A Whole New Meaning: Step 135

Growing up in a city known for breweries, motorcycles and Friday fish fries it was never surprising when piles of snow melted away and people sprayed insect repellent on their skin so they could barbeque in their backyards the mood of the whole city came alive with the excitement of summer. But not that summer. Tension was in the air.

For the past four or five years I had become a regular fan of the news. In our house it was Chet Huntley and David Brinkley on channel 4, the NBC affiliate. Besides the war in Vietnam the other topic filling their reports were stories of Negroes organizing marches in the South. As far as I was concerned what was going on in the South was just as far away as Vietnam.

No doubt I was quite naïve. My parents along with all their open-minded liberal friends insisted they had nothing against people with different skin colors, but felt it best to stick to our own kind. With Bill Cosby the only black face on television and Sidney Poitier more than four months away from “…Coming to Dinner,” the only role models of success I knew were Henry Aaron and the Braves who had deserted the city.

One day after our summer school class I went with Jeff P to his father’s store on North Avenue near Third Street in an area known as the inner city. One of the employees was a large friendly man with a big smile whose name I think was John. When I told him I lived on Lancaster Avenue he told me he had gone to an open house a few blocks away. John said the real estate agent walked away whenever he wanted to ask a question. He said his own real estate agent wouldn’t even take him to the neighborhood because it was a waste of time. Like I said I was naïve. Up until then I bought the myth that Negroes were either too lazy or chose to live in impoverished neighborhoods.

A few days after Huntley and Brinkley reported on confrontations between Negroes and police in Detroit, Dad came home with his boots, helmet and rubberized coat stuffed in the trunk of the car. As we watched the film of firefighters in Detroit putting out huge fires, Dad told Mom she shouldn’t worry because if anyone started firing at them he would be the first one under the fire engine. It was the first time I did worry for my father’s safety, but I also realized his view of what was happening was different than mine.

Although he had watched the same news reports with me that showed the peaceful march on Selma and the great oration in Washington by Reverend King, he regarded him as a rabble rouser who stirred up trouble wherever he went. His views of Father Groppi, the white priest who had grown up in an all white neighborhood on the south side of Milwaukee and led Negro protests from his parish, St. Boniface, in the inner city were even less flattering.

Shortly after Dad was called into work the announcement came from Mayor Maier that the city was under curfew and no one was to leave their house. When he lifted it a couple days later Jeff P and Hector came to my house to see if I could go with them to Jeff’s father’s store. Apparently there had been some damage and they were planning on helping clean up. I wasn’t allowed to go with them, but as they pulled away I heard Curtis Mayfield and the Impressions singing People Get Ready, and it had a whole new meaning for me.

Do you remember any civil rights demonstrations? Or, Do you remember the first time you saw things differently than your parents? Share with us in the comment section.

Back in the Game: Step 134

Shortly after I was elected president of Witt AZA one of the last orders of business Steve P had to preside over was the selection of the chapter sweetheart. In other chapters the completely democratic process known as who is dating the current or in-coming president, or failing that who has been dating one of our members for the past few months did this. In Witt since no one ever had more than three dates with the same girl this problem never entered the picture.

Now, in all honesty I have no idea whose name may have been offered in the selection process. If the selection took place while Donna and I were seeing each other I can be grateful she wasn’t selected. As it turned out we chose a rosy-cheeked blonde named Joy who through her vivacious smile, bubbling exuberance, and lack of a conceited bone her body endeared herself to our group of mostly self conscious sweaty palmed nervous nerds. All right, I’m not talking about Steve P, M, Brad, and a few others, but the rest of us were, making us all the more excited to have her as our sweetheart.

Another factor, which I am quite sure was merely coincidence, were Joy and Donna were in the same BBG chapter. Though I am not sure to what extent they shared a friendship this fact meant they saw each other at regular meetings and many social activities. It also meant Joy was likely to know quite soon after Beau Dance that Donna and I were no longer seeing each other.

One of the social activities their chapter organized every year was attending the fireworks on the lakefront. Since my days in elementary school one of my favorite holidays has always been the Fourth of July. In Milwaukee, dating back to the time when Schlitz Brewing Company was a major local employer and civic pride developer, there were cutting-edge fireworks the night of the third and a huge circus wagon parade the morning of the fourth. People marched folding chairs and blankets in hand for miles to get a spot on the hillsides or in the park to watch the sky fill with colors.

So, when I heard Joy’s excited voice on the phone I was hoping she was calling to invite me to see the fireworks. She was, only not with her. She wanted to know if I would go with someone named Mimi. Wow, a Jewish girl with a French name. The only French person who came to mind besides Charles de Gaulle was Brigitte Bardot.

All Joy would tell me was she thought Mimi was cute but a little shy. Compared to Joy most people I knew might appear shy. What mattered to me most was she was an attractive girl who Donna and her friends would see me with and know I had recovered and was back in the game.

My mother always told me beauty was in the eye of the beholder. She was right. Unfortunately for Mimi whatever beauty Joy was hoping I would see vanished when I picked up a quiet dark haired girl who reminded me more of de Gaulle than Bardot. After saying next to nothing in the car as we crawled through traffic, and even less as we walked to the park, I hoped against hope we would not see Donna.

Of course, despite the thousands of people who dotted the hillside there she was looking through his telescope at the grounds below holding the pyrotechnic display. Mimi suddenly came alive and started shouting out to her. I calmly said hello to Dennis.

We found a spot and laid out the blanket. As bright bursts of light whistled through the air I kept asking myself what she saw in him. He wasn’t as funny, intelligent, or good looking as me. Poor Mimi, she never stood a chance.

Did you ever have a blind date? How did it go? Tell us in the comment section.

Below the Surface: Step 133

Even though the length of my relationship with Donna was shorter in duration than the infatuations I had with Becky or Jan, the breakup had a significantly greater impact. This was probably due to the fact we had actually spent time together and grown to know each other over the six or eight weeks, whereas in the other two situations, though they may have lasted months or even a year, it was mostly at a distance with a smattering of face to face contact. Her absence left a void.

Fortunately, youth has certain advantages. Despite whacked out hormonal systems, teenagers have amazing resilience and regenerative powers. Not to diminish the pain and anguish I endured as the result of being rejected, but unlike Romeo I never felt suicidal. Of course Donna did not drink poison she merely discovered what many teenagers realize that her emotions were fickle.

Faced with the prospect of having to take another class that summer to attain senior status in the fall I decided to knuckle down and work hard to raise my GPA. Unlike the previous year the class I needed was offered at Marshall High. Another thing that was different was the majority of students in this class took SA, or superior ability, classes during the school year.

I am not sure how students were selected into the SA track. Many, if not all, had gone to Sixty-fifth Street School. However, if I learned nothing else during that summer it was the students I assumed truly were superior had no greater gifts than I did, at least not in English.

Four things stand out in my memory of the class, the story we read, its form, a student, and the teacher. In prior years we had read Elliot’s Silas Marner and Dickens’s Great Expectations, but neither of them prepared me for Golding’s Lord of the Flies.

In the story a group of British boys are left to fend for themselves after their plane crashes on a deserted island. Their exploits move from an attempt to form a civilized democratic society with rules and benevolent leadership to the liberation of an inner savage and animalistic hunting, torturing and killing. Having grown up to expect the best of people Golding’s narrative of an ugly depraved being lying just below the surface civilization provides was extremely disturbing.

Adding to the value of this story was the fact that it was not a segment of a large hardcover anthology. Each student in the class had his or her own paperback copy of the novel. No longer were we reading schoolbook text, we were reading an adult book.

Of course we were still in high school, and therefore my expectations were the same as any other class. Despite being told of the importance of regular attendance my friend Stu consistently showed up late when he showed up at all. I am not sure whether it had to do with his playing in a band or his disregard for rules. In either event, I knew he was not going to pass the class. Wrong. He aced the midterm, the final, and the course.

Finally, it may be as a result of having someone my own age reject me, but Mrs. Willoughby, who only taught at Marshall High during the summer, evoked a level of interest in me similar to young Michael in The Reader. Only in this case she could read. Actually, it was the way she read, sitting at the front of the room on a hard chair with her tanned legs crossed at the knees and her silver blonde hair illuminating her face as her sultry voice projected profound images of the characters in the book, that captured my fascination. Though I did manage to raise my grade point, in contrast to the fictional Michael, my attraction to the older woman remained pure fantasy.

Did you have high school fantasies? Tell us in the comment section.

From Where I Stand: Step 132

As reported last week a jury found a counselor at a Youth Correctional Facility here in the great state of California had violated the civil rights of four of the wards at the facility. Attorney General Jerry Brown’s office represented all three defendants: the counselor, the superintendent of the facility, and the state director of juvenile justice. They were ordered to pay awards totaling more than a million dollars, and attorney fees plus punitive damages that the judge is working to assess. To date there has been no response from Jerry Brown, Meg Whitman, anyone associated with the campaigns for governor, or any of the major media outlets in the state.

Perhaps Meg Whitman found herself too busy defending her own actions. In an article in Friday’s Los Angeles Times, Whitman, who was the CEO of EBay in 2007 when the incident took place, stated, “Young Mi Kim and I had a verbal disagreement and it escalated and I actually, as the New York Times accurately reported, you know escorted her out of the room and then I went back to what I needed to do in that meeting.”

It is unlikely we will ever know the exact content of the disagreement, or the level of force exerted to escort Ms. Kim, but whatever it was Kim reportedly received a $200,000 settlement. This figure is slightly less according to my source than the quarter of a million dollars the attorney general spent for expert witnesses whose purpose was to solidify the defense of the aforementioned correctional officials.

When asked if Attorney General Jerry Brown knew about this expenditure my source responded by asking, “What do you think? Who else is going to approve spending that kind of money?”

During the past week I also learned that while the attorneys for the plaintiffs have spent six years putting this case together none of them have been compensated, and may have to wait for the outcome of any appeal the state may file on behalf of the defendants. Meanwhile, I also learned, outside counsel retained to assist the state was paid for by the prison guard union.

Again, this is the same union that is contributing large sums of money to elect Jerry Brown governor of California. Of course if Meg Whitman continues to have questions raised about her temper, management style or abuse of employees, there may not be anyone qualified other than the Ella Baker Center for Human Rights to ask why when a unanimous jury finds “clear and convincing” evidence that the defendants violated the civil rights of these four former wards is the state still considering their appeal.

A logical person might further question whether this civil case warrants some form of criminal prosecution. As I recall, Jerry Brown was the tough on crime mayor of Oakland, and has spent time as attorney general portraying himself as a protector of innocent victims. Naturally the burden of proof is different in a criminal case, but at least it might say the state of California cares about its citizens, even incarcerated ones, more than someone who uses his position as a state employee to abuse those citizens.

What do you think? Tell us in the comment section. Or, write Jerry Brown and Meg Whitman and tell them what you think about this case.

Time to Reflect: Step 131

Nature is filled with apt analogies to life. One that often comes to my mind is the voyage at sea. When we set out on a journey in life we attempt to maintain an even keel, work to steer our rudder in the right direction and pray for steady winds.

Most of the time we move forward through the constant waves that lap up on either side of the bow and lie flat in our wake. Sometimes we must tack back and forth to go a short distance until a gentle breeze pushes us ahead along a steady course. Nearly all of us can weather the occasional downpour in our path, but when tossed around by the persistent pounding of the storm only those with stubborn tenacity or pure calm in their soul will prevail.

As my week has gone by the tasks have progressed from the welcome breeze to a continuous series of downpours. My inspiration to carry on comes from an actor whose life shifted from playing a superhero on the silver screen to being one in real life. Christopher Reeve said, “I think a hero is an ordinary individual who finds strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.”

So far, I am happy to report, my struggle has not reached the point of overwhelming obstacles. As stated last week in my reflection I plan to continue to write my life story, but also create a second blog that develops a dialogue with readers regarding “why not” fill the streets with electric cars, have the best health care system in the world, reward kindergarten teachers and college professors with the same kind of signing bonuses and compensation packages we give to LeBron James, Alex Rodriguez or Miley Cyrus?

Unfortunately my technical skills have fallen off since my days as a sysop for an elementary school or assistant in a computer lab at the University of Wisconsin. For the past few days I have struggled to set up a program called WordPress on my Macintosh computer. My intention was to design a blog offline and push it into the blogosphere. Many readers will not have the slightest idea what I just said, and that is fine. Just be sure to hang in there with me during this next week as I work to make this new dimension of blogging a reality.

Over the course of the past 131 days the wonderful people of Blogger have graciously allowed me to write Every Step of the Way for you at absolutely no cost to me. I am not sure how much longer this arrangement will stay in place despite the fact that they ask not one cent, and their only compensation as far as I know is having blogspot in the URL.

My commentary tomorrow and continuing personal journey will continue through at least the next week and will appear at this same site. Be prepared for updates on any new developments.

Questions or comments are appreciated.

In the Back Seat of the Boat: Step 130

At the beginning of the school year despite not having a girlfriend I found a date to the Sweetheart Dance. Although the night went all right either Rina sensed I wasn’t attracted to her, or even more likely she just wasn’t that attracted to me. In either case we remained distant friends holding occasional conversations in the hallways.

Beau Dance was the BBG version of the Sweetheart Dance. Each chapter selected a junior who would be a senior in the fall to be their beau. Since the two Jeffs, M and I were all classified first semester juniors none of us was selected as a beau despite our knowing we would actually be seniors in the fall. Steve P was a beau and would make the walk down the aisle and be introduced, but there is no way I can recall what chapter selected him.

Unlike the fall, though, I had been dating one person for a while, if one can call going to the movies a couple times, visiting the library, and cruising around providing T.P. decorating services dating. Even though this seemed to be the perfect opportunity to demonstrate female equality Donna seemed less than enthusiastic when she asked me to the dance. Perhaps she felt the bourgeois custom of wearing formal attire was oppressive.

A number of friends worked at one of the Sherkow Formal Wear stores. They were always glad to squeeze us in between the prom and wedding crowds. M considered doing something outlandish like renting tails and a top hat, but came down to earth when he saw the rental tags.

In a strange turn of events Rina, who had been my date to the Sweetheart Dance, asked Jeff M, who had been Donna’s date to that dance. We even discussed doubling, but while the girls might have been comfortable with that arrangement I think Jeff and I agreed it was a bit too bizarre. As it turned out M was asked by Mickie, who went to school with Donna at Washington High.

After we finished work at Wiro, M and I drove to pick up our tuxedoes. Then, we drove to the florist and picked up corsages. This time we both did it right. We made sure to ask for colors that coordinated with the girls’ dresses and wristbands so we didn’t have to worry about poking them with pins. M dropped me at home so I could get ready while he went home, changed clothes and switched cars.

A few hours later he came by in “the boat,” the term we used to describe his father’s Oldsmobile 98, which was also affectionately known as a land cruiser before Toyota screwed it up with an SUV with that moniker. Donna looked stunning in the dark blue satin dress that defied the pastel season. It was the only time I remember seeing her father and her mother who had greeted me before suddenly gave me the “so you’re Rita’s boy” look and snapped a couple pictures for posterity. While M went to get Mickie everything was warm and affectionate on the surface but I could sense something was not quite right.

Once again the War Memorial Center provided an outstanding venue overlooking Milwaukee’s finest feature, Lake Michigan. After the dance and pizza at Mama Mia’s where we naturally ran into Jeff M and Rina, we headed to the big empty parking lot behind Mayfair Shopping Mall. While M and Mickie made out in the front seat I started to feel quite amorous in the immense rear seat. Donna stopped me and cupped my face and told me she was too fickle and she wanted to end our relationship.

So, there it was I had received the Flying Fickle Finger of Fate award a full six months before Rowan and Martin started giving it out on Laugh In.

Did the fickle finger ever find you? Tell us about it in the comment section.

It May Not Be Enough: Step 129

“Young people speaking their minds, getting so much resistance from behind,” are lyrics written by Stephen Stills and recorded by Buffalo Springfield in a song aptly titled “For What It’s Worth.” We were definitely different than our parents’ generation who weathered the great depression and said not a word when asked to fight. A lot of us were seen “Singing songs and carrying signs,” as my shortened junior year of high school came to a close.

Besides running around in my Rambler decorating our friends yards, something I’m sure Donna left out of her campaign materials when she ran for mayor of Milwaukee nearly two decades later, we would often have long conversations about withdrawing from Vietnam, civil rights, and a topic about which she was extremely passionate and I had no clue, women’s liberation.

At the time I didn’t have a clear understanding of why people were protesting the war. My father, who insisted all he ever did was tap out radio signals in a B-24 liberator as it flew over Germany and dropped some bombs, disapproved of young people protesting but thought it was a good idea to get a student deferment to avoid the draft. In one of our discussions Donna pointed out it was the rich and middle class who received student deferments, leaving the poor and minorities to be drafted and fight the war.

She even pointed out how Martin Luther King Jr. and Father James Groppi, a local priest active in the civil rights movement, had drawn a parallel between the struggle of Negroes, as African Americans were referred to during the time, to receive equal rights in education, employment, and elections with the disproportionate number of young male Negroes drafted into service and killed in Vietnam. At the same time, she listened as I told her how one of Miss Steiger’s former students, a Negro officer in the army, came back to our Latin class to tell us about the war, but also how the military offered opportunities to minorities civilian society failed to provide.

Even more confusing to me was the idea that something a group known as hippies had started was somehow related to the liberation of women. She said the commune formed by these people in California was like the kibbutz in Israel with everyone sharing the work and the fruits of their labor. Of course where the whole sharing concept broke down for me was when it came to sexual relations.

As a life long subscriber to the double standard perpetuated by everything from multiple wives in biblical times to Bond girls in novels and film the myth that it was all right for a man to have sex with multiple partners but a woman who followed a similar pattern was a whore had been totally ingrained in my psyche. Worse still was the nagging notion the fair skinned bright-eyed beauty with a voracious appetite for sweat inducing embraces might actually think she would like multiple partners. Here I had finally moved beyond the single encounter or distant flirtation to an actual relationship with a girl, and she has the nerve to point out it may not be enough.

Certainly there were advantages in growing up during a time of great change, but there were also great challenges. We were after all only a few years removed from the Disney stories where the prince rescued the fairest in the land and they lived happily ever after. Imagining Sleeping Beauty telling the prince the kiss was fine but she’d rather hang with Dopey and the boys required a whole new set of glasses, and “For What It’s Worth,” they weren’t always rose colored.

Do you have a story about dealing with change? Please share it in the comment section.

A Typical Early June Day: Step 128

When we gathered at Elkhart Lake the news was already filled with reports of rising tensions between Israel and Egypt. At the time the president of Egypt, Gamal Nasser gave a speech to union members declaring that if the country were to go to war, “…our basic objective will be to destroy Israel.” It renewed in my parents and much of the Jewish community in Milwaukee memories of a speech Nasser had made before the United Nations some seven years earlier. In that speech he talked about taking back Palestine and, “…the annulment of Israel’s existence.”

As a kid I had always thought of Nasser as fitting the description my father often used, which was a guy “full of hot air.” When my vocabulary grew to include the term rhetoric his speeches served as an easy to understand illustration. However, as word of his throwing out UN peace keepers and blocking Israeli ships was reported, a surprise to me because my image of both Israel and Egypt was of waterless places blanketed by sand, I, too, worried about a possible war.

On a typical early June day long before Twitter, the internet or even CNN, when most discussions centered around the end of school and plans for the summer, rumors about an Israeli-Egyptian war spread through the halls of John Marshall Junior Senior High School. By the time I got home the news bulletins were constantly interrupting regular programming on television and Israel was fighting Jordan and Syria, as well as Egypt.

Such news only heightened my anxiety over what it would mean to be a Jew in a world where the place we had read in the torah was promised to Moses and his people was blown to smithereens. I had seen maps of little Israel stuck among the much larger Egypt, Syria, and other Arab countries. To me it was David and Goliath all over again.

Up until that time my only frame of reference for modern military battles had been World War II and Vietnam. The only planes I had seen in movies and news reports were German, Japanese, British and American. Yet, that night they showed a swarm of Israeli fighter planes taking out airfields inside Egypt. My image of middle-eastern soldiers doing battle on camelback was shattered.

Since we couldn’t get together during the week Donna and I would talk on the phone. She amazed me when she said her mother had talked to family in Israel. It was never clear if these were shared family members since we were fourth cousins, but that was of little consequence. In a time when few people made long distant phone calls it astounded me that her parents would spend the small fortune it had to cost to call Israel.

We went that Friday night, and met up with a number of friends, for Sabbath services at her synagogue, Temple Menorah. After Rabbi Lehr gave an eloquent sermon about coming together as a community to show the world we were united behind Israel, Donna decided to approach him after the service. He confirmed boys and girls as young as sixteen could join the Israeli army, and as a Jew she would receive citizenship and could enlist with her parents’ permission.

Before we reached my car I reminded her she was opposed to the war in Vietnam. She insisted there was a difference. She clearly articulated her belief that Vietnam was morally reprehensible tyranny and Israel was fighting for its right to survive.

Fortunately the Six Day War ended the next day and I no longer had to worry about my girlfriend leaving me to go and fight in the holy land.

Do you remember the Six Day War? How about memories of other wars? Tell us in the comment section.

As It Became Increasingly Clear: Step 127

Growing up we learn a lot about ourselves often long before we learn what names psychologist and sociologists give to whatever condition or phenomenon we have. Physical difficulties never presented a problem for it was easy to label illnesses like polio, measles, mumps, chicken pox, pneumonia, cold or flu. Although when the term influenza started appearing in discussions it took me a long time to realize it was just another way of saying flu, and not some new strain that made one ache but not vomit.

Outside of discovering labels for various behaviors I learned the geography where I was born and raised had a lot to do with the person I became. For example, one pair of labels social-psychologists favor in categorizing our ability to form relationships is introvert and extravert. Had I grown up in an urban center on the east coast any development of extraverted behavior would likely have been stunted, whereas had I grown up on the west coast development of introverted behavior would merely have blended in with the laid back cultural landscape. Being a Midwesterner allowed me to balance the two behaviors so well that today I never know what to put on self-assessment inventories.

As it became increasingly clear my athletic aptitude was marginal and any artistic ability lying beneath the surface lacked the courage, conviction and drive necessary to emerge, one attribute kept appearing before me each day I looked in the metaphoric mirror. Although gregarious might be the label social-psychs might attach, it smacks of certainty, swagger and yes, extravert. My personal analysis had me beyond sociable, but not so far removed that I could not relate to shy individuals. What I saw in myself was an ability to make and sustain friendships.

Being an educator I know the difficulty of moving from the concrete to the abstract. A hallmark of my early years was good guys in white hats, bad guys in black hats. Many friends relinquished their relationship with individuals they saw as wrong. Long before the concept of “let’s agree to disagree,” if an Elvis fan decided he wanted to listen to the Beatles he would need to find new friends with whom to eat lunch.

Now, I’m not saying I didn’t have favorites nor that I was afraid to share my opinions, but for the most part I saw friends as much more valuable than opinions or the need to tell them I was right. In a practical sense it is this attribute that allowed the majority of a group of thirty teenagers to elect me president of Witt AZA. Certainly, M was a popular guy, after all he was my best friend and in my opinion a much more skilled leader, but if the ability to build and maintain friendship and camaraderie are the currency of social groups my coffers were filled at a relatively early age.

My involvement in school organizations was limited to attending one meeting of the drama club, a short time on the football and wrestling teams, and being part of the Latin Club largely by virtue of taking Latin as a class. Whatever social, leadership, and most significantly organizational skills I developed during high school were largely due to my role as president of Witt AZA. Few, if any, of the thirty members of that great group of guys realized how much I relied on M to put together an agenda and make sure meetings ran smoothly and efficiently. However, for me it was an indelible lesson in recognizing and either developing or learning to assign tasks where I was deficient. No doubt, these were good lessons to learn before reaching the “real world.”

Were you involved in any groups outside of high school? Tell us about them in the comment section.

We Returned Home: Step 126

Our world was changing greatly that spring and the retreat at Elkhart Lake gave future community leaders a chance to step back and reflect upon the world they were about to inherit. We took in the whole world from the perspective of young adults with a shared Jewish heritage, a fervent desire to move forward from the scars of the holocaust our parents experienced, and a vision of harmony, peace and love. From the fragrant smell of lilacs blossoming near a crystal clear lake our idyllic dream beckoned to breathe life into what became known as the baby boomer generation.

Then, we returned home.

For a week or two I scheduled time with my father to learn how to drive a car with a stick shift. Although a few cars with standard transmissions had the shift on the floor between “bucket seats,” most cars at the time kept the shifter on the column to maintain the bench seat allowing two passengers to sit in the front with the driver.

Donna and I quickly realized this setup worked better for the driver, me, to put his arm around the girlfriend, her, while driving. She would however have to slip away so I could use my right arm to shift after each stop. We became quite adept at this and she would slip back in against my chest and neck as soon as we were up to cruising speed.

Once my foot release on the clutch coordinated with my steady pressure on the accelerator Dad let me use the car. Yet another American Motors vehicle, this three speed six cylinder with overdrive was a nine-year-old Rambler with a flat gray painted exterior he “practically stole” for two hundred dollars. Overdrive, a way to provide fuel economy, was achieved in third gear by taking the foot off the accelerator and then putting it back.

All these features enhanced the driving experience, but the special feature my friends found most fascinating was the reclining front seat. Adorned with a flower and windmill print fabric tailored to fit the seat by pulling a lever the vertical portion reclined at several positions, but also went all the way back to align with the horizontal position of the front and back seats creating a virtual bed that enhanced the parked experience.

Armed with our new skills for creating a better planet we climbed into the Rambler with excitement in every breath. Next, we headed to the Rexall drugstore to buy a twelve-pack of Teddy Bear toilet paper. Finally, we carefully selected our targets. In order to make this a most meaningful event we chose only the homes of close friends who lived near enough for us to enhance several landscapes before the evening was done.

Waiting until it was dark enough to complete our mission without being detected by the occupants or neighbors, we parked a short distance away and worked in pairs winding the tissue through branches, around mailboxes, and across front doors. Donna and I created a signature move where one of us would wrap it around one door handle then toss the roll over the rooftop to the other who would take it and wrap it around the other door handle.

Most of our targets, both parents and children, received our gesture in the spirit it was intended laughing the whole time they cleaned up the mess. However, my cousin Richard, Jim’s father, surprised me. A prankster himself, he once told my father to go ahead and turn in a broken bottle along with the good bottles for his deposit. As my father approached the clerk for his refund Richard started hollering about the broken bottle and embarrassed my father. But, he didn’t see our mischief in the same way. He told us he thought the neighbors would think it was those Jews creating trouble. To this day I believe he was wrong, but we never did paper his house again.

What pranks did you enjoy as a teenager? Please share in the comment section.

From Where I Stand: Step 125

When we sat down for bagels and juice the discussion quickly moved beyond the lack of diplomacy by BP CEO Tony Hayward and the ridiculous apology he received from Texas Congressman Joe Barton to the intriguing results of a trial where all twelve jurors found an official at a Youth Correctional Facility in Chino, California had violated the civil rights of four wards by forcing them to have sex. Mitch, who was barred from discussing the matter for the five months of trial where he represented one of the plaintiffs, said the attorney general’s office had refused any effort to resolve the matter during the six years he had been working on the case. Now, he says they are considering an appeal.

When Dan asked why he had not heard about the case in the news Mitch explained that only the San Bernardino Sun had written an article about the outcome. He said other media might be waiting to see if an appeal is filed. In the meanwhile the judge is determining punitive damages and attorney fees, which the defendant has been ordered to pay. Were the attorney general to decide to appeal the state would have to put aside a promissory note one and a half times the total of the awards and fees, according to Mitch.

Manuel wanted to know if that meant his money, as a taxpayer would be set aside for this case. Mitch assured him that is what would be done.

So, what pray tell, we all wanted to know, was the basis for the defense? Mitch said they had a number of expert witnesses, none of whom had ever visited this facility, state this kind of behavior could not have happened. One expert on prison culture claimed to be writing a book with research to support the defense’s argument. Apparently none of the twelve jurors were buying the expert testimony nor do I foresee any of them running out to purchase the book.

It occurred to me the individual found to have perpetrated this act might be represented by the correction officers’ union. While Mitch could not substantiate whether or not this person was a member of the union he did say the prison guard union was well known to be one of the most powerful organizations in the state. Of course this stems from a multiplying of the prison population in recent years, but that’s a conversation for another day.

When I got home I found in the Sun article both the superintendent of the facility and the head of the California Youth Authority at the time of the incident were found responsible for imprisoning the four youths in conditions “that exposed them to a substantial risk of serious harm and/or sexual abuse.” One of the attorneys stated, “They have to take affirmative action to protect the wards. Prison staff were warned repeatedly that Shelby was a sexual predator, and absolutely nothing was done about it.”

So one might wonder, is there a point of law that merits appeal in this case? Or, is there reason to speculate that since attorney general Jerry Brown is running for governor support by the correctional officer’s union might influence such a decision. While no direct link to my knowledge has been established it is essential his office repudiate the slightest whiff of impropriety or be subject to the wrath of the voters, or at least Meg Whitman.

One group, the Ella Baker Center for Human Rights seeks support for a petition asking Attorney General Brown to let the judgment in this case stand.

What do you think? Please let us know in the comment section.

Time to Reflect: Step 124

Two weeks ago marked the forty-eighth anniversary of the day one of America’s great hero's life was cut short by an assassin. One of the most inspiring leaders of my generation Robert F. Kennedy said, “Others have seen what is and asked why. I have seen what could be and asked why not.” As I look back upon this past week I realize all to often I continue to ask why instead of why not.

For the past two years I have struggled along with millions of Americans who have found themselves out of work. It has been crushing for me to watch my wife be the only teacher at her school to sign up to teach summer school. Half-heartedly I hoped some other teacher in the district would fill the position, or miraculously someone would hire me or pay me for my writing. As I picked her up yesterday and said good-bye to some teachers and the principal who already bore the signs of relief their impending hiatus produce I knew my opportunity to rescue her had come and gone.

Determined to stop looking at things the way they are, waiting on miracles to happen, focusing on the resources at hand, my goal is to make it possible for my wife not only to turn away the opportunity to teach summer school next year but to stay home the following fall if she would rather not return.

When I started this journey four months ago the catalyst for my daily excursions into the blogosphere was the book Crush It by Gary Vaynerchuk. In this book he points out everyone has some area of expertise to share with others, and he considers blogging the ideal way. During this past week I signed up for a networking service called help a reporter out (HARO), which has individuals provide expertise to reporters looking for various resources. To date my biggest problem has been determining in what specific category my expertise lies.

An obvious choice would be education. With all my years of teaching and having earned a doctorate in curriculum and education there would appear to be no question I have expertise in the field. Still, my experience has been fraught with doubters, causing me to doubt at times. Perhaps Walt Disney doubted himself when he was fired as a cartoonist, or Winston Churchill when he was forced to step down as prime minister.

My years studying and working in educational technology, training and development, school administration and special education make me think there must be something to call my area of expertise. The complexity of it all has caused me to move from analysis to paralysis. Fortunately, my real expertise brought me out of stagnation and back amongst the living.

Like with Bobby while I may be able to look at the world around me, analyze what is taking place, even recognize cause and effect relationships that lead me to ask why, my real expertise, gift, vision, is the ability to see what is possible, what needs to happen, and to ask why not.

To that end I will be dividing my blog in two, one will continue to follow my life story while the other will start a dialogue on the question of why not. Be sure to follow closely for these changes will occur in the next two weeks. Thank you for your support.

Do you have a why not question? Please share it in the comment section.

Remembering Elkhart Lake: Step 123

It may have been spring break or just a weekend late in spring, but either way it is one of the more memorable moments in my life. Everyone attending met at the Bnai Brith Youth Organization district office. Harry, the executive director of the organization and one of the few adults who preferred kids or young adults as he referred to them call him by his first name, checked to make sure everyone who signed up for the leadership development conference boarded the bus to Elkhart Lake.

As candidates to succeed Steve P as president of Witt AZA, M and I knew this would be our time to learn how the organization actually functioned. Steve P had been elected the president of the district council, or leader of the leaders so to speak.

When we arrived we went to our assigned cabins, unpacked our suitcases and backpacks, and headed to the main hall. Harry welcomed us and gave a brief rundown of the agenda and what he called his expectations rather than rules. Then, he turned it over to Rob, the outgoing council president, who ran the session.

Introductions took up most of the remainder of the first day, but we broke into groups to do one problem solving exercise before dinner. During a break in the action Paul, who had moved to the eastside but was still a loyal member of King David AZA, brought me some cherry tobacco that he stuffed into the bowl of my pipe and patted down with a special metal tool. I know, sixteen year olds smoking pipes, how bizarre. But then we tend to follow our role models, and Harry smoked a pipe, and so did Hef.

Now strange as this may seem it had its desired affect. While I have no idea what the problem we were working on was, as I took the pipe out of my mouth to talk Donna grabbed it from me and started smoking it. She had been Jeff M’s girlfriend a few months back and was a good friend of Rina, who I had taken to last year’s sweetheart dance. One thing was for sure, I was no match for her advances as she giggled and placed the pipe back in my mouth.

Most of the exercises in the sessions at Elkhart Lake were my first exposure to organizational skills and concepts that would serve me well throughout my life, but they have since faded into the blur of seminars with similar topics. However, the relationship I developed with Donna would have an even greater impact, because not only is it a wonderful memory but also because she was truly my first girlfriend.

It started small with us first sharing stories about some of the guys in Witt, and her telling tales of girls in Leo N. Levi BBG. Then, we compared notes on our respective high schools. She went to Washington. Finally, when we got around to discussing families it turned out her maternal grandfather was my maternal grandfather’s cousin, which probably means our great-grandparents were brothers. It didn’t qualify for incest, but we wouldn’t have let it stop us anyway.

As night fell and we found ourselves alone on a bench there are two things I remember distinctly. First, how totally at ease I was with my arm around her and hers around me, and second how good she smelled. As we kissed for the first time I was stunned and excited when she pushed her tongue into my mouth.

The sensation took the meaning of intimacy to a whole new level for me and I was sorry later when I shared it with the guys in my cabin, especially the two Jeffs. Jeff M seemed dejected when he said she had never kissed him that way, and Jeff P interpreted it to mean she wanted my body. Whatever it meant it would continue once we returned to Milwaukee.

Tell us about meeting your first girlfriend or boyfriend in the comment section.

Experiencing the Intoxicating Exhilaration: Step 122

When a sixteen year old boy is asked what he likes best about driving he most likely will say it is the opportunity it gives him to get from one place to the next without having to rely on his parents, or if he happens to be waxing philosophical, an unusual trait for a sixteen year old but many hormonally challenged sixteen year olds act strangely as did I, he might speak of the freedom or independence it provides. Rarely will he be straight forward enough to say it’s all about impressing girls, or if he isn’t into girls due to maturity or other factors, that it’s the thrill of having control over a powerful machine.

Now except for a brief period when I was working on earning my boy scout marksmanship merit badge by busting up some targets with a .22 caliber open sight rifle I have never experienced the intoxicating exhilaration associated with firing weapons, nor do I wish to, and being among the last to turn our push in for a power mower the chance to feel the blood pounding in my ears and the adrenaline coursing through my veins came to me for the first time when I spun the Dodge in a donut on that empty, icy Red Owl parking lot the night I earned my driver’s license.

Among the group of friends who earned their driver’s licenses late that winter and early spring only a couple were able to get cars frequently enough to do what is commonly referred to as joy riding or pleasure cruising. M was usually consigned to some large family car at least until late in spring when he showed up with a small but clean Pontiac Lemans. Jeff M rarely had the opportunity to drive one of the family vehicles except at work. It would take me a while to learn to handle a stick shift well enough to have an option beside the incredibly slow moving Dodge, and then there was Jeff P.

Our mutual friend, Mac, not his first name but the initial syllable of his surname, invariably rode shotgun since unlike the rest of us he never had a car and he was not phased by the way Jeff P drove. Remembering that due to some rare blood disorder Jeff P was unable to participate in athletics, it may come as no surprise that he chose to push the aforementioned adrenaline rush to unparalleled extremes.

Looking at the pale blue Buick Special with a body structure and size similar to the Corvair or Lemans one might logically assume the car would move at a rather tepid speed. So, when Jeff rolled down the window and punched the accelerator on my maiden voyage in the vehicle my eyes screamed with amazement as not only my hair shot back but also my upper lip nearly touched my ear lobes from the incredible G-force. Mac simply turned up the radio and Jeff P laughed as we shot through intersection after intersection while Jeff M, M and I closed our eyes and prayed in the backseat.

When Jeff opened up the hood to show us what provided the thrust our mouths hung open stunned by what was stuffed into the limited space. Somehow his father had a Super Wildcat 465 installed in the undersized Buick. The 360 horsepower engine with a specially mounted pair of four-barrel carburetors known as “dual quads” had a 425 cubic inch displacement that provided 465 pounds of torque. Designed for the much larger Electra and Riviera due to its shortened “nailhead” valves it was miraculously crammed into the smaller car.

I happily drove home in the Dodge covering the brake at each intersection, leaning forward to check for cross traffic and pressing the buttons, first, second and drive to assist the engine in regaining enough power to resume my previous speed.

Do you have any good car stories? Tell us about them in the comment section.

My Ticket Out: Step 121

Although being an employee at the Pizza Wagon was ideally suited to meeting up with friends while working there were two distinct drawbacks. First, even though Mr. P was fair about allowing each of us to take certain nights off for special events, we all sacrificed the chance to go to many school and social activities. Second, the pay sucked. Sure we all got our nickel raises and busboys split tips with waitresses, but our ten percent of their fifteen percent of a four dollar pizza amounted to about $1.35 which when divided three ways came to eight to ten cents an hour, which in turn limited our financial strength when we were able to attend those special events.

That winter, a short time after we started to drive, M went to work for his uncle. When wrestling season was over he approached me about a position at his uncle’s wholesale drug company. In my wildest dreams the idea of working at Wiro Drug would never have occurred to me, but when M told me I would be making $1.60 an hour he could have told me I would be shoveling horse manure and the only thing I would have wanted to know was whether or not I needed to provide my own shovel. A fifty cent raise, a forty-five percent increase in salary, this was my ticket out of poverty.

Wiro Drug provided daily inventory for most of the pharmacies in the Milwaukee area. A typical order might include a 24 pack of Excedrin or Bayer, a few dozen packages of A&D ointment, a dozen Vicks Formula 44, a couple dozen Phillips Milk of Magnesia, a few dozen Kotex regulars or supers, a dozen Breck super hold and 3 Clairol number 31. My job most of the time was to stock the shelves on the main floor and fill orders.

When M and I arrived after school we entered the front door. M would grab a lab coat and sit at a desk in the front office and take orders from customers. I would put on a shop apron and head to the main floor where I would grab a shopping cart and push it around the aisles pulling the items listed on the invoice off the shelf and placing them in the cart. M and Uncle Max kept filling out new orders for Bob, Harvey and myself.

Uncle Max was always smiling and jovial when we arrived showing a true interest in how we were doing. However, once we were on the clock his demeanor would shift from soft and fuzzy to stern and authoritarian taskmaster.

Bob was a pre-med student at Marquette University who had worked for Uncle Max for a number of years and could tell where everything was located in the warehouse with his eyes blindfolded. He stayed calm and was the guy everyone turned to when Uncle Max became excited and started to charge into the warehouse hollering about something missing from an order or an extra item in an order or wanting to know why the order he asked me to complete fifteen minutes ago wasn’t complete ten minutes ago.

Once I learned where the inventory was located the amount of time it took to complete an order shrank significantly, but somehow it was never fast enough for Uncle Max. Now, admittedly this was one task M was definitely better at than me, and while he usually spent most of his time taking orders on the phone when he needed to fill an order he did it as fast or faster than anyone.

Fortunate for me there was Harvey. A soft-spoken man with Clarabelle the clown hair, he was a veteran of numerous tirades and handled most confrontations with a smile, although he occasionally would walk away muttering.

At the end of the day no matter what had happened Uncle Max turned into the same smiling jovial guy who greeted everyone courteously when they arrived.

Did you have any memorable jobs or bosses? Tell us about them in the comment section.

A Final Chapter in Driver's Education: Step 120

After completing the classroom text, workbook and simulator portions of driver’s education, and spending a month of intensive road preparation with both of my parents, and passing the road test with several feet of snow on the ground one might think that I needed no further instruction. Of course, that’s wrong. Actually today one would probably not be able to take the road test without first passing a certified road course administered by a state approved institution. Such was not the case in Wisconsin when I was learning to drive, and so that spring I took the mandated behind the wheel portion of the driver’s education course nearly two months after receiving my license.

Unlike the private courses that have replaced the ones previously taught by school programs, my instruction took place for three hours after school for one week and was taught by a teacher from another school whose name I have forgotten, but will refer to as Mr. Matthews. All the automobiles for the program were brand new and donated by area dealers. My group drove an Ambassador by American Motors. While only a small group of Milwaukeeans actually owned American Motors cars, they were a source of pride because they were built right next door in beautiful Kenosha as local dealers reminded us in numerous television commercials and billboard ads. My family was the exception since we owned three of them over the course of several years.

The two students in the car with me could not have been more different. Cathy was a quiet and reserved student I had failed to notice even once during my year and a half at Marshall, and who practically faded into the beige upholstery once she sat down in the backseat. On the other hand, Gerhardt, who like me already had his license, but also owned his own car, a well polished Corvair, boldly raced down Capitol Drive in the right lane passing cars in order to get from Riverside High on the eastside of town to 64^th and Fiebrantz Avenue where we sat waiting for him.

The first day he pulled up, crushed a cigarette in the ashtray, and had smoke billowing out of his mouth as he asked with a heavy German accent if he was in the right place. When Mr. Matthews indicated he was his instructor he pulled the car over and started walking in our direction his shirt wide open and his hip huggers slung well below his navel. Mr. Matthews told him he was in a no parking zone and he would wait for him to move the car, but Gerhardt just shrugged, buttoned the shirt and climbed in the front seat.

Each day Mr. Matthews would have Cathy drive first while Gerhardt and I sat in back and visited. Turned out his father was a well-known Volkswagen mechanic but being a rebel Gerhardt bought himself a Chevy, at least that’s what he called it. My turn came next and I could hear him chuckling because he knew I was going to accelerate gently and never exceed the speed limit.

When it was his turn he liked to punch the accelerator to get a reaction out of Mr. Matthews. It only worked the first couple times, because he soon realized like Cathy and I that Gerhardt despite rolling down and sticking his elbow out the window kept his hands at the prescribed ten and two position and conscientiously applied defensive driving tactics. In the end we all passed the course and Mr. Matthews breathed easier.

Do you recall your behind the wheel class? Tell us about it in the comment section.

No Lasting Scars: Step 119

One of the things I had been looking forward to prior to getting my driver’s license was the opportunity to be the one who drove on a date. All the advantages of being chauffeured on a date, other than by your parent, really never entered my mind until years later. Having control of the wheel, steering a date, a friend and a friend’s date to the appointed venue, and then exercising the same control over any other stops and the safe return of all passengers at the end of the evening, filled me with a sense of importance.

A few weeks after the escape going the wrong way down a one-way street I overheard Marlene, our chapter sweetheart, talking with a few of the guys at one of our meetings about her younger sister. She was telling them how Helane, her sister, was feeling bad because a number of her friends had been asked out on dates and she was always left behind. It was obvious Marlene was trying to be a good older sister and looking for one of the guys to step up to the plate.

Now, my own sister always had the best intentions when it came to looking out for my brother and myself. Certainly I would never want to speak for Neil, and for all I know Peggy may have arranged a wonderful connection for him, but given the collection of young women she selected for me all of whom I am sure had great attributes she had no clue what I was looking for in a date.

It occurred to me that this same lack of sibling intuition may be at work with Marlene, but I was willing to risk it because as far as I was concerned her younger sister was a vision of loveliness. Recognizing the guys with whom she was talking would have to dig even deeper than I would to find the nerve to call Helane, despite her older sister’s attempt to make her seem like easy pickings, I asked if it would be all right if I gave her a call. She never said as much, but given the friendly smile I felt I had her approval.

Before I called I checked to make sure what nights I would have access to the car. Then, assuming my usual place in the basement I took a few deep breaths, and exhaling dialed the phone. We decided to go out for pizza after the basketball game, because she was on the drill team that performed at half time and in between quarters. We were supposed to double with her friend, Pippi, who was also on the drill team, and her date.

A few days before the game Helane stopped me in the hall to let me know Pippi had some kind of family obligation and wouldn’t be able to go out after the game. I asked her if she wanted to call it off or postpone the date for another time. But I think she really wanted to go out on a date, and I wasn’t going to deny her.

At the game I sat in the bleachers by myself and watched as she and the rest of the drill team in their white blouses, v-neck sweaters, pleated skirts and P.F. Flyers with bobby socks turned and stepped with precision around the gymnasium. We met outside the girls’ locker room after the game. As I directed her out of the building and toward the car I noticed a certain level of seriousness in her demeanor.

When we got to the car I attempted to begin a friendly conversation. It went nowhere. As far as I can remember things didn’t get any better at the restaurant or on the drive home. Driving on a date didn’t have quite the appeal I had imagined, and maybe being on a date wasn’t quite as thrilling as she had envisioned. At any rate I am pretty sure it left no lasting scars.

Did you have a teenage date that fell short of expectations? Tell us about it in the comment section.

From Where I Stand: Step 118

When I sat down yesterday at the luncheon following the rabbi’s daughter’s Bat Mitzvah and started to talk with my friend Dr. Mark a dean at California State University-Fullerton about what he did on his furlough day, I had no idea the question, “Is a college degree still worth it?” was the headline story in Saturday’s Los Angeles Times. Our conversation centered around the growth in prison budgets being many times the level of higher education during the past decade, while the article pointed to the “vast majority of job gains this year have gone to workers with only a high school education or less,” and the prospects for the future look like that trend will continue.

Needless to say this is disheartening for me to hear since following my parents’ advice led to two advanced degrees, nearly a dozen certifications in three states, and two years of rejection in the pursuit of returning to full time employment. In the words of Rodney Dangerfield, “I just can’t seem to get any respect.” Actually I’ll forgo the respect factor in favor of putting those of us who bought into the American dream of improving oneself through education back to work.

To make matters worse most of us who bought into this ploy, no doubt perpetrated by an educational aristocracy with connections to some Chinese, Indian, or Waltonian demonic plot, foolishly led our children astray with this illusion. It certainly appears conspiratorial when your oldest child is an adjunct faculty at a Midwestern university working on her doctorate, your second child graduated from law school and is studying for the California bar, and your youngest child is completing her bachelor degree in a state more interested in protecting menial jobs for high school dropouts than developing the talents of the brightest at their noteworthy institutions. Why did the Times wait a decade for them to pile up their own individual debt accounts before raising the question about whether or not it’s a worthwhile venture?

Almost as astounding to me is the notion by various economists, bureaucrats, and members of the media that we are supposed to somehow buy our way out of this Great Recession. All of them seemed to be equally amazed when consumers put away their credit cards and sales fell in May. While most consumers are deep in debt like myself, those with resources may be following Franklin’s advice and saving for those rainier days ahead.

Speaking of rainier days, Robert Reich, the diminutive secretary of labor in the Clinton administration now teaching economics at Berkeley, reported there is now a 50:50 chance there will be a double dip recession. For those of us who have yet to climb out of the first dip this comes as both further bad news and no surprise. When banks which double dipped by making unsecured loans and writing them down with the assistance of both the Republican and Democratic administrations stop gambling in derivatives, provide a rate of interest on savings in line with rates charged for loans, and invest venture capital in local small businesses the economy will recover.

Meanwhile we may seek refuge from the storm by losing our worries for a few hours watching the classic match up of NBA Finals rivals the Lakers and Celtics. For sports fans not into professional basketball there is the thriller from South Africa. By the way I know both Kobe and the G-man chose to skip college and March Madness in favor of ever increasing economic opportunity, but I have no idea how many soccer players on the men’s and women’s teams decided college had nothing to offer them.

How about it: has your college degree paid dividends? Are you still planning to send your kids to college? Let us know in the comment section.

Time to Reflect: Step 117

Once again it is time to reflect upon the world in which we live and see if something profound might appear in the course of the next few paragraphs. As I sit down to write I have just returned from attending the Bat Mitzvah of the rabbi’s eldest daughter. Well not just, I did change clothes, make the bed with clean sheets, and fold and put away laundry, but that’s another story. At any rate it was a joyous event, or in more Jewish terms it was a beautiful simcha.

Naturally, it reminded me of my daughter’s own coming of age. At the time of Heather’s Bat Mitzvah we had not heard of Rabbi Milhander who was busy with congregants in Camarillo. It came at a time of transition because I had decided to leave education after 25 years and work as a real estate agent. As far as I know everyone viewed this move with a great deal of skepticism if not cynicism. Time of course would prove them right, but my return to education would prove even more disastrous, but that too is another story.

For Heather’s Bat Mitzvah we brought together numerous friends from our brief two years in California with cousins from New Jersey, Arizona and Wisconsin. Even M flew in from Milwaukee and stayed with his youngest brother who was living in Long Beach at the time. Dad was there, and even though he wasn’t feeling that well, he got to dance with his granddaughter on her special day.

Two and a half years later and four months after Dad died, the new rabbi who was still commuting from Camarillo celebrated his wife’s and my birthday by conducting the service and joining the party for Courtney’s Bat Mitzvah. Cousins from New Jersey and Arizona but none from Wisconsin, no M, and me in yet another new position for only the previous five months, we still found ways to honor Courtney’s Hebrew name, Simcha Baruch, which means blessed celebration.

So, while I struggle to make sense of my life in a world filled with transitions, and my financial situation does not allow me to celebrate my silver wedding anniversary a month from today in Italy, a trip I promised Debbie when I proposed, there is a glimmer of hope burning on the new frontier.

At this moment in history as I mark, rather than celebrate, the two year anniversary of the end of my full time employment, it is the opportunity to create a whole new world that has me excited. As I entered the sanctuary this morning, a friend asked me what I was doing these days. When I told him I was blogging he wanted to know what that was. I smiled for I knew for the first time this was a good thing.

After four months of working daily to develop new and interesting material for this blog but never knowing how to describe it to someone who doesn’t regularly use blogs I finally realized that its novelty may be its best feature as I begin to market it to friends and others with similar interests. In fact, I told this friend he could help me define what it is. So, when I finish this I’ll be sending him a link to the blog so he can help me figure out what it is I do.

What do you think? Help me by writing out what you think this blog is about in the comment section.

It Really Never Mattered: Step 116

My desire to be a high school athlete far surpassed any physical gifts, strength of commitment or aspirations I may have had to become one of the few who rise to the level of professional. As noted previously neither of my parents participated in athletics and though I distinctly remember them coming to see me in school plays I do not recall either of them being in attendance at any of the games in which I was involved. Maybe my desire stemmed from the fact that girls were generally drawn to three types of guys, rock stars, movie stars, and star athletes, and since I had not one ounce of musical talent and had blown my opportunity to become an actor, the only option left was to be a high school athlete.

Now, while my athletic prowess is rather limited it was always my good fortune to find individuals with even less ability to compete. To this day I do not think I have had the courage to ask M nor do I recall him telling me why he chose to endure running through halls and up and down stairs in heavy sweatshirts and sweatpants and then spend hours getting tossed around and climbed upon by acne faced dweebs with half his intelligence in a gray cement room with blue mats. But, he did.

Maybe his endurance wasn’t as great as I recall and like so many others he grew weary of the struggle, recognized better ways to spend time, and stopped going to practice after school. In any event, while he was attending wrestling practice I started walking over to his house two blocks away when we were done. Although his mother worked she was usually home when we arrived.

Unlike me stuck between my two siblings M was the oldest with two younger brothers and a sister stuck between them. Usually they left us alone, but occasionally the two youngest, Robin the girl or Terry the boy might need M to get something, attend to an injury, or settle a dispute.

While we would infrequently go upstairs to his bedroom to look at something new or actually work on some school work, most often we would head to the most popular room in so many Midwestern homes the basement recreation or simply “rec” room. As we came down the stairs the predominate feature of the room came into view. Smooth green felt covered the contours of a regulation size pool table.

M went over to the wall and grabbed the triangular rack and laid it on the table so he could put the balls in it while I grabbed a cue from the rack on the wall. He put together his perfectly balanced cue while I bounced the cue ball off the far rail to see how close I could get it to come back without touching the near rail. Then, M took his turn. He had no trouble beating me on this shot, known as a lag, nor did he have any difficulty beating me whether faced with straight shots, bank shots, or carom shots.

Then, when his mother called down to see if I would be joining the family for dinner he would turn down Wednesday Morning 3AM by Simon and Garfunkel, or whatever other album was playing, to let her know I would. It really never mattered what was for dinner the feel was always the same. His mother talked incessantly while his father said very little. If something was needed she told me as often as any of her own children to get it. She never failed to ask how I was doing and to remind me to be good to my own parents.

After dinner M and I might get in one more game of pool, but more often my mom or dad showed up to take me home.

Do you remember spending time at a friend’s house? Tell us in the comment section.

Getting Acclimated: Step 115

A couple weeks after passing my road test my parents for some unknown reason allowed me to drive our little Dodge to a dance at the Jewish Community Center. Cousin Jim was already going with Larry. Not only was Larry a member of Witt AZA with us, but also his parents had been friends with our parents since their days at North Division High and were also members of our synagogue, Anshe Emeth, the People of Truth.

So, I picked up M and we rode together across town to the JCC. I don’t recall much about the dance except there were a lot of people there, and parents had dropped many of them off. This meant some would be looking for rides at the end of the night.

Although laws vary from state to state many, like my adopted home of California, prohibit new drivers from having passengers under the age of 25 in the car with them for the first six months or year. No such prohibition was in place in Wisconsin when I was becoming acclimated to the responsibility of driving. Naturally, little encouragement was needed for me to agree to take Cousin Natalie and some of her friends back to the westside for pizza at the Wagon. After all, I was providing a service to their parents who would not have to drive so far to pick them up.

As five girls somehow managed to squeeze into the back, three on seats and two on laps, Natalie assured them I was a competent driver. As I watched in my rearview mirror I noticed Big Jeff pull out of the parking lot and onto the street behind me. An equally large number of teenagers piled into his family car, a much larger Buick Electra. Then, Natalie climbed into the front on the bench seat between M and myself.

One of the things that quickly became obvious to me despite my status, as a novice driver was the six-cylinder engine strained as the result of the additional weight. Taking this into account I allowed myself a little extra space before accelerating to shift into the next lane. As I did this I noticed Big Jeff decided to follow me into my new driving lane. Of course, his big eight-cylinder engine suffered less since it was designed to provide power to a much heavier car.

When we came to a red light Natalie whose head was directly in front of the rearview mirror noticed the additional glare of the lights, which loomed large due to the big Buick’s proximity to my rear bumper. For a couple of miles I tried to evade the lights of the prankster, but his more powerful engine rendered my attempts futile. Finally, I decided to use my better maneuverability to shake him. I quickly turned on a side street and then quickly down another street.

He didn’t follow me down the second street, but somebody else did. The siren was very short, but everybody besides me tried to turn to see the red light flashing on top as it pulled up behind us. I parked and noticed a parked car facing me and another one facing in the same direction on the other side of the road. Realizing what I had done I fumbled for my wallet and rolled down my window. Unfolding the 5X7 sheet of paper a driver carried the first six weeks while the state processed and sent the wallet size probationary license in the mail I had it ready when the officer arrived at my window.

Looking inside with his flashlight, then folding the paper back neatly and handing it to me he must have remembered what it was like when he first got his license and was trying to impress his friends because he said he was going to give me a warning ticket. He went back to his patrol car, made out the ticket, returned, had me sign it, and told me to take good care of my valuable cargo. Five minutes later I started to breathe again.

Did anything exciting happen when you started driving? Tell us in the comment section.