The Ballad of Mothra and Big Boy: Step 105

NO IMAGES WHILE
I'M BLOGGING
IN NEW YORK CITY

Since I was spending most of my time at John Marshall Junior Senior High School I naturally developed closer friendships with my classmates who lived in the neighborhood. As I practiced every afternoon with the sophomore football team I would notice the two Jeffs performing their roles on the varsity squad. Although Jeff M had achieved the envious status of becoming one of only a handful of sophomores to make it onto the varsity squad, Jeff P stood out more because as team manager he didn't wear a football uniform.

Jeff P loved the sport of football but was physically ineligible to compete due to some sort of anemia type blood ailment he had been diagnosed with while he was still in grade school. In an effort to be one of the guys and not regarded as an egghead due to his intellectual gifts, he decided he would hand towels to the jocks and win them over with his offbeat sense of humor.

Whenever I went to his house I always felt it had all the trappings of a normal household. His mother was always friendly, although she was often in the other room folding laundry, watching television or reading a book. His younger brother who would leave us alone happened to have the same name as my younger brother even though he spelled it differently. I considered both his demeanor and name as plusses in establishing a relationship.

When his father came home from work he was aalways jovial and friendly. He would say hello to Jeff and me, grab a beer, and lay on the couch to watch TV. Except for arriving home in the evening and grabbing a beer, since firefighters changed shifts in the morning and neither of my parents drank alcohol very often, it wasn't too different from home. Still, Jeff said Mothra, what he called his mother, and Big Boy, what he called his father, were having marital problems due to her sneaking drinks and his exhaustion when he got home.

I'm not sure if he shared as much with Jeff M or anyone else, but he showed me where his mother hid bottles under the sink, behind boxes in the laundry cabinet, and between towels in the linen closet. It didn't make any sense to me since the liquor cabinet displayed a full supply of spirits from which to choose, and there always seemed to be beer in the refrigerator.

Mostly, we hung out in the basement and swapped stories. However, Jeff P's favorite pastime, and I have to admit I liked it a lot too, was getting out the rolls to use with the player piano. Among the wide variety of music that cranked out of the upright was everything from Dixieland jazz to modern show tunes. Jeff, who had a good voice and sang in the high school choir, would sing along with the music.

One night when his mother was in the other room Jeff P sneaked some Southern Comfort and poured it in highball glasses for us to drink. He got out one of the rolls, stuck it in the piano, and handed me a sheet with lyrics on it. As the music poured forth he started sining the ballad of Mothra and Big Boy, and coaxed me to sing along.

We put the roll away along with the sheet of lyrics and walked a mile and a half to the Pizza Wagon laughing and singing this song. Finding Hector standing watch at the back door, Jeff attempted to teach him the song. Hector mumbled some of the lyrics, but mostly laughed. It's hard to say whether he was laughing at the words or at the two of us. Actually, if someone had come along and listened not knowing whom Mothra and Big Boy were, they most likely would have found the song quite amusing.

From Where I Stand: Step 104

NO IMAGES WHILE
I'M BLOGGING
IN NEW YORK CITY

First, I want to acknowledge I am writing this blog on my iMac, and after years of frustration working on different brands of personal computers it was good to return last year to the user friendly company that passed Microsoft this week as the top technology company by stock market value. It seems like only a few years since my friends warmed me I should stop playing on my Apple and get a real computer. Many said that Apple with its proprietary system and expensive price points would collapse and die. While Steve Jobs and the national economy may face ill health the company he founded definitely does not.

Questions unfolded this week regarding the timeliness of the government response to the oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. While there has been a lot of finger pointing about how responsible BP is and what responsibility needs to be leveled upon Haliburton and other interests in the drilling operation, the latest is to find fault with those who regulated the process. Some have even gone so far as to draw parallels between how Washington bureaucrats handled this disaster and the way the Bush bureaucrats handled Katrina. Although there seems to be better personnel involved in the Obama team, I'll await further investigation to assess the qualityh of their response.

As I am writing this without the help of my volleyball friends, since I am attending my daughter's graduation from law school while they're batting the ball around on the other end of the continent, I lack confidence in assessing how well the mud is doing in capping the well. I am pretty certain however there will be lots of late night jokes about muddying the water.

It is surprising to me how long it has taken the federal government to respond to the Arizona law governing procedures for questioning individuals about their citizenship. Apparently, when a law claims to help reduce or eliminate illegal immigration there needs to be evidence it violates civil rights or hampers law enforcement before the federal government will take action. Fortunately, the director of the Police Executive Research Forum, Chuck Wexler was able to get a number of police chiefs to explain to Attorney General Eric Holder how the law would inhibit law enforcement.

Finally, after months of anticipation Simon Cowell stepped down as a judge on the show he originated, American Idol. He'll continue to produce the show and the recording artists it generates. Oh yes, Lee DeWyze edged out Crystal Bowersox as the winner of the ninth season. I predict they will both have glorious careers.

And last but not least as noted earlier and in yesterday's blog the most important news is Heather is graduating law school. Here to I predict a glorious career.

Time to Reflect: Step 103

NO IMAGES WHILE
I'M BLOGGING IN
NEW YORK CITY

Shakespeare said, "It is a wise father that knows his own child." Certainly, I would like nothing better than to be wise, however the reality is my child probably knows me better than I know myself. Having three daughters, all of whom I can say I am extremely proud, in no way lessens the pleasure and pride I feel as I get ready to celebrate my middle daughter, Heather's graduation from law school.

Over the course of the past week I have had a lot on my mind as I attempted to keep up my writing, continue my search for employment, work on a business plan to market my blog and at least poke my head out of the study to socialize with my daughters, Sandra the lovely young woman who accompanied Heather as she drove back to California, and of course my darling partner and wife, Debbie.

With all the uncertainty surrounding the world of work it is only natural for a young person, especially one who has incurred the sizable debt that comes with attending law school for three years, a father can easily recognize how flying back across the country to attend a ceremony is not her greatest desire. Add to the cost of the trip the fact she will miss two days of a bar preparation class with a price tag in the thousands of dollars, and the same father has to question his sanity when deciding to make the trip.

Yet, as a father I know there are a limited number of occasions to which one can attribute a time honored value and one is the culmination of a significant accomplishment. Not only has Heather finished law school in the usual three year term, but she does it immediately following completion of her undergraduate program in only three years. So, only six years out of high school and more than a month prior to her twenty-fourth bithday my little girl becomes a lawyer.

True, she has to pass the bar to practice law in the state of her choosing, but the only celebration that will accompany that achievement, and as her father I have strong faith she will accomplish it in the near future, will be her own and quite possibly her employer.

In the meantime, let me state that if my years have taught me anything it is the memory of certain events need to be shared, and are best shared with those you love. So, despite the economic hardship imposed by flying to New York and spending Memorial Day weekend there, my hope is her recognition at the Lincoln Center by the Touro Law School will take greater significance long into the future because her brother-in-law, sisters, mother, father, and eighty-two year old grandmother were there with her.

Looking at a Dream from the Sideline: Step 102

When a person wakes up from a night of dreaming it is sometimes difficult to remember what the dream was about or what it means. Sometimes there are just fragments of images or sequences that usually don’t quite fit together. Actually, it isn’t too different from the dreams one has for the path life is supposed to take. So, it was with my dream of being an athlete.

After being consigned to the bench for failing to tackle the ball carrier or at least take out some of the interference blocking for him I spent the remainder of the first game feeling sorry for myself and wishing I could just vanish from view. Nobody really cared what I had done they were all too busy licking their own wounds after the disastrous defeat.

Before our next practice I had Coach Gunderson for physical education class. We were outside in our t-shirts and shorts playing touch football on the blacktop when he called me over to talk. I thought for sure he was going to ream me out for my poor play in the game, but instead he noticed I could really throw the ball and wondered if I’d ever considered playing quarterback.

When we practiced that afternoon he had me throw the ball to a few of the ends on the team. At the end of practice Coach Gunderson asked me if instead of being a running back behind Ariana and Nemovitz I’d like to be the quarterback behind Wiemeri. Although it didn’t occur to me neither team had thrown the ball even once in the first game and I probably would prefer to be the guy taking the handoff than giving it, I accepted the change.

In physical education class Coach Gunderson would tell me to have one of the guys on the team go long so I could launch a long pass, but in practice we mainly stuck to buttonhooks. In reality Wiemeri and I spent most of our time making sure we placed the ball properly between the running backs upper and lower arms.

It was a long, lonely, losing season. We never won a game and only threw the ball twice. Both were buttonhooks, where the end would take a few steps, stop and turn around to catch the ball the quarterback threw. Of the two passes thrown only one was caught and the receiver was tackled immediately for maybe a two-yard gain.

Most of the games are just images or sequences out of order floating around in my memory. The only thing that changed was the perspective since the rest of the season I spent my time on the bench. Even that isn’t totally accurate since many of the sophomore games were played on fields that didn’t have benches and so I stood along the sidelines with the rest of the players whose dreams were fading away.

At the end of the season I told Wiemeri I probably would not compete with him for the quarterback position in the following year. Then, the reality hit. Wiemeri told me he never planned to play varsity football he just went out for sophomore football to get in condition for the sport he really cared about, basketball. Besides, he figured the quarterbacks for the next two years, Spanbauer and Neubauer, were already on the varsity team, and he was right.

Oh well, my basketball skills were not too good even playing alone in the backyard, so I decided I’d try wrestling. Since everyone wrestled at a given weight, at least the monsters would be the same size.

You Don't Need A Sweetheart to Have a Good Time: Step 101

One of the events sponsored by the Milwaukee district office of AZA was the annual sweetheart dance. When I became a member of Witt AZA the chapter had already selected its sweetheart for the year. Sweethearts were selected at the end of their junior year to serve the chapter at meetings and special events during their senior year. Our sweetheart was Marlene slender, somewhat attractive, extremely gregarious, a young woman who would one day marry my cousin Earl.

About half of the guys in the chapter would get up enough nerve to ask a girl to be their date to the sweetheart dance. The rest would invent excuses like their parents didn’t want them to start dating until they were older, it cost too much, or my favorite they had to go to their cousin’s best friend’s brother’s bar mitzvah. Whatever the excuse the reality was usually lack of nerve or after being turned down by the girl they wanted to take they wallowed in the rejection.

For me it was a matter of pride. I knew I was going to graduate early, so while it was only my sophomore year I recognized I’d only have one more chance. If I wanted to make it into the realm of young Milwaukee Jewish society I had to attend at least one AZA Sweetheart Dance before my senior year. So, after getting turned down by the girls I could actually consider my sweetheart I enlisted the help of friends. Rina, an Israeli who had been in the states only a few years accepted my invitation.

Since it was my first formal affair I made the mistake of buying a traditional corsage instead of the kind girls wear on their wrists. After Rina took it out of the box she handed it to me to pin it on her. My nervous hands were sure to stay well above her bosom, but when I started to push in the pin I worried I would poke it into her flesh. Fumbling, I reached inside her neckline to shield her skin, but accidentally touched the strap on her brassiere. I shook as I quickly removed my hand. She calmly thanked me and pinned my boutonnière on my lapel.

Which one of the guys drove to the dance I don’t recall, but it was a typical westside car. Some of the guys from the eastside who I had seen around Brynwood Country Club when I worked there brought their dates in Porsches, MGs and Jaguars.

It was a beautiful night for a dance at the War Memorial Center that overlooked the dark shimmering waves of Lake Michigan. We spent a lot of time sitting out on the steps taking in the night air and small talk. When the signal came everyone who wasn’t already in the ballroom headed there.

People gathered on either side of the roped off white runner that ran the length of the room. Pomp and circumstance played as each chapter, its sweetheart and president were announced. Witt AZA was the last of the eighteen chapters, and Steve P who had succeeded Pidge as president beamed as he escorted Marlene down the aisle.

When the processional was over everyone danced as the lights in the ballroom dimmed. Afterwards we went to Mama Mia’s for pizza and garlic bread. Some of the guys went to the Pizza Wagon, but on a special night I didn’t want to celebrate at the place I worked.

As I remember it was a wonderful time. I only hope Rina thought so, too.

My Big Day Finally Arrives: Step 100

A week before our first game the sophomore football team traveled to a field behind the famous Greek Orthodox Church designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and just to the east and north of Milwaukee Lutheran High School whose sophomores were about to scrimmage with us. Their coach got together with Coach Gunderson and took his second team defense to scrimmage our second team offense. So, we remained where we were and scrimmaged against their first team defense on the portion of the field nearest the school.

Nothing memorable happened on offense. I don’t even recall if I had a chance to carry the ball. However, when we switched to our first team defense and everybody was able to play his own position their coach came over to watch while Coach Gunderson watched the second teams play. Of course, this is when my big moment came. One of our linemen hit their running back and the ball came loose. I dove from my outside linebacker position to the bottom of the pile forming around the ball and recovered the fumble.

On the ride back to school the bus was filled with chatter about my defensive play, but it would be of little consequence in another week.

During the week that followed drills became more intense, and we even had a short scrimmage with some of the second string varsity players. Nemovitz, who had been on the team as a freshman but had missed the first month of practice due to some injuries, started taking handoffs from Wiemeri. He was not as big as Ariana or myself and he fumbled easily when hit, but he had the one thing we both lacked, speed.

After our final practice Coach Gunderson gathered us all together to tell us that despite the fact the Rufus King sophomore team had been city champions the past three years they were no better than us. Then, he added his little equalizer by telling us they put on their jockstraps the same way we did, one leg at a time. We trotted back to the locker room pumped up and filled with confidence.

When they first got off the bus they didn’t look that tough, but when they came down to the field and stood near Cox, our tallest player, there was little doubt they held a size advantage. Still, we knew if we played together as a team we could defeat them. On the first play from scrimmage Wiemeri called my number. I went off tackle and kept my legs pumping before someone got my feet and another hit me across my midsection. As I returned to the huddle it looked like I might have picked up a couple yards.

Next, Ariana went up the middle but only went another couple yards. Wiemeri called my number on a cross buck over the other side. Determined to keep my legs pumping until I picked up the first down I was met by a swarm of tacklers as I made it to the line of scrimmage.

After we punted, on their first play from scrimmage they ran a sweep in my direction. There were four or five huge monsters charging in my direction and I had no idea I was backpedaling until we were all in the end zone.

Coach Gunderson had a few choice words for me, and I heard some parents commenting on the inappropriate terms, but that was the last thing I heard. A few plays later Nemovitz went off tackle, headed for the sideline and made it into their end zone. I may have offered a halfhearted cheer.

We never scored again. They scored five or six more times using the sweep effectively on both sides. Nemovitz, Ariana, and Wiemeri took turns getting hit and fumbling. King’s uniforms never got dirty, and I just held back the tears.

But She Has Personality: Step 99

In looking back over the stories of my years at Grantosa Drive Elementary School it appears one I overlooked was my relationship with Debbie Sue. She was the first of a number of Debbies in my life including the one I will be celebrating my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary with in a day less than seven weeks.

No one in the fourth grade could form better loops. Whether ascending in her h’s or descending in her g’s she had the loops with both the correct shape and the proper slant. More often than not her meticulous cursive writing, something Mrs. Lynman made us practice every single day, was the model selected for display on the blackboard.

Not only could she write well, but she also had jet-black hair, a twinkle in her eye, and smelled good. Artie M, a kid with white as snow hair, wanted her for his girlfriend, but I told him it wouldn’t work because he wasn’t Jewish so he should just take her friend Cheryl, which he did.

I was so taken with Debbie Sue I went to the dime store and bought her a genuine artificial diamond ring. Too frightened to give it to her I placed it in the basement window well of her four family apartment building on Villard Avenue. Then, I slid a note under their apartment door explaining where to find her “special gift.” I guess I figured if her parents found the note they’d still give her the ring. To the best of my memory she never said anything about the ring and I never went back to see if it was still there.

A couple of years later in the sixth grade Debbie Sue and a couple of her girlfriends organized a party in the basement of her apartment building. I don’t remember who was there with me, but a short while later she moved to a house near John Marshall Junior Senior High where she went to school while I attended Samuel Morse Junior High.

When I arrived at Marshall she was down the hall in the homeroom with Ron and Big Steve. Debbie Sue had always been easy to talk to and even though she did not hold the same attraction for me she had in grade school our ability to communicate was reason enough to accept her invitation to be her date at a party.

Rather than have a parent take us we were able to go on a double date. We went with Denise, who had been Debbie Sue's best friend for the past three years, and her date drove. When we arrived music was playing and the other guests packed the room standing and talking, sitting on folding chairs, or dancing.

One distinct smell permeated the room, hairspray. Nearly every girl at the party had her hair up in a beehive, a hairdo popularized by Audrey Hepburn and Leslie Caron, which had the hair piled atop the head with the outside layer swirled around and lacquered in place by a heavy cloud of aerosol.

At one point in the evening the guy who had been set up with Denise asked me if I wanted to switch dates. Although she was blonde and every inch as attractive in the physical sense as Debbie Sue, she had none of the vitality. She was not easy to talk to, she rarely smiled, she spoke in a monotone, and there was no twinkle in her eye. I’m not sure what I told him but I declined his offer.

Although Debbie Sue and I remained friends, and we “doubled” when we dated other people, we never dated each other again. That night, however, I started to understand what my parents meant when they said looks and brains will only get a person so far, it’s one’s personality that makes the difference.

Simulation Leads to License: Step 98

Among the most important events in a teenager’s life, and it tends to have greater significance among the male of the species, is earning a driver’s license. Although driving is a privilege and not a right given to motorists by the state, a person has to meet a number of criteria before he can receive this privilege. In the state of Wisconsin when I was growing up a person had to reach the age of sixteen before he could obtain a temporary driver’s permit by passing a written exam. Then, after sufficient practice driving if the individual could pass a road test administered by an examiner from the motor vehicle department he received his driver’s license.

Very few school districts still offer driver’s education classes to their students, but when I attended it was not unusual to find one or more teachers certified to teach the classroom element of such a program. A number of other teachers routinely obtained the behind-the-wheel certificate so they could teach students on the road after school or during the summer as a way to supplement their income. At the time it was unusual for parents to contract with private driver’s education programs since the programs at school were free.

In order to take the classroom driver’s education course a student only needed to turn sixteen within the year. Since my birthday is in February I enrolled in this course my first fall at John Marshall Junior Senior High School.

Classroom instruction was broken into two parts, 30 hours of text instruction and 10 hours in the simulator. In the class we learned the color, shape, and symbols used for various road signs. We learned proper maintenance of our vehicles and why it is important for our safety to change windshield wipers and measure air pressure when inflating tires. Mr. Fallon gave us quickie quizzes where he tried to catch us off our guard with circular stop signs and turn signals that flashed left when you went up.

Throughout the school stories of the gruesome films students were required to watch prior to starting the simulator portion of the program were passed from upper classmen to freshmen and sophomores. While the actual events portrayed in the films were tragic the shrieking tone of the background music and macabre narration made the experience similar to the scared straight films passed off as drug education during this same era. In other words, they bordered on the absurd and highly laughable.

Unlike modern computer simulation the simulators we sat in were not synchronized to the motion picture projected in front of us showing the road on which we were driving. Once the lights were turned off and if Mr. Fallon was not nearby it was not unusual for students to spin their steering wheels in either direction or to slam the accelerator to the floor. One thing I was sure to do as soon as I sat down in the simulator was fasten my seatbelt. They were not retractable, but the kind commonly found in airplanes. If a student forgot to put on her seatbelt she would have to make up the class after school.

When Mr. Fallon tapped me on the shoulder unexpectedly I immediately glanced down to see my seatbelt was fastened and checked to make sure my hands were at ten and two on the steering wheel before looking up at him. He smiled and pointed at the ignition. I smiled, leaned forward and turned the key to the on position. It was the only time I needed his help in the class.

From Where I Stand: Step 97

Our discussion today began before we reached for bagels and juice during a break between the third and fourth game of volleyball. Looking to find a consensus Dan put forth his analysis of President Obama’s agenda. He said he believed the president’s main purpose in following the strategies he follows is to remain in power. Among the issues he cited for his conclusion was his willingness to accept ridicule from the left for his foreign policies such as sending 30,000 troops to Afghanistan and his willingness to include offshore drilling as part of his energy plan. At the same time he puts forth an agenda of mandatory healthcare, allowing tax cuts on the wealthy to sunset, and increasing regulation of financial institutions.

When I said his balanced pragmatic approach seemed to be getting bills passed and beyond the gridlock that hampered previous administrations, Dan pointed out he hadn’t said the president wasn’t good at it just that his main purpose was in his opinion to stay in power.

Conceding the likelihood the new financial reform bill passed in the Senate a few days ago will probably be reconciled and signed by the president, Mike concluded it would most likely be a poor law. Noting my agreement with Senator Harry Reid, a man whose own agenda often conflicts with mine, I thought it was important to take some action to reign in bankers who feel they're above the law with an estimated $600 Trillion in derivatives floating around the world and destabilizing governments.

Chuckling Mike said he thought they had a right to place their bets through various forms of banking devices. Then I reminded him Goldman Sachs was betting with TARP funds they got from us, the taxpaying public. He agreed it was wrong for them to use our money, but asserted he didn’t approve of bailouts in the first place.

Being a professor at one of California’s excellent institutions of higher education Dan seemed the appropriate person to ask about the Texas textbook controversy. Unaware of the details Dan said his recent trip to San Antonia had taught him that Texas considers itself a separate country from the United States. Noting their board of education’s recent moves to vindicate Joe McCarthy, have the words of Jefferson Davis appear alongside those of Abraham Lincoln, and call into question the rationale for separation of church and state in the social studies curriculum only helped to confirm his conclusion.

When I came home I reviewed an ABC interview in which Don McLeroy, an influential member of this board stated that while the founding fathers “wanted it to be a secular state we can still refer to it as a Christian nation.” Maybe we would all be better off if as Dan hypothesized Texas chose to secede from the union. In reality, Texas is one of two states that does statewide book purchases and therefore holds sway over not only the five million students in its borders but many throughout the nation.

My own hypothesis is this is revenge for Texas suffering a defeat on American Idol this week. In an unbelievable example of pure urban hostility toward a good ol’ country boy, blue eyed soul brother Casey James was sent home to Fort Worth, leaving Chicago native, Lee DeWyze and Toledo darlin’, Crystal Bowersox to compete for the top spot. Even if they can sing circles around Casey, this is just another example of the liberal media trying to transform what is truly great about America…and on FOX, yet.

Time to Reflect: Step 96

Over the course of the past week two of my daughters returned to the empty nest, my trips to Irvine to drink from the well of networking and business expertise were as frequent as the prior week, and I’ve been cruising through the pages of The Huffington Post Complete Guide to Blogging.

Two wonderful quotes come from the pages of the aforementioned book. The first comes from John Ridley, fellow Milwaukeean, screenwriter, novelist and blogger at the Huffington Post. “Without the unsigned masses who are compelled at odd hours to respond to anything and everything posted on the web, bloggers would merely be Internet writers—which is just the unemployed version of mainstream media journalists.”

The second quote comes from bestselling author, Deepak Chopra, who also blogs at the Huffington Post. “Blogs give you a chance to be misunderstood en masse—and grateful when that one sympathetic reader responds and gives you hope for the future of the mind.” He prefaces this remark by acknowledging one can be misunderstood when “talking person to person.”

No one can expect to be understood at all times by all interpreters. One can safely say this holds true for parents and children, employers and employees, artists and patrons, filmmakers and viewers, and certainly writers and readers. Our interdependence is what brings vitality to the relationship for without it my new acronym would be uvommj as described in the last six words of Mr. Ridley’s quote (see above).

Almost everything this week pointed to the importance of creating a community. At my Experience Unlimited meeting a highly successful public relations and marketing specialist explained how he was able to create a Norman Rockwell life for himself by merging high tech with high touch. By the end of that meeting my community grew to include new member of EU and a longtime member who share my interest in teaching and learning. Later in the week the three of us met again, and my knowledge of vocational opportunities in our shared field grew exponentially despite my prior three decades in education.

Sandwiched between my two Project Success seminars I met with a business technology expert who tempered my entrepreneurial spirit with some pragmatic ideas for creating a community and making my venture profitable. Relationship of a sound business plan and application of various marketing strategies to the development of a community of followers emerged at the previous evening’s session. Expanding on the pragmatic components of building a community my last class dealt with lower and higher investment online marketing strategies. Or simply, to tweet or not to tweet.

Although further investigation and research remains in my path much of what I learned this week leads me to believe a new neighborhood in the blogosphere might enhance the conversation among members of our community. As we approach the 100^th step together it may be time to find a new address on a different street. While Blogger has been an extremely friendly place to start my blogging career, and Every Step of the Way has proven a useful name, as someone always looking for the silver lining change becomes inevitable. Please stay tuned. Your comments would be tremendously helpful at this time.

Pidge Delivers: Step 95

It was not that anyone doubted the power of Pidge, I just think no one expected such a fast turnaround on his pledge. Perhaps it was due to all the connections he had across the entire city. If he didn’t personally know a kid in the Jewish community there were his parents, aunts and uncles who knew their parents who would assist him in getting in touch with whomever he was trying to reach. In other words he was networking in the dark ages long before the advent of My Space, Facebook and Twitter.

Not only was he able to coordinate an event with an eastside BBG chapter, but it was Hatikvah, a chapter with around thirty members like us and a reputation for only having cute girls. Of course I never knew who originated or verified the reports on which the reputation was built. In looking around at meetings it occurred to me girls probably received similar reports and I wondered where the guys in Witt AZA would fit, and what kind of scale was used to evaluate our level of attractiveness.

Arrangements were made between our leadership and theirs to go out trick or treating for UNICEF. In the Milwaukee area the tradition was to have kids put on their costumes and go from door to door the night before Halloween. Since Halloween fell on Monday we decided to meet Sunday night and seek donations during a time we were likely to find people home and hopefully in a generous mood.

With four or five guys who had driver’s licenses we were able to carpool to the eastside without having to involve parents. Our rendezvous was to begin and end at Maura’s house in the prestigious suburb of Fox Point. Maura’s father had gone to North Division High School with my parents but he left the westside after becoming a successful businessman. His residential developments were so successful that the street on which they built the house we went to that night, Atwahl, was actually a combination of the first syllables of his and his partner’s surnames.

Another consequence of moving into the higher echelons of society was the perception that one attained certain distinctions faster than those of less means. An example of this was the persistent rumor that Maura, who was around my age, had gone all the way with her boyfriend. For me this news was almost overwhelming because I was just starting to get an idea of what that meant.

On the way over some of the guys started making pessimistic forecasts that only a few of the girls would show up. Ever the optimist, Pidge assured us there would be a good turn out, and as his eyes flashed with excitement I worried the blinking would affect his driving. There never was anything to worry about because we all arrived safely, and there were at least as many girls there as guys.

Cousin Jim and I were paired up with Eileen and Laurie. Laurie was a senior at Nicolet High School and for some reason walked with Jim, while I walked with Eileen who at fourteen was tall with flowing hair and dimples surrounding a captivating smile. People couldn’t resist stuffing dollar bills in the slot of the UNICEF labeled black and orange milk carton she held out to them. We returned to Maura’s house to empty our carton and make a second round in the affluent neighborhood.

Although she was easy to talk to I never had many other conversations with Eileen until she started dating and later married my roommate in college.

Welcome to the Pizza Wagon: Step 94

Every high school has a place off campus where kids go to hang out with their friends. For students at John Marshall Junior Senior High School the place to go was The Pizza Wagon, or simply The Wagon. Not only was M influential in getting me to join Witt AZA, he recommended me to Steve and Tom P’s dad who owned The Wagon. Mr. P hired both Jim and I to be busboys for the handsome wage of one dollar and five cents an hour.

On weeknights we would work one or two family hour shifts from five to nine so we had time to participate in extracurricular activities at school and still get home on time to finish our homework before heading to bed. Friday night had both the family crowd and from nine to closing the party crowd. Saturday night was family, party and after hour’s crowds since we stayed open until 3:00 AM, a full hour after the bars closed.

Besides Mr. P, Dick, a happy go lucky college aged cook, and Nick, a forty-something cook who insisted he made Greek balls not meatballs took turns at the grill. Marilyn and Mrs. P took turns as hostess and monitoring the waitresses, and George who usually mumbled through puffs of smoke coming from his cigarette racked dishes and ran them through the scolding water of the dishwasher.

Up front by the large glass window through which patrons could watch from the sidewalk Steve and Tom P would roll out the dough and toss it in the air until it was the right size. Then, they’d lay it on a bed of flour, ladle on the deep red sauce, place the squares of mozzarella, put chunks of sausage into spaces between the cheese, sprinkle onions all around, run the shovel under the dough and slide it into the oven. There were a number of others whose names I don’t recall who shared this job. M joined them shortly after I was hired. Their performance won them instant stardom in the eyes of both the family and party crowd. The drunks could care less. Get it to them hot and fast and don’t spill the coffee.

As a busboy my first duty was to clear the tables and wipe them off as soon as the customers stepped away. When our trays were full we hustled them back to the kitchen and filled the racks with plates, glasses and silverware for George to wash. Then, we brought out the clean plates, glasses and silver for the waitresses.

When we weren’t clearing tables we were trimming slimy leaves from the cabbage with a cleaver and taking it up front to the slicing machine to slice into cole slaw. We also sliced cheese and pepperoni on the slicing machine being careful not to add a finger or thumb to the ingredients.

At various times Dick, Steve P, or one of the other pizza makers with a driver’s license would make deliveries. Since the back door led to the parking lot Mr. P posted one of the busboys there to make sure there was no trouble. The parking lot adjoined Henry’s parking lot. Henry’s was a local hamburger joint that competed with the McDonald’s across the street.

Since kids liked to congregate in the parking lot Mr. P liked to have someone of stature at the backdoor. At six foot two and one eighty the Argentina born Hector was the easy choice. Although he already had earned his black belt in karate his imposing figure was enough to deter any would-be troublemakers. He enjoyed flirting with the girls that gathered around, but insisted his girlfriend, Marcy, and he were going steady. In their case it lasted more than two weeks.

At the end of the night we mixed and kneaded the dough on the butcher-block table in the kitchen and left it there to rise.

Moving On Up to the Eastside: Step 93

Last week in Step 85 I introduced the two organizations having the greatest influence on Jewish youth in Milwaukee during my high school years. Even though my first experience was with Young Judaea my affiliation was short lived and it did not have nearly the impact on my life as my involvement with the Bnai Brith Youth Organization. The BBYO, the acronym by which the organization is known is split into two groups, Bnai Brith Girls or BBG and Bnai Brith Boys or AZA.

Having formed my closest initial relationship at John Marshall High with M it was natural I would follow him into Witt AZA. Following along with me was my cousin Jim. It didn’t take us long to become fast friends with Lennie, Tyler, Sandy, Brad, Steve S, Mike K, the brothers Steve and Tom P, and the veterans of Witt: Barry, Joel and Elliott, better known as Pidge.

Pidge was the president of the chapter when I became a member, and his enthusiasm was contagious. Whether organizing a newspaper collection, thinking up lines for a skit, or pulling down a rebound in a basketball game Pidge was the original Tony Robbins live with passion guy. He would get so excited his eyes would literally flash on and off as he talked.

While we were busy learning about our Jewish heritage, gaining leadership experience, and building moral character through community service, our main interest, which pulled us all together, was planning our next activity with a BBG chapter. Most of us knew the many girls who attended Marshall and nearby Washington high schools that populated Gilead, Kander, Menorah, and the other westside BBG chapters. The real challenge was getting an eastside BBG chapter to pair up with us for some charitable or social activity. For such a task you had to have a go-to guy, and at that time our go-to guy was Pidge.

Meanwhile, our good friends Jeff M and Jeff P were bragging to us about how their chapter, Solomon, had already planned an activity with one of the eastside chapters, either Shalom or Tzion if memory serves, because one of their own members, Dennis K., became their go-to guy when he moved to the eastside. Let’s face it some things in life just aren’t fair.

In the meantime, Jim, M, I, and other members of Witt planned carpools to the open dances different chapters would sponsor. These dances served two purposes, an opportunity to raise money for the sponsoring chapter or chapters, and a chance for kids from all over the city to have a good time dancing to one of the local bands. Westside dances usually took place at Beth El synagogue and eastside dances were at the Jewish Community Center. Both venues had large auditoriums with seats removed to form a dance floor with the bands playing on their stages.

At one of the dances at Beth El where the Seven Wonders were playing some of the best rhythm and blues west of Motown I spotted Jan separated from Debbie D who was probably busy batting her eyelashes and shoving her overdeveloped assets in the face of some senior. So, I wiggled my way through the crowd to where Jan stood just waiting for the chance to move her miniskirt onto the dance floor. We did the frug, hully gully, monkey and swim. I even had a chance to wrap my arms around her and feel her head on my shoulder as the Wonders slowed down the sound, only to have Debbie D return to snatch her away.

Oh well, it was really just something to do until we were able to get together with those exotic ladies of the eastside.

High School Football Practice Builds Character: Step 92

Growing up in Wisconsin my friends and I were devoted fans of the only sports franchise in the country where the entire hometown population could fit into Michigan Stadium where the Wolverines routinely beat our Badgers. No other professional sports team is owned by a group of citizens from the community. During my formative years a tough-minded guy from New York named Vincent Lombardi ran the show in Green Bay. The Packers dominated football in the same fashion the Celtics dominated basketball and the Yankees dominated baseball.

So, it was easy for a kid in Wisconsin to imagine himself running a sweep like Hornung, throwing precision passes like Starr, making spectacular catches like Dowler, or stuffing a running back at the line of scrimmage like Nitchke. Long before anyone took a triangular piece of yellow foam rubber with holes cut out to resemble a cross between cheddar and Swiss cheese, placed it on his head, and earned the nickname of “cheese head,” we dreamed of someday wearing the green and gold. In order to fulfill that dream it was necessary for me to first meet the challenge of wearing the red and blue for John Marshall High School.

Despite my lack of speed I felt my quickness, ability to overcome the fear of being hit by a defender, and desire to become an outstanding football player was enough to make me a running back. At the time most high school teams used something known as the T formation. Two running backs, the fullback who lined up a few yards directly behind the quarterback and the halfback who lined up behind the quarterback but in front of the fullback and to either side of the quarterback formed the T. At 5’9” and 140 lbs. soaking wet halfback suited me.

It was also common practice at the time for each player to play both offense and defense. Due to the limited amount of passing, especially on the sophomore team, the defensive lineup consisted of five linemen, four linebackers, and two defensive backs. Again, aware of my lack of speed and lack of size it was easy for me to recognize I fit in the middle as a linebacker.

Practices started with running laps around the track to the south of school in the hot sticky September afternoons. Then, we would push blocking sleds around whether someone was a lineman or a back because Coach Gunderson believed it built strength and character. Finally, the backs would practice taking handoffs from the quarterback, the linemen including ends, known as receivers today, would practice blocking defenders, and everyone practiced wrapping up and tackling. If time remained a pass or two might get thrown between the quarterback and the ends.

After a week or two of practice Coach Tarantino challenged Coach Gunderson to let his freshman team scrimmage our sophomore team. We broke into two distinct squadrons, our best defense against their best offense, and our second team offense against their second team defense. I ended up playing defense, but because coach put some of the linemen on the offensive squad I moved from my usual spot at linebacker to the middle of the line.

Naturally, I was paired off against Rozmarynowski whose overzealous pituitary gland rendered him a mini-mountain of over six feet and right around two hundred pounds. He just kept knocking me to the ground until I finally figured out how to get low enough to leverage his own weight against him, use my quickness to get around him, and actually make a tackle a couple of times on the ball carrier. Coach Gunderson never said anything. He may not have seen my play, but it was one of my proudest moments.

Winter Babies Learn In and Out of the Classroom: Step 91

Being born in the winter during my years of school in Milwaukee meant you started kindergarten and graduated from the twelfth grade in January. As I recall there was no disadvantage to enrolling in kindergarten when there was snow on the ground, but for some reason entering college at such a time was not as easily done as it was in the fall. Although there was an imbalance between numbers of students in each year’s January class compared to its June class, the discrepancy was never as clear to me as when I arrived at Marshall High.

As previously noted students coming from Samuel Morse and Wilbur Wright junior highs were put together with students coming from the junior high wing of John Marshall. Our combined numbers filled four homerooms, which was a quarter of the sixteen homerooms the June classes ahead and behind us occupied. With plenty of precedent a number of us winter babies were looking to acquire the necessary credits to graduate early.

While we were not an exclusive group our mutual drive and determination probably brought us closer together even before we were pulled from our original homerooms and combined into a single homeroom in the fall before graduation. Among my driven cohorts were my lifelong friend M and the two Jeffs. Although the three went to the same elementary school, M lived north of the busy Capitol Drive while Jeff M lived just one block south and Jeff P lived still further south almost to Keefe Avenue Parkway.

Jeff P and I shared a common birthday and Jeff M was a day older. When I would call Jeff M his mother would answer the phone, lower her voice and in a gravely tone say hello. Then turning to Jeff she’d tell him loud enough for me to hear that some froggy voiced person was on the phone for him. It made me laugh both because of the way she did it and because it meant my voice would no longer be confused for that of a small child or woman.

Unlike my father both Jeffs had fathers who owned their own businesses and for whom they worked a couple nights and weekends. Jeff P. had to go all the way east to someplace north of downtown to help his dad with some kind of wholesale supply business. Just exactly where the operation was and what he did there was not clear to me.

On the other hand Jeff M’s father owned a well-recognized retail establishment on 76^th Street north of Silver Spring Drive. Jeff was unable to wait on customers purchasing liquor, but he could stock shelves and haul bags of ice from the freezer out to the customer’s car. He could hardly wait to get his driver’s license to make deliveries in the store truck. The same delivery truck I helped him remove the spray paint from when vandals struck one night.

Although I always thought of Milwaukee as a friendly and safe town in which to grow up, as with most places there were, and probably still are, a few antagonistic individuals. As his dad removed the paint from the store windows and we from the truck, we all were amused by the incompetence of the perpetrators. Not only had the bigots turned their swastikas backwards but also their lack of literacy was apparent by their atrocious anti-Semitic curse painted on the side of the vehicle, “Dam Jue.”

I had been exposed to bigotry before and would be again, but this was one of the most blatant examples of misguided animosity. Fortunately, it was easier to take simply because we could literally see how like all prejudice it grew out of ignorance.

From Where I Stand: Step 90

Many of the important events of the past week are continuing stories from weeks gone by. Two of these stories I referred to during the past week were the unemployment rate, which came up in my reflection yesterday, and the British election, which was noted briefly in my commentary outlining where I stand regarding their lack of leadership in the economic calamity in Greece and the European Union.

So, let’s start with the most fascinating of circumstances the greater than expected addition of 290,000 new jobs in April while the unemployment rate continued to rise to 9.9% nationally. Actually, this perceived contradiction has been explained before when it initially became apparent that those who had stopped looking for work and were therefore not counted as unemployed returned when the chances of finding employment looked better. People, such as myself, will continue to frustrate statistical analysis as we redefine our means of contribution and earnings during our transition in this economy.

Taking a close look at the British election one has to wonder if we can take away some lessons from the democracy from which we sprang. Our country took nearly a hundred years to arrive at the two party system. Attempts by a third party to impact government, other than spoiling the election for one of the two parties, have not worked to this point. In England, however, the third party, became power brokers when neither of the leading parties had enough seats in parliament. Nick Clegg of the Liberal Democrats formed a coalition government, the first in 65 years, with David Cameron of the Conservative Party, forcing Labour out of power for the first time in 13 years. I’m not advocating a third party but the idea of a coalition among lawmakers is appealing.

Looking at the mess in the Gulf of Mexico there does not seem to be a particular partisan point of view and one could hope, against odds of course, a consensus about how to avoid such problems in the future can be reached. Taking policy statements from both sides of the aisle, NRDC president Frances Beinecke proposes some ways each of us can help find solutions in her book, Clean Energy Common Sense: An American Call to Action on Global Climate Change.

In another attempt to show his level of pragmatism over idealism President Obama nominated Elena Kagan to replace the more liberal John Paul Stevens on the Supreme Court. Her ability to raise both the margin of feminism and Judaism to a third of the highest court is unlikely to increase the number of conservatives voting for her confirmation, but her consensus building style may move senators to put the party line aside to act in the best interest of the country.

Of course after the regular season the consensus among basketball sports writers was Cleveland would continue their domination to the NBA Championship. With Boston eliminating LeBron and company in just six games, the question arises whether they are good enough to topple the reigning eastern conference champion Orlando Magic, which is undefeated in the playoffs so far. In the west the Lakers hold the upper hand in my opinion largely due to someone who remains on the sideline. No, I’m not referring to Jack Nicholson. With more NBA championships than any other coach or player in history and a firm grasp of how to influence all forces, players, refs, and reporters, the Zen Master will do everything in his power to return to the finals again.

Time to Reflect: Step 89

Among the many heroes in American history the one who fascinates me the most is Theodore Roosevelt. A sickly child he grew to become a tough soldier of diminutive stature, a fiery orator with a high-pitched voice, a monopoly-busting advocate of free enterprise, and a champion of conservation responsible for our national park system. Born into a family of power and privilege he built his reputation and earned the respect of the vast majority of Americans through grit and determination. “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are,” were words he not only spoke, but also lived.

Over the course of the past week I made four trips to Irvine to network with members of Experience Unlimited and to contribute to the operation of our office, to participate in my weekly Toastmasters meeting, to attend a workshop on finance and bookkeeping for entrepreneurs, and to meet with my business advisor from Project Success. Each time the purpose was to contribute what I can to the organization, given the skills I possess, and without having to leave Orange County to do it. Actually, my purpose was not as altruistic as the previous sentence implies.

As a person in transition during a time of economic uncertainty it has become clear many of us find ourselves wanting to do something meaningful with the skills we have in the communities where we live. So, we band together forging a network of diverse backgrounds, experiences and abilities creating a synergy. We rely on each other to ward off discouragement, build enthusiasm, and do whatever it takes to continue getting out of bed, getting dressed and getting out of the house.

While there were signs earlier this week that things were turning around in the employment market, something I will comment upon further in my blog tomorrow, I have noticed a growing entrepreneurial spirit among people with whom I network. Many of us not satisfied with waiting around for employers to act want to take whatever action we can to move forward and contribute to both our personal growth and the growth of the economy. As was pointed out in my business workshop the recession provides a level playing field from which to launch a new business.

So, yesterday in my meeting with my business advisor we examined my vision for the future of this website. We explored the likely demographics of my target audience and what their particular needs are; ways to identify competitors and what my competitive edge is; and methods for enhancing audience engagement through various forms of interaction. Different strategies to increase the number of people participating as well as ways to generate a revenue stream were discussed.

A schedule for completing the workshops, meeting with both technology and marketing experts and writing the rest of the business plan were laid out in detail. By the end of our meeting she had helped me reflect on where I have been and reach Roosevelt’s criteria of knowing what I can do with what I have where I am.

Oh the Places You'll Go and the Wages You'll Earn: Step 88

Earlier in the week I talked about one of the important firsts people usually remember quite vividly is their first kiss. Another first people usually remember quite well, but without all the drama of the first kiss, is their first real job. Now, I’m not talking about mowing the lawn, raking leaves or shoveling snow for your parents or neighbors, or even those few scattered babysitting opportunities, I’m talking about where someone hires you as a part-time employee and pays you for some service you perform. For me, it was working as a caddy at Brynwood Country Club.

Brynwood was the premiere country club in southeastern Wisconsin with a predominate portion of members being Jewish doctors, lawyers and business executives. Cousin Jim, our mutual friend Greg, and I decided to become part of the growing number of less affluent Jewish boys from the Westside of Milwaukee to serve these men and women in their leisure time pursuit.

We waited patiently in the caddy shack playing cards and eating sandwiches called torpedoes that were cooked in a radar range, a predecessor to the microwave oven. When our turn came we went to the first tee and made sure all the clubs and balls were ready for the member we were assigned. Then, our golfer would come over, take his driver and let us know whether we would be covering the course in three, four or five hours by either hitting the ball a couple hundred yards down the fairway, bouncing it along the grass, or slicing it so it rattled down through a number of well beaten oak trees.

On days when we were fortunate enough to work for golfers who routinely hit their balls straight down the fairway we could get back on time to make a second trip. There also seemed to be an unwritten rule that said a better golfer was more likely to give a tip beside the required three-dollar fee for eighteen holes. Less proficient golfers, or duffers as they were often referred to in the shack, would smile and lay six Washingtons in the caddy’s hand, two-dollar bills and four shiny quarters.

As we became veteran caddies it was not unusual to be sent out with doubles, or two golf bags, one on each shoulder. Doubles most often were done only with men or women with low handicaps. Previous scores determined a handicap, so if the member usually shot an average of one over par per hole she would have an eighteen handicap. Anyone having a lower handicap would be considered proficient.

Caddies prized golfers with single digit handicaps even if they were known to have a temper. Most of these men and women had clubhouse reputations and it was not uncommon to see them bet on their game. Even losers would tip a couple of extra dollars, while winners might double the five dollars a caddy received for carrying two bags. Therefore, on an extremely good day a veteran caddy could make as much as twenty dollars compared to the three he made as a novice.

Sometimes we would hitchhike to and from the country club, which was actually on the Westside, but a couple miles north of where we lived. During the weekend I liked going over to the polo grounds across the street from the club to watch Bob Uihlein the president of Schlitz Brewery smack around the chucker before we put on our green caps with the B on it and hitched home.

That summer, because I decided to follow in my sister’s footsteps and graduate a semester early, I had to take a summer school class at Custer High, which was east of the club. After class I stuck out my thumb and a Bentley pulled over and picked me up. The driver was a member with a single digit handicap who dropped me right at the front door of the club. Of course I had to walk back to the caddy shack, but that was all right.

Maybe I'll Be Smooth When I'm Sixteen: Step 87

Some social phenomena are difficult to explain. One that has eluded my comprehension is the unique decision of some Jewish parents to give their daughters an elaborate celebration known as a Sweet Sixteen Party. From what I can tell no such celebrations exist today, at least not in the parts of southern California with which I am familiar nor back in southeastern Wisconsin where I grew up and attended them during my tenure at John Marshall Junior Senior High School.

Certain special ceremonial celebrations honoring a teenage daughter continue today that did exist during my teenage years. One such celebration is the debutante ball given by wealthy, usually southern, aristocrats when their daughters turn sixteen to signify their entry into high society. Another such celebration occurs among many Spanish families from Mexico, Puerto Rico, Cuba and parts of Central and South American. When the daughter of these families reaches her fifteenth birthday she receives a baptismal blessing from the priest followed by an extravagant party where she wears an ornate dress, exchanges flat shoes for high heels, and dances a long dance with her father.

As far as I can tell unless the Jewish family happens to be a part of modern southern wealth, or as in my nieces case have some Spanish heritage leaving open the question of whether the priest or rabbi will give the blessing, odds are young Jewish girls turning sixteen may be sweet but will probably miss out on the party. Such, as noted previously, was not the case when I was growing up in Milwaukee.

Now if Peggy had a Sweet Sixteen Party it was most likely held in our basement, and having the good sense she was born with she did not invite her nearly fourteen and eleven year old brothers. My best recollection of the Sweet Sixteen Parties I attended is they were held in either hotel ballrooms or more likely in pavilions in municipal parks.

Another common practice was to have only half of the attendees be invited guests. Each of the guests was supposed to bring a date. While it was all right to bring an invited guest as a date, and it did not limit the volume of presents piled on the gift table since anyone receiving an invitation was expected to bring one, the crowd was proportionally larger if the date had not been invited.

Although I do not recall whose party it was I am quite certain I was the one invited when I went with Jeanette to a warm spring or early summer evening party at the Blatz Pavilion in Lincoln Park. We had a number of mutual friends, but I am not sure if we ever talked before I made the bold move of asking her to this party and she did the unexpected and accepted.

We danced and visited with the other guests before taking a stroll along the walkway past the lagoon and along the creek that feeds into the river. She was short with black hair, dark skin and perfect lips accented by the light colored lipstick that seemed to glisten under the park lights.

Even though the conversation was light and friendly, and the night air was filled with romance there never seemed to be the right moment to make a move. Later, it would bother me that despite my experience at camp my ability to detect the opportune time for making such a move still needed further development.

Days and weeks went by and whenever anyone asked if I had fun on my date with Jeanette and if I was thinking of asking her out again I would deftly mention our little walk and say I intended to give her a call. But, I never did.

One Special Moment in Time, Details Missing: Step 86

Some events in life hold special significance because it is the first time they occur and are immediately placed somewhere deep inside the long-term memory section of the brain. Surrounding details leading up to such an event or immediately following it often are lost in the ether. Such was the case regarding one particular event that occurred during those several months where Goldie and I were infatuated with each other.

Young Judaea had a camp somewhere in southwestern Michigan in the triangle between Benton Harbor, Holland and Kalamazoo. My sister had attended the camp a year or two earlier, and I am not sure if she went the time I went. In fact among the details I have forgotten was who else was in attendance, except for a girl from Gary, Indiana and me. One fact remains crystal clear, Goldie was not there.

We took a bus from Milwaukee through Chicago and around the southern tip of Lake Michigan to the camp. On the way we passed through Gary. I knew two things about Gary. It was second only to Pittsburgh in the production of steel, and it was the place Professor Harold Hill as portrayed by Robert Preston in the movie Music Man claimed to have gone to school. Neither of which illuminates the question of whether or not we met on the bus.

Her name was Becky, the second and last Becky in my life. She was thin, about my height, wore her hair short, and had braces that made her face light up when she smiled.

As previously stated most of the details surrounding the camp, what we did, what we ate, or even how long the stay lasted disappeared in time. Through this haze I recall a bonfire on the final night of camp. Like most such occasions I imagine there was the singing of familiar songs.

Although I am uncertain if Gilda or Hal went to camp I remember that in addition to owning a fabulous car Hal had a fantastic voice. With it he performed one of the greatest renditions of Gene McDaniel’s song A Hundred Pounds of Clay. I’d like to think he was singing it when sitting behind the rows of campers gathered around that fire I had my first kiss. Or, should I say I was kissed.

Even though I had come close a number of times before there was no way I was going to blow this opportunity. I probably was careful not to apply too much pressure for fear of the braces causing some sort of injury, but I distinctly remember having our sitting position shift to a reclining position with her on top. Not only was it my first kiss, we were making out, and if she didn’t care, which she definitely did not, I didn’t either.

When the billowing smoke stacks of Gary appeared the next day as we sat together on the bus I think we both thought we might keep in touch. She grabbed her backpack, turned and gave me a kiss, and waved as she exited.

Details on this side of that special night are just as foggy. What I do recall is getting a call from my old friend, Renee, who had apparently heard about my escapade at camp. She knew of my feelings for Goldie and tried to make me feel like a two-timer. Nearly succeeding I reminded her how little help she had been in engineering my relationship with Jan. We laughed and she promised to work on her skills as a yenta.

Let's Just Say It Never Worked: Step 85

Two organizations formed the cornerstone of the Jewish community during the time I was growing up in Milwaukee. The first was Hadassah, the Women’s Zionist Organization of America, founded to help create the state of Israel and to spread knowledge and understanding about its cultural heritage. The second was Bnai Brith, an organization with roots dating back to pre-Civil War New York with a mission of serving the American Jewish community.

Both organizations have youth groups. Young Judaea is a program designed by Hadassah to familiarize young Jewish teenagers with the nation of Israel and why a country less than twenty years of age at the time was considered the promised land to a people with a five thousand year history. It was less popular throughout Milwaukee at the time than the Bnai Brith Youth Organization, BBYO, whose main mission was helping adolescents establish a Jewish identity.

Now for some reason my sister had become involved with Young Judaea, and while I knew she wanted me to participate as soon as I was old enough she never convinced me it was the right organization for me. That is until she was able to clean up the basement enough to get permission from Mom and Dad to host a party her chapter had planned. Two things took place during the party that swayed me to join. First, the adult leader of the group named Dav an Israeli graduate student at the local university, talked with me like I was a young adult. And second, two of Peggy’s friends, who had been dating for a while, sat on the basement steps and made out.

When I attended my first meeting at Rosie and Leo’s house I found most of the kids in the chapter were first generation Americans. Unlike Peggy and me whose grandparents were immigrants during the pogroms in Russia, their parents were holocaust survivors, or had left Europe just prior to the rise of Hitler and the Nazis.

Rosie and Leo, whose house was actually in the suburb of Wauwatosa, attended Wauwatosa West High School, while their cousin Goldie, who lived across the street, was still at Longfellow Junior High. Gilda and Harold, who preferred to be called Hal, both attended Marshall. Gilda was easy to talk to, but it was her cousin Goldie who held my attention even though she said very little. Peggy felt Hal was conceited, but I thought he was just self-assured. Besides, I really liked the Thunderbird he gave us a ride home in after the meeting.

At a party held at Rosie and Leo’s house I met yet another cousin, Freddy. I had seen Freddy in the halls of the junior high wing at Marshall and realized he had the same self-assured swagger Hal possessed. He assured me the attraction I felt toward his cousin Goldie was a mutual one, and he encouraged me to walk her home. I did, but the conversation was awkward, not easy like it was with Gilda, and the goodnight at the door was just a smile and a nod.

Our shared attraction continued over the next several months. Perhaps it might have run its course sooner had we attended the same school and seen each other on a daily basis. I vaguely remember attending a birthday party at her house, but I’m not sure if it was for her or someone else. No matter how much we felt an attraction we never were able to feel the comfort we felt with others. For whatever reason, nothing came naturally between us; we were just awkward.

Above and Beyond the Call of Duty: Step 84

While I had taken my freshman classes and received high school credit for ninth grade work at Samuel Morse Junior High School the atmosphere at John Marshall was radically different, even though one wing of the school contained its own junior high.

One factor contributing to this environmental change was the numerous extracurricular activities from future business leaders to future teachers, from knitters to philatelists, and from foreign language clubs to the “M” club, an exclusive group of athletes whose achievements in their respective sports earned them the prestigious letter they proudly wore on specially designed white cardigan sweaters. If these individuals were fortunate enough to repeat their performance in succeeding years they received chevrons to wear on the sleeves of their sweaters.

A second factor was the vast array of classes available to students ranging from biology labs to auto shop, from classical Latin to modern driver education, and from traditional composition in English to multiple copies on NCR forms typed on a Smith-Corona in business education.

However, the most significant factor was ultimately the teachers many of whom had built reputations dating back to the days our parents had them at North Division High School. Although I never had the pleasure of having Mr. Newman, Mr. Spicuzza or Mr. Kampine, who my parents made into walking legends and Peggy may have had, I was fortunate to have a teacher whose reputation was known not only at Marshall High, but at several other high schools, including Washington High where her twin sister taught.

Miss Steiger made sure we were able to translate stories about ancient Rome from Latin to English and back again, in addition to properly conjugating verbs, but her role as teacher did not stop with her assigned subject. Somehow she was always able to find a reference in these primitive tales to relate to the current fight for civil rights being waged on the streets of Selma or Birmingham.

Similarly, she was able to relate battles fought by Caesar and his soldiers to the battles being fought by Westmoreland in what she considered a no less despicable and equally imperialistic war. Despite her clear admiration for President Johnson’s ability to guide groundbreaking legislation into civil rights law she was extremely critical of his handling of the Vietnam War.

At the same time she made it clear it was important when disagreeing with wartime policies to remain patriotic and not to denigrate the honorable role of the soldier. She was the only teacher I recall inviting her former students to come to her classes in their uniforms and talk about their experiences.

Although she was swelling with pride to see them she never touched any of them, or us for that matter. Her fear of the spread of germs meant a student who sneezed may miss portions of the former student’s story or a Latin translation, because Miss Steiger always said, “God bless you, and go wash your hands.” One of the students, the only Henrietta I have ever known, sneezed with such force it would reverberate around the room in true stereophonic sound. Needless to say, she was in the bathroom several times while I was busy translating.

Hygiene was stressed even at the Roman Banquet held near the end of the year at the exquisite Boulevard Inn. Whether a novice plebe or a veteran patrician every member of the Latin club knew to bleach their sheet until it was glistening white in order to wear a clean toga to the table.

From Where I Stand: Step 83

Let me first wish every mother in the world a warm and wonderful Happy Mother’s Day. Without mothers there would be no children of the world to mess up everything their mothers worked so hard to achieve.

A perfect example of this is the current situation in Greece and Europe, the birthplace of western civilization. Looking back upon history we find the mothers of ancient Greece gave their children the concept of equality among rights and responsibilities, a set of principles known as democracy.

Further, these same mothers bestowed upon their children the thirst for knowledge, the desire to place thought into coherent patterns, and to propose theories regarding the meaning of life, a set of ideas known as philosophy.

Not wanting their children to rely upon only their mental assets these same mothers encouraged them to participate in activities to develop physical strength, endurance and flexibility, and to compete with each other in games near Mount Olympus.

In discussing these accomplishments of ancient Greek mothers while eating our Mother’s Day brunch at a non-Greek owned restaurant my brother reminded me they also gave us wrestling in the nude. Actually all the athletes of the first Olympic games were naked. Rather than some fear of a Janet Jackson type wardrobe malfunction the early sponsors of the games realized clothing limited the performance of the athlete.

Unfortunately, the children of Modern Greek mothers failed to apply this same understanding of performance to the twenty first century economic practice of borrowing enough money from a bank to build a business and reimbursing the bank in an expeditious manner.

To make matters worse Greece joined fifteen other countries with the same currency to form an organization known as the European Union. Their mothers warned them to make this idea of a common currency work they would need to set up some stringent rules regarding loans, pay back schedules, and strong investments. Following their mothers’ advice they wrote out a plan for limiting borrowing to a small percentage of the total economy.

Since each of the countries had their own finance minister there was no way to regulate the policy and overindulgent children of astute mothers of Greece found ways to borrow incessantly until the country found itself on the doorstep of financial collapse. In an effort to save their currency countries in the EU with fiscal resources were forced to step in and help this birthplace of democracy.

Still, a psychological and linguistic nightmare arose this week from the turmoil of this financial and economic crisis. While not a classically trained linguist as a student of the English language I still remember my teachers telling us ain’t ain’t a word. When pressed for a reason not to use such a common term they told us it was slang or figurative language. Amazingly, the British, parents of our language who are unable to choose a head of government, but that’s a story for another time, and their EU partners fear the spread of a Greek contagion. As a figure of speech a contagion is the spread of a harmful idea or practice, but as a psychological phenomenon it is not the spread of the practice but rather the result, financial collapse, that worries EU members.

Across the pond in the U.S. some worry we may have borrowed too much and could be infected by the contagion. Chances are we ain’t got nothin’ to worry about if we listen to our mothers and pay back our loans we can wash our hands of this contagion.