get out of bed”, these are things that I committed to when I decided that the Lord would have me move back here.
Hey! I’m happy here!
It was the Apostle Paul who said, “….for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content.” Phil. 4:11
And, I AM!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Slow Down, Mike!
If I’ve heard that above phrase one time in the last 40 years, I’ve heard it a thousand times!
“Slow down, Mike!”
For 40 years, my answer has been: “I’ve only got one speed!”
I think I was born fast. I’ll bet Mom’s labor lasted only 10 minutes.
I’m being facetious, of course. I don’t know how long Mother’s labor lasted, but, I CAN tell you that once I was here, I WAS RUNNING!
I don’t TRY to walk fast - or talk fast - or think fast - or write fast. It’s just natural. In fact, when I write on the computer (as right now), I write so fast, that my fingers get jumbled, and I have to “back space” to remove the misplaced letters.
I suppose I should be analyzed (Ha! You thought so, didn’t you?) to see what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what makes me walk so fast.
For years, Jean would say, “Slow down, Dad.” “I’ve only got one speed”, I’d answer. I guess Jean wasn’t a slow walker, but generally, when she COULD walk, it was more slowly than I. I tried to adjust my pace with hers. Later, when pushing her in the wheel chair, she would say “Don‘t walk so fast, Myron!” I’d then TRY to slow down.
When John was trying to show me various things on the computer (he’s a whiz at computers), he’d always say, “Be careful, Dad. Slow down so you don’t make mistakes.”
I’d try to, but my mind works faster than my fingers even, and I just have to “get it all out”.
I think I mentioned on a previous posting that I’ve moved back into the Assisted Living Facility in Springfield - The Grand Court. Jean and I spent 2 years here before we had to move in with John and Tonya, to help with her care. Since Jean went to heaven last October, I’ve now moved back to The Grand Court.
Though not everyone here is “old”, the average age, I’m told, is 85. I know of at least 2 men here in their 90’s. That means that there has to be someone under 80 here to “average out” to 85. Some are here due to physical impairment, rather than old age. One I know of, is not older than 52.
And, since I’ve been back, I regularly hear the phrases “Slow down”; or “Don’t walk so fast”; or “Where’s the fire, Mike?”; or, “Look at him go!”, etc. I always answer, “I’ve only got one speed!”
For many of the 34 years I ministered at WEEC, our facility was in a two story house. My office was on the second floor. At SHARATHON time, I would travel up and down those stairs 50 times a day. “Look out! Here comes Mike!” I guess I did “run”, rather than “walk” at least “down” the stairs. It was just natural. Why waste time “moseying”, when “rushing” will get you there faster?
I also talk fast. Often, I jumble the words and not speak distinctly, because I’m going too fast. That, from a guy who SPECIALIZES in requiring good diction. Can’t help it.
In the Army, I don’t recall walking so fast. I just “went with the flow” of the march, keeping pace with “Hut,two, three, four; Hut, two three, four.”, etc. But, in getting ready for chow, I was there early.
Like I mentioned some time back about getting to the High School football game last year, early. I was so early, that the visiting team hadn’t even come out yet to warm up. I just put the iPod pieces in my ears, and listened to music.
While at WEEC, Jean and I spent many of our Sunday mornings visiting one of the area churches, representing the station to the listeners. If we were going to a church out of town (most times we did), and especially if I hadn’t been there before, we left early. We’d get to the church maybe 45 minutes to an hour early. I knew then just where the church was and how to get there. We COULD go for a cup of coffee if we wanted to, and be right back at the church “on time”.
I don’t see this “speediness” as a virtue that I should brag about. In fact, if everyone didn’t tell me to slow down, I probably wouldn’t even have mentioned it. I’m just responding.
Since many in this facility are on “walkers”, or “wheel chairs”, I don’t want to “rub it in” by walking fast, but it’s just natural for me to walk fast, and I can’t help it. I pass them up walking down the hallways to lunch. I suppose some might be offended. I hope not. At least, no one has said so to me.
I’m actually thankful for my physical stamina, and don’t “take it lightly”. I realize that “some day”, I’ll be using a walker, or a wheel chair, or even be “pushed” in a chair - if I don’t die first. I don’t take my good health for granted. I’m VERY thankful for whatever good health I have, or will have.
Praise the Lord!
“Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” Matt. 6:34
“Slow down, Mike!”
For 40 years, my answer has been: “I’ve only got one speed!”
I think I was born fast. I’ll bet Mom’s labor lasted only 10 minutes.
I’m being facetious, of course. I don’t know how long Mother’s labor lasted, but, I CAN tell you that once I was here, I WAS RUNNING!
I don’t TRY to walk fast - or talk fast - or think fast - or write fast. It’s just natural. In fact, when I write on the computer (as right now), I write so fast, that my fingers get jumbled, and I have to “back space” to remove the misplaced letters.
I suppose I should be analyzed (Ha! You thought so, didn’t you?) to see what’s wrong with me. I don’t know what makes me walk so fast.
For years, Jean would say, “Slow down, Dad.” “I’ve only got one speed”, I’d answer. I guess Jean wasn’t a slow walker, but generally, when she COULD walk, it was more slowly than I. I tried to adjust my pace with hers. Later, when pushing her in the wheel chair, she would say “Don‘t walk so fast, Myron!” I’d then TRY to slow down.
When John was trying to show me various things on the computer (he’s a whiz at computers), he’d always say, “Be careful, Dad. Slow down so you don’t make mistakes.”
I’d try to, but my mind works faster than my fingers even, and I just have to “get it all out”.
I think I mentioned on a previous posting that I’ve moved back into the Assisted Living Facility in Springfield - The Grand Court. Jean and I spent 2 years here before we had to move in with John and Tonya, to help with her care. Since Jean went to heaven last October, I’ve now moved back to The Grand Court.
Though not everyone here is “old”, the average age, I’m told, is 85. I know of at least 2 men here in their 90’s. That means that there has to be someone under 80 here to “average out” to 85. Some are here due to physical impairment, rather than old age. One I know of, is not older than 52.
And, since I’ve been back, I regularly hear the phrases “Slow down”; or “Don’t walk so fast”; or “Where’s the fire, Mike?”; or, “Look at him go!”, etc. I always answer, “I’ve only got one speed!”
For many of the 34 years I ministered at WEEC, our facility was in a two story house. My office was on the second floor. At SHARATHON time, I would travel up and down those stairs 50 times a day. “Look out! Here comes Mike!” I guess I did “run”, rather than “walk” at least “down” the stairs. It was just natural. Why waste time “moseying”, when “rushing” will get you there faster?
I also talk fast. Often, I jumble the words and not speak distinctly, because I’m going too fast. That, from a guy who SPECIALIZES in requiring good diction. Can’t help it.
In the Army, I don’t recall walking so fast. I just “went with the flow” of the march, keeping pace with “Hut,two, three, four; Hut, two three, four.”, etc. But, in getting ready for chow, I was there early.
Like I mentioned some time back about getting to the High School football game last year, early. I was so early, that the visiting team hadn’t even come out yet to warm up. I just put the iPod pieces in my ears, and listened to music.
While at WEEC, Jean and I spent many of our Sunday mornings visiting one of the area churches, representing the station to the listeners. If we were going to a church out of town (most times we did), and especially if I hadn’t been there before, we left early. We’d get to the church maybe 45 minutes to an hour early. I knew then just where the church was and how to get there. We COULD go for a cup of coffee if we wanted to, and be right back at the church “on time”.
I don’t see this “speediness” as a virtue that I should brag about. In fact, if everyone didn’t tell me to slow down, I probably wouldn’t even have mentioned it. I’m just responding.
Since many in this facility are on “walkers”, or “wheel chairs”, I don’t want to “rub it in” by walking fast, but it’s just natural for me to walk fast, and I can’t help it. I pass them up walking down the hallways to lunch. I suppose some might be offended. I hope not. At least, no one has said so to me.
I’m actually thankful for my physical stamina, and don’t “take it lightly”. I realize that “some day”, I’ll be using a walker, or a wheel chair, or even be “pushed” in a chair - if I don’t die first. I don’t take my good health for granted. I’m VERY thankful for whatever good health I have, or will have.
Praise the Lord!
“Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” Matt. 6:34
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Girls High School Sports
I just now saw something on the TV news that brought back memories of a “pet peeve” of mine: High School girls basketball players, under the basket, receiving a pass for a lay-up, then dropping the ball for a “dribble”, before trying to shoot a basket. I want to yell out: “Just shoot, for cryin’ out loud! Why let the other team kill your shot somewhere between the dribble and the basket?”
Am I an “old fogey”, or what?
My “peeve” goes back about 10 years, when Jean and I followed the girls basketball games at Southeastern High School, where our granddaughter Jodi played. I have to say right away that this is NOT a criticism of Jodi. Far from it. She was a “point guard”, not under the basket. So, she would seldom get this shot.
Is this a valid criticism of these girls (same today as 10 years ago) from an 84 year old Grandpa? Probably no basketball training at all, except in High School over 50 years ago, and even then, thrown off the Team for smoking?
This brings out the statement often proffered, that you can’t criticize unless you are a “professional” in that field. Hogwash!
Back 10 years ago, Kirk Martin was the Southeastern High School Girls Basketball Coach. Kirk took those girls to the State at least twice, and WON State one time. The second string girls were coached by “Bodey” Lightle - NOW the Varsity Girls Coach. I never asked either of them about my “peeve”, thinking that it was none of my business. Of course it wasn’t, and STILL isn’t. But, does that stop me from criticizing? Of course not! I’m probably wrong, but I’ll bet each of those guys just “cringed” if they ever saw one of their players dribble instead of shoot.
In writing this posting, I was TEMPTED to call either or both Kirk or Bodey for a comment on this subject. I even got out the Telephone book. But, better sense told me not to. Kirk is now the successful Womens Basketball Coach of Cedarville University, and Bodey, as mentioned, is the Varsity Coach of girls at Southeastern- also successful.
“So Mike, since you are NOT a professional, and ARE ‘an old fogey’, what makes you think that anyone is interested in what you say - either for or against anything?”
I’ve thought about that.
The same could be said for all of the previous 45 postings I’ve put on this “blog” since the first of last November. Since I’m not a professional writer, or reporter, what right do I have to write these things?
Answer: “Only that some people keep telling me that they read this stuff.”
I don’t have ANY authority on the Internet, paper, TV or anything. Since John and Tonya got me started on this venture last November, all I do is write my thoughts. From my experience. And my “experience” tells me that if a girl gets the basketball while standing “under” the basket, she should just “shoot the ball” while it’s still out of reach of the defenders, RATHER THAN, put the ball on the floor, THEN bring it up to shoot (if the other team permits it.)
Having gotten THAT off my chest, let me ramble a bit about the JOY that Jean and I got by going to the Southeastern High School basketball games, football games and soccer games. Jodi played basketball and soccer. We went to every game. Kelly was Cheer Leader for both Football and Basketball. We went to every game.
I just now remember a time when there was a basketball tournament that our girls played at Northeastern High School, 10 or more years ago. It seems to me that the game was over a holiday weekend, and even on a Saturday. For some reason, the Cheerleaders weren’t scheduled to perform for that game, so when the excitement seemed to “lull”, I got out of my seat, went down on the floor, and LED the cheers. I remembered some of them from attending so many games. Everyone laughed. Of course, I was then 74 years old. I whistled with my fingers in my mouth, and the sound would “raise the dead”, as we say.
We went to all of the games, because our two granddaughters were either playing or cheering. It made no difference to us. We were “rooting” for our girls!
I remember that Kelly’s boyfriend - now husband, Ben Farmer - was the place kicker on the High School Football Team, as well as playing other positions. We rooted for him too.
Jodi also played soccer - a grueling, tiring game if there ever was one. It seems to me that they played 45 minutes straight for the first half, then after a break, played another half the same length. We went to ALL of the games - rain or shine. And, it DID rain some at the games.
These provide fond memories of those days, when both my wife Jean, and our daughter Martha, were still living. Martha went to be with the Lord on October 7, 2001, at the age of 47. Jean joined her at the feet of Jesus on October 19, 2008, at age 85. We had been married 65 years, 6 months, and 21 days. Praise the Lord! The memories are somewhat sad, yet joyful just thinking of the good times we had then.
Back in our High School days, Jean played Girls Basketball also. It was different then. Real competitive girls basketball hadn’t yet arrived. There were 6 girls on each team, with offense on one end of the floor, and defense on the other. The girls couldn’t cross the center line - from offense to defense. There were good players then too, but the play wasn’t as aggressive as today’s girls play. Seemed rather bland to us guys.
Well, I guess I’ve “gabbed” enough on this subject. Thanks for reading - all 3 of you!
Am I an “old fogey”, or what?
My “peeve” goes back about 10 years, when Jean and I followed the girls basketball games at Southeastern High School, where our granddaughter Jodi played. I have to say right away that this is NOT a criticism of Jodi. Far from it. She was a “point guard”, not under the basket. So, she would seldom get this shot.
Is this a valid criticism of these girls (same today as 10 years ago) from an 84 year old Grandpa? Probably no basketball training at all, except in High School over 50 years ago, and even then, thrown off the Team for smoking?
This brings out the statement often proffered, that you can’t criticize unless you are a “professional” in that field. Hogwash!
Back 10 years ago, Kirk Martin was the Southeastern High School Girls Basketball Coach. Kirk took those girls to the State at least twice, and WON State one time. The second string girls were coached by “Bodey” Lightle - NOW the Varsity Girls Coach. I never asked either of them about my “peeve”, thinking that it was none of my business. Of course it wasn’t, and STILL isn’t. But, does that stop me from criticizing? Of course not! I’m probably wrong, but I’ll bet each of those guys just “cringed” if they ever saw one of their players dribble instead of shoot.
In writing this posting, I was TEMPTED to call either or both Kirk or Bodey for a comment on this subject. I even got out the Telephone book. But, better sense told me not to. Kirk is now the successful Womens Basketball Coach of Cedarville University, and Bodey, as mentioned, is the Varsity Coach of girls at Southeastern- also successful.
“So Mike, since you are NOT a professional, and ARE ‘an old fogey’, what makes you think that anyone is interested in what you say - either for or against anything?”
I’ve thought about that.
The same could be said for all of the previous 45 postings I’ve put on this “blog” since the first of last November. Since I’m not a professional writer, or reporter, what right do I have to write these things?
Answer: “Only that some people keep telling me that they read this stuff.”
I don’t have ANY authority on the Internet, paper, TV or anything. Since John and Tonya got me started on this venture last November, all I do is write my thoughts. From my experience. And my “experience” tells me that if a girl gets the basketball while standing “under” the basket, she should just “shoot the ball” while it’s still out of reach of the defenders, RATHER THAN, put the ball on the floor, THEN bring it up to shoot (if the other team permits it.)
Having gotten THAT off my chest, let me ramble a bit about the JOY that Jean and I got by going to the Southeastern High School basketball games, football games and soccer games. Jodi played basketball and soccer. We went to every game. Kelly was Cheer Leader for both Football and Basketball. We went to every game.
I just now remember a time when there was a basketball tournament that our girls played at Northeastern High School, 10 or more years ago. It seems to me that the game was over a holiday weekend, and even on a Saturday. For some reason, the Cheerleaders weren’t scheduled to perform for that game, so when the excitement seemed to “lull”, I got out of my seat, went down on the floor, and LED the cheers. I remembered some of them from attending so many games. Everyone laughed. Of course, I was then 74 years old. I whistled with my fingers in my mouth, and the sound would “raise the dead”, as we say.
We went to all of the games, because our two granddaughters were either playing or cheering. It made no difference to us. We were “rooting” for our girls!
I remember that Kelly’s boyfriend - now husband, Ben Farmer - was the place kicker on the High School Football Team, as well as playing other positions. We rooted for him too.
Jodi also played soccer - a grueling, tiring game if there ever was one. It seems to me that they played 45 minutes straight for the first half, then after a break, played another half the same length. We went to ALL of the games - rain or shine. And, it DID rain some at the games.
These provide fond memories of those days, when both my wife Jean, and our daughter Martha, were still living. Martha went to be with the Lord on October 7, 2001, at the age of 47. Jean joined her at the feet of Jesus on October 19, 2008, at age 85. We had been married 65 years, 6 months, and 21 days. Praise the Lord! The memories are somewhat sad, yet joyful just thinking of the good times we had then.
Back in our High School days, Jean played Girls Basketball also. It was different then. Real competitive girls basketball hadn’t yet arrived. There were 6 girls on each team, with offense on one end of the floor, and defense on the other. The girls couldn’t cross the center line - from offense to defense. There were good players then too, but the play wasn’t as aggressive as today’s girls play. Seemed rather bland to us guys.
Well, I guess I’ve “gabbed” enough on this subject. Thanks for reading - all 3 of you!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
School Experiences III
NOTICE: This is the third in a series with the above title. The first two may be read by “scrolling down” to them, individually, on this blog. If you have not read them yet, please do so before reading this one. It’ll make more sense.
In a previous posting under this title on this blog, I mentioned that some of my first, or later grade, friends were later to be a part of the 1941 Championship Football Team. They were Dick Anderson, our Quarterback throughout high school, and Bill Pletcher, a first string back on the same team. Others of our class were Jay Gibson, and a BIG fellow named Eugene Jones, who was our heavy hitter full-back. He also kicked extra points. He was a year earlier than we. Others of our class played lesser roles on the football team, but we had the most “first stringers”.
Another guy who was also a year ahead of us, along with Eugene Jones, was Eugene “Beanie” Seward. He was a fleet foot outside runner, that hardly anyone could catch. Then, John Cordell from our class, was a regular End. We didn’t have “tight ends”, or “outside line backers”. We only had Ends, Tackles, Guards, a Center, two half-backs, a full back, and a Quarterback. The T Formation our team ran, was one of the original Notre Dame T Formations.
The Quarterback didn’t take the ball from under the center, it was snapped to the Quarterback, who was lined up 3 feet behind the center; the 3 backs in a row 3 feet behind him. At the signal count from the Quarterback, the halfbacks shifted to wing back position on either side, depending on the play. The Fullback remained behind the Quarterback.
At the next count, the ball was “snapped” directly to the Quarterback, or maybe on an unusual or trick play, “snapped” directly to the Fullback. The Quarterback handed off to either a half-back, the fullback, or on short yardage, carried the ball in a Quarterback Sneak.
Our guards, center, tackles, and others not directly in the line of the ball, all blocked forward, or on a slant, depending on where the ball was to be carried. Of course, the Quarterback and the other Backs not carrying the ball blocked too - sometimes blocking right in front of the ball carrier.
When our class was in the seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth grade, our Head Coach was a “charismatic” guy - unusual for his time. He brought things to the football program that had not even been thought of in Mechanicsburg. Name? W. K. Dunton. He was a stickler for fitness and being in shape. In fact, for hardly any excuse at all, he made one or more of the players “Run 5 laps” around the football complex. And, EVERYONE ran at least one lap, after practice.
Many of the guys in my class “went out for football” in the 7th and 8th grades. I did too. We practiced sometimes with the Varsity, but many times by ourselves. We had mostly intramural games, against some of our own players. Our “games” were on Saturday morning.
I have to tell you right up front, that I WAS NOT built to be a Football player. We 7th and 8th graders “dressed” for the game, and in the 8th grade, our numbers and “weights” were printed in the Friday night program. I have yet to live down my astronomical weight of 84 pounds, that was actually printed in the program. My Grandson Bobby likes to kid me about it. He’ll say, “84 pounds, huh, Grandpa? Awesome.” (Smart aleck).
I think what ended my football career was a Saturday game in which our 8th Grade played some high school “second or third string” players. They were bigger than we. By the way, back then, all players played offense AND defense. No rest.
I guess on offense I was the quarterback, and the smallest man on the team. I don’t remember how much we scored, or if we did or not. But we played.
The crucial play for me this day was on defense. I think I played in the defensive backfield, probably a halfback or quarterback.
The High Schoolers had the ball on about our 20 yard line, almost ready to break in for a score. Suddenly, their quarterback threw a pass to a halfback, but it kinda wobbled, and didn’t go far. Guess what! It ended up in my arms. What was I to do? “Run like the wind”, of course. I went around the end, toward the goal 85 yards away. I was pretty fast for an 8th grader. I was small and sleek. Little by little the high school team was being outrun, and it looked like a Touchdown for me. At about the 25 yard line at the other end, I heard these great big feet and shoes slamming down on the ground, covering twice as much ground as I in each step. The feet slamming got louder and louder, as well as closer and closer. CLOMP, CLOMP, CLOMP. I didn’t dare look back, for fear I would fall on my face.
At about the 5 or 10 yard line, those big clomping feet found me, and big, tall Frank Thompson, the tallest guy on the high school team, made a “flying tackle”, bringing me to the ground, just short of the goal line. As luck would have it, I fell right on the ball, with it nearly buried in my chest. I hit the ground with a thud, and when I turned over, I COULD NOT BREATHE. The football was almost buried in my chest and stomach.
Shortly, Frank, and some of the other bigger guys (our guys couldn’t run that far), worked on me, and gradually I got my wind back.
I didn’t know what happened for minutes and hours after that. I don’t know the score. I don’t know who won, (Take a guess.) It seemed that for maybe hours I had trouble breathing.
I didn’t want to be a coward, or a cry baby, but I took off that football uniform and NEVER put it on again.
There’s more football from me.
The last two games our varsity played each year were London and Urbana - our bitterest rivals. By the London game in our Senior year, we were undefeated. Only two games to go, and if we won them, it would be the first season where our team beat Urbana, London, West Jefferson and Marysville in the same season. At any rate, the season was undefeated, and we were champions of our patch of central and southwestern Ohio, in football.
Four years before, we were in the locker room after the London game, which was before I quit football, (we dressed in an armory. London didn’t have a dressing room at the school), and after the game, I heard Coach Dunton talking to some of his Assistants. He mentioned the names of some of the eighth graders, as well as some returning letter men. He specifically mentioned eighth graders Pletcher and Anderson, as two heavy prospects for next year’s team. Of course, Beanie Seward returned, as did Eugene Jones. John Cordell hadn’t shown up as outstanding yet in the 8th grade. (Thankfully, he DIDN’T mention my name!)
It was obvious to me that Anderson and Pletcher were to be the “linchpins” of the football team the next year, and several thereafter. I told them what I heard.
On their way to the final year of our eligibility, these boys kept improving, and showing the wisdom of Coach Dunton in “tapping” them after the 1938 London game.
What about me and football? I just ignored it my Freshman year, while Bill, Dick, Jay, Beanie, John and Eugene kept playing, and improving.
Though I can’t get a handle on how Coach Dunton recruited me to be the Manager of the team - (actually, the Equipment Manager, but I was called just “The Manager”) but as the 1939 season began, I found myself as the “flunky” for the coach, for whatever he wanted done. From across the field I would hear “MIKE!!!”, and I would come running. I was the “gofer” for everything, and I LOVED IT. A harder task master than Coach Dunton I’ve never found. I kept track of the footballs, the uniforms, the bandages and tape, the whistle that Coach used to get the attention of the team, the medical supplies for injuries, and myriad other things. During the games, I took out the water, etc. for the team at quarters or time outs. When I went on the field in the middle of a game, I COULDN’T SAY A WORD to any of the players, or even give some sort of hint of what the Coach wanted. I set down the water bottles near the huddle, then stepped back a regular distance from it.
What I’ve just realized now is that the games back then were longer. That is, the total time on a clock from when the ball was kicked off, until the final gun was longer. The key to that? Timekeeper John Lafferty, and his counterpart from the other team, each kept stop watches that they started and stopped together, at the snap of the ball, until the Referee had declared the ball down. The clocks stopped, not to be started up again, until the ball was “officially” snapped. Longer game. And, at the end of quarters, halfs, and game ends, blank cartridges would be fired from the gun John Lafferty carried.
At the end of the 1939 season, Coach Dunton announced that he would no longer coach the team. I THINK he also resigned his teaching position.
A new, younger coach named Jim Miller, fresh out of Bluffton college, became the football coach, starting in the 1940 season. He was also coach when we had the Championship season in 1941, our Senior Year.
In the middle of my one year as Football Manager, and Coach Dunton’s last year as coach, he arranged for me to speak to the Noon Lions Club in the Anderson Hotel in town, about what a Football Manager does. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say, but Coach said, “Just tell them what you do as a Manager.”
I don’t remember a thing that I said, but as a pre-cursor to my “need” to keep talking in public, I think my “gabby” personality probably took over.
As they say, “The rest is just blabbing.”
This will surely be the last posting on my school experiences, but, knowing “gabby” me, you’d better not count on it!
“Oh that men would Praise the Lord for His Goodness, and for His Wonderful Works to the children of men.” Ps. 107:8
I’ll do it!
In a previous posting under this title on this blog, I mentioned that some of my first, or later grade, friends were later to be a part of the 1941 Championship Football Team. They were Dick Anderson, our Quarterback throughout high school, and Bill Pletcher, a first string back on the same team. Others of our class were Jay Gibson, and a BIG fellow named Eugene Jones, who was our heavy hitter full-back. He also kicked extra points. He was a year earlier than we. Others of our class played lesser roles on the football team, but we had the most “first stringers”.
Another guy who was also a year ahead of us, along with Eugene Jones, was Eugene “Beanie” Seward. He was a fleet foot outside runner, that hardly anyone could catch. Then, John Cordell from our class, was a regular End. We didn’t have “tight ends”, or “outside line backers”. We only had Ends, Tackles, Guards, a Center, two half-backs, a full back, and a Quarterback. The T Formation our team ran, was one of the original Notre Dame T Formations.
The Quarterback didn’t take the ball from under the center, it was snapped to the Quarterback, who was lined up 3 feet behind the center; the 3 backs in a row 3 feet behind him. At the signal count from the Quarterback, the halfbacks shifted to wing back position on either side, depending on the play. The Fullback remained behind the Quarterback.
At the next count, the ball was “snapped” directly to the Quarterback, or maybe on an unusual or trick play, “snapped” directly to the Fullback. The Quarterback handed off to either a half-back, the fullback, or on short yardage, carried the ball in a Quarterback Sneak.
Our guards, center, tackles, and others not directly in the line of the ball, all blocked forward, or on a slant, depending on where the ball was to be carried. Of course, the Quarterback and the other Backs not carrying the ball blocked too - sometimes blocking right in front of the ball carrier.
When our class was in the seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth grade, our Head Coach was a “charismatic” guy - unusual for his time. He brought things to the football program that had not even been thought of in Mechanicsburg. Name? W. K. Dunton. He was a stickler for fitness and being in shape. In fact, for hardly any excuse at all, he made one or more of the players “Run 5 laps” around the football complex. And, EVERYONE ran at least one lap, after practice.
Many of the guys in my class “went out for football” in the 7th and 8th grades. I did too. We practiced sometimes with the Varsity, but many times by ourselves. We had mostly intramural games, against some of our own players. Our “games” were on Saturday morning.
I have to tell you right up front, that I WAS NOT built to be a Football player. We 7th and 8th graders “dressed” for the game, and in the 8th grade, our numbers and “weights” were printed in the Friday night program. I have yet to live down my astronomical weight of 84 pounds, that was actually printed in the program. My Grandson Bobby likes to kid me about it. He’ll say, “84 pounds, huh, Grandpa? Awesome.” (Smart aleck).
I think what ended my football career was a Saturday game in which our 8th Grade played some high school “second or third string” players. They were bigger than we. By the way, back then, all players played offense AND defense. No rest.
I guess on offense I was the quarterback, and the smallest man on the team. I don’t remember how much we scored, or if we did or not. But we played.
The crucial play for me this day was on defense. I think I played in the defensive backfield, probably a halfback or quarterback.
The High Schoolers had the ball on about our 20 yard line, almost ready to break in for a score. Suddenly, their quarterback threw a pass to a halfback, but it kinda wobbled, and didn’t go far. Guess what! It ended up in my arms. What was I to do? “Run like the wind”, of course. I went around the end, toward the goal 85 yards away. I was pretty fast for an 8th grader. I was small and sleek. Little by little the high school team was being outrun, and it looked like a Touchdown for me. At about the 25 yard line at the other end, I heard these great big feet and shoes slamming down on the ground, covering twice as much ground as I in each step. The feet slamming got louder and louder, as well as closer and closer. CLOMP, CLOMP, CLOMP. I didn’t dare look back, for fear I would fall on my face.
At about the 5 or 10 yard line, those big clomping feet found me, and big, tall Frank Thompson, the tallest guy on the high school team, made a “flying tackle”, bringing me to the ground, just short of the goal line. As luck would have it, I fell right on the ball, with it nearly buried in my chest. I hit the ground with a thud, and when I turned over, I COULD NOT BREATHE. The football was almost buried in my chest and stomach.
Shortly, Frank, and some of the other bigger guys (our guys couldn’t run that far), worked on me, and gradually I got my wind back.
I didn’t know what happened for minutes and hours after that. I don’t know the score. I don’t know who won, (Take a guess.) It seemed that for maybe hours I had trouble breathing.
I didn’t want to be a coward, or a cry baby, but I took off that football uniform and NEVER put it on again.
There’s more football from me.
The last two games our varsity played each year were London and Urbana - our bitterest rivals. By the London game in our Senior year, we were undefeated. Only two games to go, and if we won them, it would be the first season where our team beat Urbana, London, West Jefferson and Marysville in the same season. At any rate, the season was undefeated, and we were champions of our patch of central and southwestern Ohio, in football.
Four years before, we were in the locker room after the London game, which was before I quit football, (we dressed in an armory. London didn’t have a dressing room at the school), and after the game, I heard Coach Dunton talking to some of his Assistants. He mentioned the names of some of the eighth graders, as well as some returning letter men. He specifically mentioned eighth graders Pletcher and Anderson, as two heavy prospects for next year’s team. Of course, Beanie Seward returned, as did Eugene Jones. John Cordell hadn’t shown up as outstanding yet in the 8th grade. (Thankfully, he DIDN’T mention my name!)
It was obvious to me that Anderson and Pletcher were to be the “linchpins” of the football team the next year, and several thereafter. I told them what I heard.
On their way to the final year of our eligibility, these boys kept improving, and showing the wisdom of Coach Dunton in “tapping” them after the 1938 London game.
What about me and football? I just ignored it my Freshman year, while Bill, Dick, Jay, Beanie, John and Eugene kept playing, and improving.
Though I can’t get a handle on how Coach Dunton recruited me to be the Manager of the team - (actually, the Equipment Manager, but I was called just “The Manager”) but as the 1939 season began, I found myself as the “flunky” for the coach, for whatever he wanted done. From across the field I would hear “MIKE!!!”, and I would come running. I was the “gofer” for everything, and I LOVED IT. A harder task master than Coach Dunton I’ve never found. I kept track of the footballs, the uniforms, the bandages and tape, the whistle that Coach used to get the attention of the team, the medical supplies for injuries, and myriad other things. During the games, I took out the water, etc. for the team at quarters or time outs. When I went on the field in the middle of a game, I COULDN’T SAY A WORD to any of the players, or even give some sort of hint of what the Coach wanted. I set down the water bottles near the huddle, then stepped back a regular distance from it.
What I’ve just realized now is that the games back then were longer. That is, the total time on a clock from when the ball was kicked off, until the final gun was longer. The key to that? Timekeeper John Lafferty, and his counterpart from the other team, each kept stop watches that they started and stopped together, at the snap of the ball, until the Referee had declared the ball down. The clocks stopped, not to be started up again, until the ball was “officially” snapped. Longer game. And, at the end of quarters, halfs, and game ends, blank cartridges would be fired from the gun John Lafferty carried.
At the end of the 1939 season, Coach Dunton announced that he would no longer coach the team. I THINK he also resigned his teaching position.
A new, younger coach named Jim Miller, fresh out of Bluffton college, became the football coach, starting in the 1940 season. He was also coach when we had the Championship season in 1941, our Senior Year.
In the middle of my one year as Football Manager, and Coach Dunton’s last year as coach, he arranged for me to speak to the Noon Lions Club in the Anderson Hotel in town, about what a Football Manager does. I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say, but Coach said, “Just tell them what you do as a Manager.”
I don’t remember a thing that I said, but as a pre-cursor to my “need” to keep talking in public, I think my “gabby” personality probably took over.
As they say, “The rest is just blabbing.”
This will surely be the last posting on my school experiences, but, knowing “gabby” me, you’d better not count on it!
“Oh that men would Praise the Lord for His Goodness, and for His Wonderful Works to the children of men.” Ps. 107:8
I’ll do it!
Thursday, March 5, 2009
School Experiences II
NOTICE: This is the second in a series with the above title. The first one may be read by “scrolling down” to it on this blog. If you have not read it yet, please do so before reading this one. It’ll make more sense.
I’m trying to pick up where I left off with the original of this title. I woke up early this morning, so it’s too early to go down for breakfast. What else to do, but write on a new “post”.
Another of the First Grade Boys mentioned earlier, was Bobby Jones. I almost forgot about him, since he didn’t make it to the Sixth Grade.
Bobby was the first one of us (in my memory) to get a 2 wheel bike. We all had tricycles, but after 3rd or 4th Grade, we had to have Two Wheelers. Bobby used to ride his “bike” (short for bicycle, meaning two wheels) with us. He lived maybe 4 or 5 blocks from me, up on West Race St. But we got together anyway. I think, mostly, that I went to his house. Although, we have a picture of Bobby and me on my folks’ back porch at age 5, with “carpenter tools”, like we were building something. He was the one who challenged me to put my tongue on the frozen pump handle.
Bobby seemed to handle the bike very well, so we were surprised when we learned that he had had an accident on it, seriously injuring himself. I don’t remember how long it was until he succumbed to his injuries, and died, but it was very sad for his family, and for all of us who were Bobby’s friends.
Bobby’s dad, Paul Jones, was a Funeral Director in town. The word was that Paul was one of 3 possible “Undertakers” who had embalmed the original Unknown Soldier, during World War I. Paul was a rather tall, imposing fellow. Quite outspoken, and knowledgeable. A community leader.
One Easter, Paul and his wife attended the local church for the service. The Minister at that time was also outspoken. I was behind Mr. and Mrs. Jones that Sunday as they were leaving the service - greeting the Minister. Out of a “clear blue sky”, the Minister said, “In case I don’t see you until next Easter, Mr. Jones, Merry Christmas to you.” Paul turned to us and said, “Did you hear that? Outrageous.” No comment by me. I don’t know whether he was back next Sunday, or next Easter. He was flabbergasted. I can’t seem to remember the Minister’s name, though I’ve always known it. Probably best left out, I guess.
Of course, I eventually got a “bike”. At about the 6th or 7th grade, I was riding home after school on the bike, rather fast actually for still being on the school grounds. I rode around a corner of the building on the driveway, when suddenly, in front of me was a car coming my way. The edge of the driveway was slanted upward toward the School, actually, and when I saw the car, I “slammed on the brakes”, leaving my front wheel up on the slant, and the rear wheel under the car wheels. Close call.
I entered school in September of 1930. How do I remember the date so clearly? Let me tell you. One thing, my sister was graduated in the spring of 1931. In addition, in early 1940, I had an appendectomy. I was just leaving the 10th grade, as a sophomore. Ya get it? 1940; 10th grade; I was graduated from the 12th Grade in 1942. Get it? The last number of the date was the spring of my school year with the same digit.
Appendectomy.
All during my Sophomore year, I had stomach pains - off and on. They’d come and go. They got so bad that I vomited, sometimes. Our local physician suspected my appendix, and in fact, sent me to a surgeon in Columbus. Why it wasn’t Urbana or Springfield, I don’t now. Unless, I now remember, our Physician originally hailed from Columbus, and he knew the Surgeon.
The Surgeon wanted to know if the pain kinda moved from my upper left abdomen, to the lower right. Sure enough, that’s the way it was.
“Surgery”, he said.
At the appointed time, we all got in Dad’s car and drove to Mt. Carmel Hospital in Columbus. At the time, I was working part-time in the Buckwalter and Adams Grocery (B&A). Clyde Adams was my boss. I worked mostly on Saturdays, except more in the summer. I was a “shelf filler”, as well as “order picker” (these are my terms for what I did), and some Saturdays I would drive the delivery truck and take groceries to customers. Much, if not most, of the business was by telephone and delivery. Through the week, Fred Turner was the full-time delivery man, and on Saturdays, I was the delivery boy. (He was,by the way, the “boy friend” of Dolly Longbrake, Ada Longbrake’s sister - my 6th grade teacher.)
I mention Clyde and B&A, because when we went to the hospital, Clyde went along, driving separately. That was very kind of him, and I appreciated it - especially when he went out and bought a Columbus Dispatch, folded over a pack of Camel cigarettes, a pack of matches, and tied with a rubber band. Clyde knew I was a “clandestine” smoker, and wanted to help me with my habit. I don’t think Mother and Dad EVER had a clue as to what he did for me. I know I never told.
The interesting thing about the Surgery was that this Surgeon was using an unusual procedure for Appendectomies - in those days. (1940) He made only a one-inch long incision, reached in with a forceps and knife, then pulled out the infected appendix, excising it. Of course, today we are familiar with these almost non-invasive surgeries, but then, the incisions were typically 5 inches long. I wish I could remember the name of the Surgeon. I did for several years - you know - old age. I do remember the physician from Columbus, it was Dr. Sharp.
Oops! Time for breakfast.
Ummmm. Good eggs, bacon, orange juice, toast and tea.
When I leave for something like this, I lose my train of thought, and maybe, my inspiration. Where was I?
Oh yes………school. I barely remember “tangling” with a really good Principal one time. Though I can’t remember what it was that started it, I do think I talked back to him one time, and walked away. What I DO remember was “MIKE!!” I walked back to him, and acquiesced, sheepishly. I SURELY didn’t want him to report to my Mother and Dad that I was impudent. But I think I surely must have been. I have otherwise good memories of him. I respected him, and my outburst was one of frustration, or guilt. I’m not sure which. At any rate, we returned to good graces with each other. I don’t think I’ve EVER mentioned this to another living soul. After more than 70 years, it seems like it is about time. I wish I remembered more of the occasion, so I could further “bow down”, in memory. Maybe it will come back.
We had, in our high school, a “Hi-Y” group, that was connected to the YMCA of note. It was led by one of our teachers who was a very godly man, but with an EXPLODING temper, when students acted up. You could tell when he was about to blow, by watching his eyes. It was almost as if he became another person. He would scowl, breathe hard, and say, “I don’t have to do this. I’ll just ‘throw him out the window’”. We were afraid he would do just that, to someone. Rumor had it that he even grabbed Bill Saxbe one time when he was in the 8th grade, but let him go without further incident. (I never asked Bill about that. I wish I had.) Suddenly, his whole visage changed, he calmed down, and acted as if nothing had happened. I think it’s possible that he didn’t remember any of it at all.
(In my initial telling of this story, I named the teacher, but I decided that it was not proper to mention the teacher’s name, while at the same accusing him of these actions. I have since decided to include the story, BUT omit the teacher’s name.)
This teacher, and Roger Counts, a Science Teacher, were co-advisors to the Hi-Y. To join, you had to participate in an initiation ceremony, after school hours, and after dark. In preparation for that we were told that individually we would go into a darkened school room, with no lights permitted at all, and recite the 23rd Psalm, while waiting to be called. I didn’t know if it was to be aloud, or silent. I couldn’t ask anyone, though I didn’t know for sure that no one was in the room. I started reciting it, but got confused at part of it, and had to start over several times - apologizing aloud each time, as if someone WAS with me in the room. I’m not sure to this day if there was someone there, but I couldn’t take a chance.
Finally, I was called, and taken to another school room. Both teachers were there, and maybe some students - I’m not sure. I was sat down in a wooden chair with a metal bottom - not noticed as I sat. I was a little intimidated, I think.
One of the teachers then began telling of a project the Hi-Y was sponsoring that needed donations. As the explanation was given, unknown to me, a student was behind me, holding a lighted candle under the seat. How they coordinated it, I don’t know, but at the proper time when the teacher was asking for a contribution, he said, “If you would like to make a contribution, just stand up.” Voila. The metal seat got too hot to sit on at just the right time, and of course, I stood up. Everyone laughed, including a nervous me.
Well, that ends my “school stories” for the present. Who knows but that I MIGHT remember some more things - in fact, I just now thought of something. I’ll probably post another story or two on this subject, sometime later.
Whew!
I’m trying to pick up where I left off with the original of this title. I woke up early this morning, so it’s too early to go down for breakfast. What else to do, but write on a new “post”.
Another of the First Grade Boys mentioned earlier, was Bobby Jones. I almost forgot about him, since he didn’t make it to the Sixth Grade.
Bobby was the first one of us (in my memory) to get a 2 wheel bike. We all had tricycles, but after 3rd or 4th Grade, we had to have Two Wheelers. Bobby used to ride his “bike” (short for bicycle, meaning two wheels) with us. He lived maybe 4 or 5 blocks from me, up on West Race St. But we got together anyway. I think, mostly, that I went to his house. Although, we have a picture of Bobby and me on my folks’ back porch at age 5, with “carpenter tools”, like we were building something. He was the one who challenged me to put my tongue on the frozen pump handle.
Bobby seemed to handle the bike very well, so we were surprised when we learned that he had had an accident on it, seriously injuring himself. I don’t remember how long it was until he succumbed to his injuries, and died, but it was very sad for his family, and for all of us who were Bobby’s friends.
Bobby’s dad, Paul Jones, was a Funeral Director in town. The word was that Paul was one of 3 possible “Undertakers” who had embalmed the original Unknown Soldier, during World War I. Paul was a rather tall, imposing fellow. Quite outspoken, and knowledgeable. A community leader.
One Easter, Paul and his wife attended the local church for the service. The Minister at that time was also outspoken. I was behind Mr. and Mrs. Jones that Sunday as they were leaving the service - greeting the Minister. Out of a “clear blue sky”, the Minister said, “In case I don’t see you until next Easter, Mr. Jones, Merry Christmas to you.” Paul turned to us and said, “Did you hear that? Outrageous.” No comment by me. I don’t know whether he was back next Sunday, or next Easter. He was flabbergasted. I can’t seem to remember the Minister’s name, though I’ve always known it. Probably best left out, I guess.
Of course, I eventually got a “bike”. At about the 6th or 7th grade, I was riding home after school on the bike, rather fast actually for still being on the school grounds. I rode around a corner of the building on the driveway, when suddenly, in front of me was a car coming my way. The edge of the driveway was slanted upward toward the School, actually, and when I saw the car, I “slammed on the brakes”, leaving my front wheel up on the slant, and the rear wheel under the car wheels. Close call.
I entered school in September of 1930. How do I remember the date so clearly? Let me tell you. One thing, my sister was graduated in the spring of 1931. In addition, in early 1940, I had an appendectomy. I was just leaving the 10th grade, as a sophomore. Ya get it? 1940; 10th grade; I was graduated from the 12th Grade in 1942. Get it? The last number of the date was the spring of my school year with the same digit.
Appendectomy.
All during my Sophomore year, I had stomach pains - off and on. They’d come and go. They got so bad that I vomited, sometimes. Our local physician suspected my appendix, and in fact, sent me to a surgeon in Columbus. Why it wasn’t Urbana or Springfield, I don’t now. Unless, I now remember, our Physician originally hailed from Columbus, and he knew the Surgeon.
The Surgeon wanted to know if the pain kinda moved from my upper left abdomen, to the lower right. Sure enough, that’s the way it was.
“Surgery”, he said.
At the appointed time, we all got in Dad’s car and drove to Mt. Carmel Hospital in Columbus. At the time, I was working part-time in the Buckwalter and Adams Grocery (B&A). Clyde Adams was my boss. I worked mostly on Saturdays, except more in the summer. I was a “shelf filler”, as well as “order picker” (these are my terms for what I did), and some Saturdays I would drive the delivery truck and take groceries to customers. Much, if not most, of the business was by telephone and delivery. Through the week, Fred Turner was the full-time delivery man, and on Saturdays, I was the delivery boy. (He was,by the way, the “boy friend” of Dolly Longbrake, Ada Longbrake’s sister - my 6th grade teacher.)
I mention Clyde and B&A, because when we went to the hospital, Clyde went along, driving separately. That was very kind of him, and I appreciated it - especially when he went out and bought a Columbus Dispatch, folded over a pack of Camel cigarettes, a pack of matches, and tied with a rubber band. Clyde knew I was a “clandestine” smoker, and wanted to help me with my habit. I don’t think Mother and Dad EVER had a clue as to what he did for me. I know I never told.
The interesting thing about the Surgery was that this Surgeon was using an unusual procedure for Appendectomies - in those days. (1940) He made only a one-inch long incision, reached in with a forceps and knife, then pulled out the infected appendix, excising it. Of course, today we are familiar with these almost non-invasive surgeries, but then, the incisions were typically 5 inches long. I wish I could remember the name of the Surgeon. I did for several years - you know - old age. I do remember the physician from Columbus, it was Dr. Sharp.
Oops! Time for breakfast.
Ummmm. Good eggs, bacon, orange juice, toast and tea.
When I leave for something like this, I lose my train of thought, and maybe, my inspiration. Where was I?
Oh yes………school. I barely remember “tangling” with a really good Principal one time. Though I can’t remember what it was that started it, I do think I talked back to him one time, and walked away. What I DO remember was “MIKE!!” I walked back to him, and acquiesced, sheepishly. I SURELY didn’t want him to report to my Mother and Dad that I was impudent. But I think I surely must have been. I have otherwise good memories of him. I respected him, and my outburst was one of frustration, or guilt. I’m not sure which. At any rate, we returned to good graces with each other. I don’t think I’ve EVER mentioned this to another living soul. After more than 70 years, it seems like it is about time. I wish I remembered more of the occasion, so I could further “bow down”, in memory. Maybe it will come back.
We had, in our high school, a “Hi-Y” group, that was connected to the YMCA of note. It was led by one of our teachers who was a very godly man, but with an EXPLODING temper, when students acted up. You could tell when he was about to blow, by watching his eyes. It was almost as if he became another person. He would scowl, breathe hard, and say, “I don’t have to do this. I’ll just ‘throw him out the window’”. We were afraid he would do just that, to someone. Rumor had it that he even grabbed Bill Saxbe one time when he was in the 8th grade, but let him go without further incident. (I never asked Bill about that. I wish I had.) Suddenly, his whole visage changed, he calmed down, and acted as if nothing had happened. I think it’s possible that he didn’t remember any of it at all.
(In my initial telling of this story, I named the teacher, but I decided that it was not proper to mention the teacher’s name, while at the same accusing him of these actions. I have since decided to include the story, BUT omit the teacher’s name.)
This teacher, and Roger Counts, a Science Teacher, were co-advisors to the Hi-Y. To join, you had to participate in an initiation ceremony, after school hours, and after dark. In preparation for that we were told that individually we would go into a darkened school room, with no lights permitted at all, and recite the 23rd Psalm, while waiting to be called. I didn’t know if it was to be aloud, or silent. I couldn’t ask anyone, though I didn’t know for sure that no one was in the room. I started reciting it, but got confused at part of it, and had to start over several times - apologizing aloud each time, as if someone WAS with me in the room. I’m not sure to this day if there was someone there, but I couldn’t take a chance.
Finally, I was called, and taken to another school room. Both teachers were there, and maybe some students - I’m not sure. I was sat down in a wooden chair with a metal bottom - not noticed as I sat. I was a little intimidated, I think.
One of the teachers then began telling of a project the Hi-Y was sponsoring that needed donations. As the explanation was given, unknown to me, a student was behind me, holding a lighted candle under the seat. How they coordinated it, I don’t know, but at the proper time when the teacher was asking for a contribution, he said, “If you would like to make a contribution, just stand up.” Voila. The metal seat got too hot to sit on at just the right time, and of course, I stood up. Everyone laughed, including a nervous me.
Well, that ends my “school stories” for the present. Who knows but that I MIGHT remember some more things - in fact, I just now thought of something. I’ll probably post another story or two on this subject, sometime later.
Whew!
Sunday, March 1, 2009
School Experiences
Reminiscing somewhat, I’ve been thinking about some of the experiences I’ve had in School - both 1 through 8, and 9 through 12 - “grades”, that is.
At school, I started out as a First Grader.
Outrageous redundant assertion, right? Well, no more than Bill Cosby’s expression that, “I started out as a child”, actually. Actually also, he got a lot of laughs out of that statement. Why aren’t you laughing at my statement?
Because, I’m neither Bill Cosby, nor a comedian, actually.
My first recollection of First Grade was Joan Ropp. “Whoa“, you say, “Were you a wolf, or even a ‘con man’ then too?”
Neither, actually. I was just using the God-given talent I was “given”, by being interested in the opposite sex. Why do we say, “Opposite sex”, as opposed to “the fairer sex”, or even “the other sex.” Or, why use the word “sex” at all? Why not “the other gender”.
Though I may have thought I had a “girl friend” before the First Grade, so far, I can’t remember one back then.
Interestingly enough, Joan Ropp was seated right next to me. Or, probably, I was seated right next to her. By the way, her name was pronounced “Joe Ann”, not “Jone” as many are today. Also, there was another “Joan” in that class. Joan Robinson. (Also pronounced “Joe Ann.)
But then, I wasn’t seated next to JR # 2, but beside JR # 1.
Our teacher was Miss Ruth Crowl, an unusually kind teacher. At any rate, in later years she became Ruth Fudger - having married Donald Fudger of Mechanicsburg. Later, after Donald died, she married Charles Neer. So she was now Ruth Neer. My son Jim just told me that he knew her as Ruth Fudger Neer. So that part is right.
I’m trying to remember some of the lessons we had in First Grade, but we must have had some listening while the Teacher read stories (no doubt about Dick and Jane), as well as learning how not to talk unless the Teacher said we could. I think I learned about “Recess” (I’ve always said, “It was my favorite subject.”), too.
There were boys in the class too, I remember. (Are you surprised that I mentioned the boys?) Bob Holman was maybe the longest standing friend starting in the First Grade. Vincent Hunter was another, and Donald Williams was a third. Dick Anderson (our later High School Quarterback) was in my class in later years, but I think during First Grade, he was still in Chicago. Bill Pletcher was there, also a long standing friend (who, in High School, was the First String Fullback).
My second grade teacher was Miss Blanche Messick. She was also a kindly teacher - though she was unusually short, for some reason. Some of us came pretty high on her physical profile.
All of my teachers were soft spoken - at least those I’ve mentioned so far. I may remember some “bombastic” ones later.
Third and Fourth Grades are a blur to me. Right now, I can’t remember either teacher.
My Fifth Grade Teacher was Miss Ann Dorsey. She had a rather loud voice, rather deep and melodious, I think. She was the first that I remember who used discipline, of any sort. Some of the others did too, I’m sure. But, Miss Dorsey would walk around the room, while we were reading, or perish the thought, “studying”, and if she saw or heard any “talking” or “tomfoolery”, she would walk up behind the person and “thump” him on the head with her finger. She didn’t say much, but we “got the message”. I could be wrong, and just plain “sexist”, but I really don’t remember her “thumping” girls on the head.
In the Sixth Grade, I had the great joy to have as my teacher, Miss Ada Longbrake. What a wonderful teacher. As an added blessing, she and her likewise “old maid” sister, Dolly, lived directly across the street from us. A good chance for “favoritism”, right? WRONG! No special treatment - at least not positively anyway. I’d known Miss Longbrake all my life.
That, it seemed to me, “gave her an edge” over me. You know, like, “Oh Mae, you know, Myron kind of acted up today at school.” (I have no actual knowledge of that happening, but I THOUGHT about it, at least.)
She was rather short as well. Not skinny, but short. She had a commanding voice, but not threatening. When she said something, she meant to say just that. No gettin’ around it.
Most, if not all, of you folk reading my “blog” know of me as outspoken, as well as opinionated. I don’t think I had developed much of that yet in the Sixth Grade. But Ada Longbrake might dispute that, after what I’m just going to tell you happened.
For some reason, Miss Longbrake was showing us a portrait of the “Mona Lisa”. Maybe one of the best known paintings extant at that time. She told us about the painting, how it was done, and then made what to me was a “startling statement”.
She said, “The Mona Lisa, is well known for the fact that unlike most paintings, the subject’s eyes tend to follow you around the room as you look at it (and walk around, of course). No other portrait is known to have that quality.”
Are you ready for this?
I stuck up my hand, and after being acknowledged by the Teacher, I said, “We have a picture like that in our living room, and it’s not Mona Lisa.”
I could almost hear a “drum roll”, or a blast of a trumpet midst the silence.
Very shortly, Miss Longbrake said, “Now Myron, that is not true, and it’s rather impertinent of you to say so. That’ll be enough of that.”
“But, Miss Lonbrake, (put a lid on it, Myron) the picture we have is of my mother and dad on their wedding day, and their eyes follow you around the room.” (Shoulda stopped when I was almost ahead.)
“That is just about all you are going to say, Myron. Class dismissed”, or something like that.
I don’t remember the exact repercussions of that “rejoinder” or maybe “repartee”, but I DID hear about it that night at home. I don’t know how she got to tell my mother about it, but SHE KNEW!
Now, I’ll bet you’re just “dying” to know what happened, and if the “paddle” hurt, but, actually, I don’t remember anything, except that I went right home after school and re-looked at that photograph. I walked around on both sides of it, and sure enough, the eyes DID follow me!
An aside: I’m sure a psychologist could explain the reason for my memory loss. Was it too hurtful an occasion for me to WANT to remember it? I don’t know. But it’s a blank.
I DO know, that in later years, I could explain the different views, and how we BOTH were right. She was talking about a “painting”. I was talking about a “photograph”. When photographic subjects look “directly” into the camera, sure enough, their eyes DO follow you around the room. Try it sometime - both with a photograph, and with the Mona Lisa! The one who painted that portrait had an unusual talent for making the eyes “real”.
Oh Boy! I’m only as far as the Sixth Grade. Drat! I may have to continue this later - if I STILL feel I should “spill my guts”.
Embarrassing!
At school, I started out as a First Grader.
Outrageous redundant assertion, right? Well, no more than Bill Cosby’s expression that, “I started out as a child”, actually. Actually also, he got a lot of laughs out of that statement. Why aren’t you laughing at my statement?
Because, I’m neither Bill Cosby, nor a comedian, actually.
My first recollection of First Grade was Joan Ropp. “Whoa“, you say, “Were you a wolf, or even a ‘con man’ then too?”
Neither, actually. I was just using the God-given talent I was “given”, by being interested in the opposite sex. Why do we say, “Opposite sex”, as opposed to “the fairer sex”, or even “the other sex.” Or, why use the word “sex” at all? Why not “the other gender”.
Though I may have thought I had a “girl friend” before the First Grade, so far, I can’t remember one back then.
Interestingly enough, Joan Ropp was seated right next to me. Or, probably, I was seated right next to her. By the way, her name was pronounced “Joe Ann”, not “Jone” as many are today. Also, there was another “Joan” in that class. Joan Robinson. (Also pronounced “Joe Ann.)
But then, I wasn’t seated next to JR # 2, but beside JR # 1.
Our teacher was Miss Ruth Crowl, an unusually kind teacher. At any rate, in later years she became Ruth Fudger - having married Donald Fudger of Mechanicsburg. Later, after Donald died, she married Charles Neer. So she was now Ruth Neer. My son Jim just told me that he knew her as Ruth Fudger Neer. So that part is right.
I’m trying to remember some of the lessons we had in First Grade, but we must have had some listening while the Teacher read stories (no doubt about Dick and Jane), as well as learning how not to talk unless the Teacher said we could. I think I learned about “Recess” (I’ve always said, “It was my favorite subject.”), too.
There were boys in the class too, I remember. (Are you surprised that I mentioned the boys?) Bob Holman was maybe the longest standing friend starting in the First Grade. Vincent Hunter was another, and Donald Williams was a third. Dick Anderson (our later High School Quarterback) was in my class in later years, but I think during First Grade, he was still in Chicago. Bill Pletcher was there, also a long standing friend (who, in High School, was the First String Fullback).
My second grade teacher was Miss Blanche Messick. She was also a kindly teacher - though she was unusually short, for some reason. Some of us came pretty high on her physical profile.
All of my teachers were soft spoken - at least those I’ve mentioned so far. I may remember some “bombastic” ones later.
Third and Fourth Grades are a blur to me. Right now, I can’t remember either teacher.
My Fifth Grade Teacher was Miss Ann Dorsey. She had a rather loud voice, rather deep and melodious, I think. She was the first that I remember who used discipline, of any sort. Some of the others did too, I’m sure. But, Miss Dorsey would walk around the room, while we were reading, or perish the thought, “studying”, and if she saw or heard any “talking” or “tomfoolery”, she would walk up behind the person and “thump” him on the head with her finger. She didn’t say much, but we “got the message”. I could be wrong, and just plain “sexist”, but I really don’t remember her “thumping” girls on the head.
In the Sixth Grade, I had the great joy to have as my teacher, Miss Ada Longbrake. What a wonderful teacher. As an added blessing, she and her likewise “old maid” sister, Dolly, lived directly across the street from us. A good chance for “favoritism”, right? WRONG! No special treatment - at least not positively anyway. I’d known Miss Longbrake all my life.
That, it seemed to me, “gave her an edge” over me. You know, like, “Oh Mae, you know, Myron kind of acted up today at school.” (I have no actual knowledge of that happening, but I THOUGHT about it, at least.)
She was rather short as well. Not skinny, but short. She had a commanding voice, but not threatening. When she said something, she meant to say just that. No gettin’ around it.
Most, if not all, of you folk reading my “blog” know of me as outspoken, as well as opinionated. I don’t think I had developed much of that yet in the Sixth Grade. But Ada Longbrake might dispute that, after what I’m just going to tell you happened.
For some reason, Miss Longbrake was showing us a portrait of the “Mona Lisa”. Maybe one of the best known paintings extant at that time. She told us about the painting, how it was done, and then made what to me was a “startling statement”.
She said, “The Mona Lisa, is well known for the fact that unlike most paintings, the subject’s eyes tend to follow you around the room as you look at it (and walk around, of course). No other portrait is known to have that quality.”
Are you ready for this?
I stuck up my hand, and after being acknowledged by the Teacher, I said, “We have a picture like that in our living room, and it’s not Mona Lisa.”
I could almost hear a “drum roll”, or a blast of a trumpet midst the silence.
Very shortly, Miss Longbrake said, “Now Myron, that is not true, and it’s rather impertinent of you to say so. That’ll be enough of that.”
“But, Miss Lonbrake, (put a lid on it, Myron) the picture we have is of my mother and dad on their wedding day, and their eyes follow you around the room.” (Shoulda stopped when I was almost ahead.)
“That is just about all you are going to say, Myron. Class dismissed”, or something like that.
I don’t remember the exact repercussions of that “rejoinder” or maybe “repartee”, but I DID hear about it that night at home. I don’t know how she got to tell my mother about it, but SHE KNEW!
Now, I’ll bet you’re just “dying” to know what happened, and if the “paddle” hurt, but, actually, I don’t remember anything, except that I went right home after school and re-looked at that photograph. I walked around on both sides of it, and sure enough, the eyes DID follow me!
An aside: I’m sure a psychologist could explain the reason for my memory loss. Was it too hurtful an occasion for me to WANT to remember it? I don’t know. But it’s a blank.
I DO know, that in later years, I could explain the different views, and how we BOTH were right. She was talking about a “painting”. I was talking about a “photograph”. When photographic subjects look “directly” into the camera, sure enough, their eyes DO follow you around the room. Try it sometime - both with a photograph, and with the Mona Lisa! The one who painted that portrait had an unusual talent for making the eyes “real”.
Oh Boy! I’m only as far as the Sixth Grade. Drat! I may have to continue this later - if I STILL feel I should “spill my guts”.
Embarrassing!
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