From Where I Stand: Step Thirteen

Yesterday Chile suffered a massive earthquake. While the magnitude 8.8 puts it at roughly 500 times more powerful than the 7.3 earthquake that struck Haiti just last month, the devastation according to most sources will be considerably less. My understanding is the strong economy and solid governmental institutions provide Chile with both a better infrastructure to tolerate the seismic activity and respond quickly and adequately to the destruction. As a Californian these episodes have me wondering how soon our turn is coming. Meanwhile, half a world away the coalition forces have driven the Taliban from Marjah in Helmond province in the south of Afghanistan. One question on my mind like it probably is on yours is whether the Afghan forces will be able to maintain control of the town once the coalition forces leave. Strong political and diplomatic support will be needed to help the young Afghan forces avoid being overtaken or corrupted by the nefarious efforts of the Taliban to reassert the poppy trade. Not too far away across the Mediterranean the European Union appears to be putting together a plan to help bail out Greece. Hopefully, they can learn from the failure and successes of bailouts over the past couple years in the U.S. and elsewhere. Amazingly, in Washington something occurred this week, which hadn’t happened in quite some time. A vote on a jobs bill received bipartisan support. That means some members of Congress decided not to vote along party lines, but actually join together with members of the opposite party to get something done for the American people. Scott Brown, the newly elected senator from Massachusetts, surprised me, and I gather many Americans, when he voted for this jobs bill. This takes guts. He conceded the bill wasn’t everything he would have liked to have seen, but would serve to grow jobs and stimulate the economy. Today the president received a clean bill of health from his doctor, but was told to do better at resisting cigarettes. Similar results appear to be cropping up around the issue of health care legislation. At the end of December bills passed in both houses. When Mr. Brown was elected last month conventional wisdom said health care was dead on arrival. On Thursday, when the president held a summit on health care there seemed to be a lot of posturing by both parties with neither wanting to stipulate to the positive attributes of the differing ideas. Everyone knows doctors are practicing defensive medicine in a time when they should be on the offensive using whatever means possible to help patients prevent injury and disease from curtailing their lives. We know it’s wrong for companies to ask for 39% increases when they profited by $2.9 billion the previous quarter, and that’s in a down economy. To say the increase is due to healthy people dropping their insurance, and to fight against a bill that would require everyone to have insurance has me scratching my head. If these insurance companies are good at what they do competition from an inept government agency should not be a stumbling block. These ideas are not Republican and Democratic. They are American. Let’s bring back bipartisan legislation. Fix the system and let’s go watch some hockey. Who’s winning Canada or the U.S.? As usual, comments are appreciated.

Time to Reflect: Step Twelve

As I take time to reflect upon the past week one thought kept creeping into my mind. The seed for the thought was a discussion of the current banking situation, but I’ll get to that in a moment. First, the thought was life is a double-edged sword. Wu Ting-Fang, a diplomat in the Qing Dynasty and minister to the U.S., Spain and Peru from 1896 to 1902 and 1907 to 1909, said, “Education is like a double-edged sword. It may be turned to dangerous uses if it not properly handled.” As a teacher and former school administrator it is clear to me my lessons on tolerance, understanding, and peaceful co-existence were not always applied on the playground and in life. Getting back to the discussion on banking, the author being interviewed stated banks were reluctant to give credit because it hurt their bottom line. He then pointed out, and here is where the double-edged sword comes into play, that credit is actually another way of saying debt. Wow, it suddenly occurred to me that my credit rating, something I have always been very proud of, is actually a debt rating. Since my creditors see me as a good risk they welcome the opportunity to let me pile up debt. Here again, Minister Ting-Fang’s words ring true. For my education had taught me an excellent credit rating is to be prized. However, the second part, that it could become dangerous if not properly handled was lost on me, and apparently a few other people, too. Another double-edged sword that constantly plagues me as a teacher, student and writer is the line between perfection and performance. In attempting to make something as clear as possible, or to know all there is to know about a subject, or to find just the right word, its always a question of is this the perfect answer or do I need to stop my quest for perfection long enough to actually perform the task at hand. No doubt Akio Toyoda and his engineers and the guys at NASA struggle with this delicate balance as they try to move forward on the road and in space. It occurs to me that at least part of our frustration with government, and particularly lawmakers, is the stagnation created by their inability to perform as they try to find the perfect solution. While there are many more such double-edged swords, the last one I want to reflect upon is the idea of security and freedom. My first flight came shortly after my oldest daughter was born. Her first flight came a few years later. Her sisters were even younger when they started to fly. Many of us view our freedom to travel as a symbol of our constitutionally protected freedom or as truly free citizens of a civilized society. Yet, as we move into the era of full body scan security there seems to be an ever-increasing cost to something we all know is supposed to be free. As usual, your comments, reflections, and thoughts are welcome and appreciated.

The School After School: The Eleventh Step

Almost everybody I knew had a school after school. Usually it would meet for a couple hours a night a couple times during the week, and one day during the weekend for three or four more hours. For the Catholic kids it was Cathocism, for the Protestant kids it was Bible Study, and for the Jewish kids it was Hebrew School. Hebrew School was the place where you learned an ancient language with hieroglyphics that looked similar to the squiggles found atop a Hostess cupcake. Similar to English there is both a manuscript form found in books and a cursive form that is used in standard writing. Unlike English the words and sentences move from right to left. Now this seemed backwards to us, but we were told since Hebrew actually preceded English as a language it was actually the latter that was backwards. At any rate, we were charged with not only knowing our ABCs, but our Aleph Bet Gimmels as well. What you need to know about my Hebrew School was it was filled with West Siders. Yes, I lived on West Lancaster Avenue. Had I lived on East Lancaster Avenue I would have gone to some schmaltzy East Side Hebrew School, where kids were dropped off by parents who drove new Cadillacs. German cars were still considered in poor taste within 20 years of the Holocaust. On the West Side we were picked up and dropped off by a school bus. Unlike the stereotypical Jewish kid on the East Side most of our fathers were not doctors and lawyers. Few of us had stay-at-home mothers. Our fathers tended to be insurance salesmen, tavern owners, bakers, tailors, clothiers, aluminum siding salesmen, and junkyard owners more commonly referred to as recycling businesses today. Most mothers were secretaries, retail clerks, or sold Avon or Tupperware. As a teacher, Mr. Pais was pretty good. He generally overlooked a little whispering or not knowing where the class was when it was your turn to read. Even Roz, the brightest kid in class, was willing to pass a note despite knowing the consequences. My note had practically reached Chuck, its intended audience at the front of the room when Miss Goodie Two-Shoes, Feggie, blurts out that there’s a note being passed. Mr. Pais turns from the chalkboard he’s writing on and sees where she’s pointing. He has no choice, at least not if he plans to maintain something close to a reasonable sense of discipline; he has to send me to the principal’s office. Mr. Mendelssohn, who is best known for introducing the fil-ums on Sunday mornings, speaks sternly to me, but I doubt if I really heard anything as I stared at his lips. My punishment was to sit in the coatroom outside his office for fifteen minutes. On the ride home Chuck told me what I missed in class. Then he told me this dirty joke involving various anatomical parts which kids our age were supposed to pretend they knew nothing about and weren’t interested in knowing. I knew then that someday Chuck would be a prominent physician. Please offer a comment or your own story of the school you went to after school.

Smooth Ice, Soft Snow and Special Stories: Step Ten

Wisconsin is a winter wonderland. For some unknown reason cold really doesn’t affect your attitude when you’re a kid. It just means that when you can no longer shoot basketballs in the hoop hanging from the garage because your mittens are starting to get slippery you’ll have to switch to ice skating instead. When we first moved to Lancaster Avenue Dad flooded the backyard for us to have our own ice skating rink. After a few years though there just wasn’t enough room for the three of us to fit on the rink, and things were worse if one of us asked a friend to come over and skate. Even when you were alone two strides and you were on the other side. Fortunately, Milwaukee parks and recreation froze over a section of a couple of neighborhood parks. While locations varied from year to year I believe the smoothest one was about a half mile away on the other side of Hampton. Each rink had a shack with a Franklin stove at one end and benches running along the walls. Kids, and some adults too, would go in the shack to put on their skates. Later, they’d return to warm up a little before going back out on the ice or to put their shoes on for the hike back home. Shoes were left there using the honor system. One time I beat this girl to the shack and sat on her shoes so she couldn’t find them. She looked all around the room, up and down the benches passing me several times. I kind of liked her, so when I saw she was starting to get too upset I stood up to leave and said as innocently as possible, “Oh, look. Here they are.” Now, zipping around the ice rink with your friends was a lot of find, but sometimes it was even more fun to play in the snow. At Grantosa Drive we would play tackle football on the basketball courts when they were covered with enough snow. Whenever we played everyone wanted Tommy on his team. Not only was he a 10 year old in a 15 year old body, he could block several kids at once. One time, however, when he was on the opposing side, someone decided to make Tommy a running back. The other kids just let him lumber by, but I had heard one of the smaller Packers say in an interview on TV that if you hit the big guys low there own weight will bring them down. So, I dove in the snow and wrapped my arms around as much of Tommy’s legs as I could reach, and he did come down…right on top of me. As soon as he could get himself up he was bending down in the snow and making sure I was all right. Soft snow makes an excellent cushion. A good example is what occurred after one massive snowfall. Nearly two feet had fallen, and the drifts in the backyard were as deep as four feet. A sudden drop in temperature caused the top layer to freeze into a glistening crust. By burrowing into one of the drifts I was able to create my own igloo. Thick walls of snow insulated the room surrounding my body, and despite the sub-zero temperatures outside my thoughts were this was perfect preparation for my life as an arctic explorer. I wanted to sleep in my sleeping bag inside the igloo. My mother, being older and wiser, was having none of it. Despite offers of to do extra chores and let my sister choose whatever she wanted to watch on television, I still ended up sleeping soundly in a warm bunk bed that night. Yet, to this day I wonder how it might have been to sleep under several feet of snow. Please comment and share your winter tales.

Leader of the Pack: Step Nine

Perhaps you remember the first time you put on a uniform. Now, I had experiences that thrilled me to the bone like getting my own decoder ring or trying to figure out what besides shadows I was supposed to be seeing with my x-ray glasses. You know the ones you ordered out of the Superman comic book so you could see through walls like he did. While those were exciting experiences, putting on my Cub Scout uniform for the first time was transformative. No longer was I, Mark the cute little kid with big teeth and overbite, but now I was Mark, the kid who promised to do his best to do his duty and to obey the law of the pack. Yes, when I put on that blue shirt and pants, buckled the gold buckle on the belt, and rolled my kerchief so that it laid smooth in the back and had just the right amount of cylindrical wraps in the front my self esteem rose off the charts. On top of that I had Mrs. W for a den mother. She came up with the most fantastic projects, such as making wishing wells out of popsicle sticks and a sewing thimble, and creating paper mache mountains for the Lionel train set in her basement. Another special feature of meetings at Mrs. W’s house was the chance to play with Gary when we were done. Gary had a younger brother in our den, but to be honest I don’t remember his name. I’m sure he was nice, but Gary was special. He was the first person I knew with cerebral palsy. Gary couldn’t walk or talk, but you knew when he was happy or upset. Most of the time he was happy. He’d rock back and forth in his chair with a big smile on his face and make sounds that were similar to baby talk only lower and more guttural. If he was upset, which wasn’t very often, the pitch of his voice would rise and his arms would wave wildly. This scared some of the kids, but I knew if Mrs. W talked softly to Gary he’d calm down within seconds. One of my favorite things was to push Gary in his wheel chair. Actually, I wasn’t big enough to push Gary, who was bigger than me, so I needed assistance from Mrs. W or my dad. Gary would laugh and have a great time. After a while he’d get excited to see me coming up the stairs from the basement after our meetings. My last year in Cub Scouts Mrs. W and some of the other den mothers convinced my dad to become the Cub master. This meant he was in charge of the monthly pack meetings. These were held in the auditorium at Grantosa Drive. We arrived early for the Blue and Gold Awards and Spaghetti Dinner, and I got to help roll out the big lunch tables that were stored under the stage. The den mothers cooked the spaghetti in huge pots in the kitchen, but I was put in charge of the churn, which each scout took a turn pushing and pulling the handle to convert ice and whipping cream into ice cream for dessert. When Dad put on the feathered headdress and read the Webelos pledge I knew I was just as special as those little Kennedy kids, Caroline and John-John, who got to run around with their dad in the Whitehouse. Now, it’s your turn. Please feel free to share your story or to comment on mine.

Drills for Your Own Safety: Step Eight

Almost everyone remembers the fire drills they had when they were in elementary school. Those of us who grew up in the Midwest also recall having to learn what steps to take in case of a tornado threat or warning. Still, those of us who grew up during the Cold War were subjected to being prepared for the possibility of an air raid. So, a third drill, known as an air raid drill was conducted several times a year at Grantosa Drive. People took the threat of a Soviet invasion so seriously that a few families actually constructed sophisticated places in their backyards to escape in the event of a nuclear attack. In our classes we were shown examples of and told about Soviet propaganda. Since none of us was taught Russian, we had to rely on our teachers for the translations. I’m really not sure how many of them had learned Russian, but when their premier, a guy named Khrushchev, pounded his shoe on a table, and supposedly said something about burying the U.S., it became a whole lot easier to take those air raid drills seriously. My imagination has always caused me to wonder what Soviet kids learned about us. Maybe Eisenhower sounded weird to them, and maybe their propaganda showed Ike swinging a golf club and saying something outrageous, so their kids took their drills seriously. Now, the steps in an air raid drill are nearly identical to those taken in a tornado drill. First, a loud siren is heard throughout the building. Second, several hundred kids get to stop doing their English and math assignments and file out of their classrooms. Third, they form neat rows and thunder down one or two flights of stairs. Or, if they’re already on the bottom floor they just have to go through the door leading into the cement cavern near the boiler room, sometimes referred to as the basement. Fourth, you sit with your legs folded and your head tucked down as far as you can with your hands on top and your fingers intertwined. Now, this seems like a very important and patriotic thing to do for two or three minutes. However, someone decided the Russians might not be so quick on the trigger, and so we needed an extended drill. Well, you know some kid had to have had beans or cabbage the night before the drill, and naturally he couldn’t be held responsible for the impact this had on his digestive track. Even before the smell permeated the closed in room, that distinctive sound had numerous individuals who would normally have never dreamed of breaking the silence taking the liberty to respond with, “Oh, no, they got me,” and “Direct hit!” and “Mrs. Leitinger, don’t let me die.” Needless to say, the lesson was learned, and there were few protracted drills after that one. Please share your recollections and comments.

Names and Games Remembered: Step Seven

Grantosa Drive will always hold a special place in my heart. Being part of the first class of students to matriculate from kindergarten through the sixth grade gave me an opportunity to make as much of an impression upon its fabric as it did upon mine. In order to protect the privacy of individuals in my past that may not want to be associated with my rendering of events I will only use first names or nicknames. In instances where I cannot recall or there is a duplicate name I will just fabricate a name to maintain continuity. This, of course, is not to say we did not have some great surnames. Quite the contrary, it is hard to imagine a finer assortment of family names. So, fortunate for you, I have decided to disclose a list of these without divulging the first names with which they are associated. Families having children at Grantosa Drive during its first years of existence included: Alioto, Badini, Bollman, Capizzi, Domnitz, Durocher, Eichman, Felde, Giese, Hodel, Hucstef, Johnson, Keller, Kunde, Loppata, Mahaffey, Medina, Nadolsky, Nathanson, Plevack, Rickun, Rushing, Schroeder, Simpson, Suckow, Valone, Vandenheuvel, Waldinger, Wambach and Ziebell. From this point forward you’ll have to rely on your intuitive sense to determine which first names in the stories already told and soon to be told go with this list. One of the unique features of Grantosa was it was built into the side of a hill. So, you could actually leave your first floor classroom with its towering windows looking out onto the front lawn and turn down a corridor which led directly into the basement of the building. All you had to do was open a door and the tile floors and acoustical tile ceiling disappeared and you were in a cement cavern. This area was perfect for the after school “social center” game we knew as bombardment, apropos of the sound balls made bouncing off the cement walls, floor and ceiling. Most of you are familiar with this game from the 2004 movie starring Ben Stiller and Vince Vaughan titled, Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story. As it would happen, the true underdog in this instance was yours truly. I distinctly recall being flat against the cement wall and having Fred and Charlie, two brothers with throwing arms like Nolan Ryan and Roger Clemens, who had already knocked all the other members of my team off their feet. Wincing at the sound of the balls ricocheting off the walls I bent low enough to actually catch Fred’s ball and hold it out to repel Charlie’s throw. Then, as luck would have it, Gary, the best player on our team came back in to the game on my catch and he immediately caught the next throw by Charlie ending the game. Victory was oh so sweet! Now, I am sure you have some good underdog stories and maybe even a few good names to share. As usual, I welcome your comments.

From Where I Stand: Step Six

Sunday used to be the day the thick paper arrived at the door early in the morning. While I still get a Sunday newspaper it’s not anything close to thick, and most people I know rely on the Internet and TV for their news and current events. Given this traditional role of the day named for our star it seems natural to report on how things look to me on this day of the week. Afghanistan, a country known for rugged terrain, corrupt businessmen and politicians, and surviving numerous occupations and wars, is once again front and center in this week’s news. From various sources it appears NATO, which is largely US marines and British armed forces, along with Afghan military are trying to overtake a critical Taliban stronghold. The key objectives appear to cut off the opium trade with hopes of financially crippling the insurgents, and placing a western friendly Afghan military and government in a strategic area near the Pakistan border, where you know who (hint: OBL) is presumed to be hiding. Closer to home the president attempted to smooth things over in Vegas. Although the mayor accepted the contrition with grace blackjack dealers remain skeptical. On the other hand small business leaders welcome any and all tax breaks but aren’t sure whether it will enable them to hire more workers. At the same time, Republicans are going to show up to the president’s healthcare summit. Whether the Afghan, job growth, or healthcare battles will be successful remains to be seen. Stay tuned for future Sunday reports. Meanwhile, with flying tomatoes, smooth landing skaters and nimble curlers the US Olympic team has taken a commanding lead in medals after the first week. Tiger Woods offered profuse apologies to his wife, family, friend, business partners, fans, and most significantly the kids who looked to him to be a role model. Claiming his behavior was selfish, foolish, and wrong, he said his Buddhist faith taught him that the true mark of an individual is not his achievements but what he is able to overcome. Danica Patrick will have many obstacles to overcome to win on the manly NASCAR circuit, but she took the first step this week at Daytona and today in California. The academy awards are coming soon and it looks like it may be a battle between the big box office sensation Avatar and the popular indie film The Hurt Locker. If you have not seen Jeff Bridges performance in Crazy Heart you should treat yourself. Well, that’s how things look from where I stand. Please let me know what you think. Differing perspectives and comments are not only welcome, but also encouraged.

Time to Reflect: Step Five

According to the way I was raised the final day of the week is known as Shabbat, or the Sabbath. Traditionally, it is when you are expected to refrain from your daily routine and reflect upon your life. Many use this time to pray or meditate. While others may have Sunday or Friday as their “day of rest,” in keeping with my established origins Saturday will be the day my reflections appear here. Now if you’re really serious about reflection, or you just want an excuse to avoid things, like working or studying, you may consider following an all-encompassing perspective and take the whole weekend from Friday through Sunday to reflect. Ralph Waldo Emerson, a master of early American literary thought stated, “This time, like all times, is a very good one, if we but know what to do with it.” In our down economy one of the euphemisms regarding the problems faced by individuals looking for work is we are no longer unemployed, but in transition. So, what Ralph is suggesting to me is the transition from one place, which allowed me to contribute to their productive capacity in exchange for receiving monetary benefits to another place that will compensate me for services rendered, is a very good time. However, he throws in the caveat that stipulates we must know what to do with this time. In reflection it has been clear my idea of what to do with this time has been totally unclear. In the past, my resume, which took a lot of time to build, consisted of a complete list of my academic achievements followed by details of the experiences for which compensation was provided. However, upon further reflection, something many in transition can identify with, an abundance of degrees or experiences no longer means you are a desirable asset but have become “over qualified,” or simply too expensive. This week, the instructor for my Linked In seminar, pleased us with the story of how he weathered nearly a year in transition and over 40 interviews to find an exciting new position. Then, he tossed in the worthy footnote his compensation was 40% less than his last position. Yes, Mr. Emerson, this is a very good time, and I am sure it will only get better as I reflect upon what to do with it. Please feel free to offer your reflections and comments as you look back along every step of the way.

The Things We Learn on TV: Step Four

Like many of you, I grew up with my eyes glued to a 13-inch low definition screen with rabbit ears twisting in different directions to improve reception. Now, while the picture was crude the programming was superb. Chuck Connors as the Rifleman, James Garner as Brett Maverick, Richard Boone as Paladin, whose card read, “Have Gun, Will Travel.” Besides the cowboys there were the agents, and there was no one better than Robert Stack as Elliot Ness. Of course when we played cops and robbers in the neighborhood it was much better to be one of the gangsters. From this vantage point it might appear to be the sharp looking pinstripe suit Bruce Gordon wore as mobster Frank Nitti, but I realize I wasn’t interested in clothes until a number of years later. So, you might wonder why I was wearing the too long khaki pants when my mother had told me to go back in the house and change. The reason was I was a kid. Kids don’t waste time changing clothes; they just roll up the cuffs and get out to play for as long as they can before the sun goes down. So, naturally, when we were putting some distance between the “cops” and ourselves I didn’t think my pants are too long to be hopping over a picket fence. When the cuff caught on the pointed slat and I spun around feeling something strange in my leg, all I thought is help me off of this fence so we can get away. However, as pain shot up through the top of my skull I found myself lying on cool grass in a stranger’s backyard. Sirens, a gathering crowd of familiar and unfamiliar faces, a friendly firefighter telling me to bite down on the wool blanket he put over me, and my mother with tears asking, “Why didn’t you listen to me?” Of course, then I wouldn’t have gotten the nice cast that my friends wrote all over and which itched and throbbed every night for weeks. Nor, would I have had the chance to walk on crutches and have to stay in Mrs. Rose’s room with Fay while all the other kids went upstairs to lunch. Fay was a great kid, especially for a girl. We’d swap things our parents put in our lunches. Sometimes, we’d draw on the chalkboard or play hangman. One time, I convinced Fay to try out my crutches. She was moving pretty good when one of them came up a little high and knocked a porcelain figure off Mrs. Rose’s desk. Fay was all upset and looked like she might cry. I lowered myself to the floor and picked up the broken pieces and put them in my lunch bag. We never said a thing, and neither did Mrs. Rose. So, if you’re reading this Mrs. Rose I want you to know I’m really sorry, and I think Fay is too. Please feel free to comment or respond, whether you are Mrs. Rose or someone else.

Exploring the New Neighborhood: Step Three

When we moved to the wood framed ranch home on Lancaster Avenue, a place my parents would call home for the next 29 years, the most exciting place was the basement. Dad took us down and I grabbed my scooter, a predecessor to the skateboard, and my sister pulled my baby brother in our little red wagon, and we raced on the cement floors speeding around the metal poles holding up our new sanctuary. That summer we explored all the new construction sites. It was fantastic watching the bulldozers dig immense holes. Then, the cement trucks came and poured those slick smooth basement floors. Next, the masons put up the cinder block walls on all four sides of those holes. Finally, the carpenters with their aprons brimming with nails and their loud whining circular saws would slice boards and nail them together right before our mesmerized eyes. Just before they knocked down an old shack of a house to make way for the new elementary school we were to attend in the fall my cousin Jimmy and I went inside the deserted tenement. I can’t remember everything we found inside, but the one thing that sticks in my memory was a stack of old newspapers from the 1940s. One had a picture of some original Milwaukee Brewers. They were a minor league team in the American Association. Still, the picture that had the greatest impact on my young impressionable mind was a caricature of Uncle Sam holding the hair of a slant-eyed young man with a bruised face and stretched out neck in one hand and the other hand curled into a huge fist. At the time I don’t think I knew what racism was, and I certainly hadn’t heard of a concept such as politically correct, but I knew even then something wasn’t quite right. After all, Jimmy and I were both glad the headlines, Yanks Whip Japs, had proven to be true. He felt he had more to do with this victory since his father had been in the navy fighting in the Pacific while my dad had been in the air corps fighting in Europe. Our young patriotic souls were filled with pride as our explorations came to an end, and it would be years before either of us realized the insensitivity not only the drawing but also the derogatory word held for a whole lot of Americans. Years later, a woman I worked with in California whose family had been in the U.S. for more generations than my own told me how her family moved to a remote part of Idaho to avoid going to an internment camp. Like I said, those were simpler times. Please feel free to share or comment.

Way Back When I Knew Better: Step Two

My earliest recollections are of my childhood on north 34^th Street in Milwaukee. I’d hang out with the kid two doors down from our duplex. In Milwaukee-speak a duplex is a two story flat or apartment with living quarters on each level. Dennis, the aforementioned child, was what my father liked to refer to as a “dickens.” Although, I don’t think he was referring to that English wordsmith who wrote those super-sized books, Dennis would have easily fit in with Fagin’s misfits. Left to our own devices we could find numerous ways to terrify our sisters. We each had one. Stealing their hopscotch markers, surprise hosings, or finding bugs to put on their heads or in their clothes kept us busy without incurring parental interference. Our favorite hangout was in an alley behind a bottling plant a block away from our houses. To this day I’m not certain how a couple of 4 year olds could get away with wandering so far away, but as I stated before those were simpler times. Of course nothing compares to the mythology surrounding the story Dennis told me about one of our neighbor’s father. Since I don’t recall his name I’ll just refer to him as Mr. Walsh. We all knew Mr. Walsh, a man in his thirties or early forties, had been hospitalized. Dennis told me he had died, and then, come back to life. Dennis said it was just like Jesus. Naturally, my Jewish upbringing had not prepared me for such revelations. Having a limitless imagination made me worry about what impact this fragile looking man would have upon my family and me. The thought of his Studebaker just floating up into the sky on our way to kindergarten made it difficult to sit calmly in the back seat. Fortunately, our new house was nearing completion, and although I would miss Dennis, I was glad to be putting distance between the new messiah and me. Please feel free to comment on this reminiscence, or respond with a memory of your own.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010: The First Step

My name is Mark Silverstein and I look for the silver lining inside every cloud. My journey began on this date many years ago in a simpler time in a simpler place. I have always wanted to be a writer. Actually, I just love to tell stories. One of my favorite cliches is, "Why let the truth get in the way of a good story." When my parents found reason to be disappointed with something I may have done, such as failing to clean my room, finish my homework, or listening to them instead of the guy on the television I was always ready with a story. It was my way of looking for the silver lining in the clouds that were forming around me. While I may not have fine tuned the skill to the degree of lesser known writers, such as Sam Clemens or Gary Keillor, I have been known to calibrate my language to paint an image of a loose lipped left leaning yankee acceptable to a pulpit preaching proselytizing evangelist. So, come join me on this journey. We'll look back, forward and side to side. But, I promise to guide you in your quest for those silver linings in every cloud, because I plan to be here every step of the way.