A Teacher, A Student, A Lesson in Life: Step 52

When we were quite young my parents decided to enroll my sister, brother and myself in a fitness program. Long before the advent of the modern fitness club there were special athletic programs and Milwaukee Turners was one of them. In the year or two we attended I learned to climb a rope, do a somersault, a headstand and a handstand, and an exercise on the rings known as a bird’s nest. The only reason I reference this experience is it served as a precursor for my decision to participate in the gymnastics program at Samuel Morse Junior High. We spent an entire semester getting ready for a single tournament that involved a limited number of junior high schools. Mr. Hrlavich was a young physical education teacher with a lot of energy and an earnest desire to help adolescent boys achieve athletic success. He took each kid where he was and encouraged him to develop whatever skill he was working on to the maximum of his ability. More importantly he did not tolerate anyone making a discouraging comment or belittling in any way the efforts of any students. Boys who had always dreaded the idea of attempting any physical activity due to thinness, fatness, lack of coordination, weakness, slowness, or whatever, actually looked forward to participating in Coach Hrlavich’s gym class. This is not to say that he converted awkward gangly kids into outstanding athletes, or that he didn’t have a group of athletically gifted students he favored, just that he recognized the importance of instilling in all his students a desire for physical fitness. In no way should one get the impression I was one of the elite athletes for nothing could be further from the truth. As far as I can remember everyone competed in all events, and no one specialized in any particular event. In other words, even though Wally was stronger than most high school athletes and could perform an iron cross on the rings, he would not be the one to represent the school in the rings exclusively. Everyone had to do the rings, and Wally would have to do the horse, parallel bars, horizontal bars, and tumbling just like the rest of us. There were certain athletes, like Roger, who had the strength, grace, and coordination to make any exercise look simple. Beyond that, Roger was the kind of kid who understood two concepts that made him seem less adolescent and more mature. Roger was kind and humble. He showed me how to apply the right amount of chalk to my hands to soften the friction, and helped me arch my back to gain proper form on the horizontal bar. In the locker room, when one of the kids said we would win the tournament because we had Roger, Roger said he was pleased the kid had confidence in his ability, but knew there would be other great athletes coming from the other schools. He was right. I don’t remember how we did, how Roger did, or how I did, but I do remember being a part of a team that got to go to Coach Hrlavich’s house in the suburbs one evening after school. His wife and little kids were in the backyard with us, and before he passed out awards for participation in the tournament and thanked us for all our hard work at practice, he grilled burgers and shared stories of his days as a minor league catcher. Comments welcome.

Gray Plus Brown Equals Dirksen: Step 51

Anyone who has been reading my story probably came to the conclusion some time back that most of my interests in school had little to do with the subjects taught in the standard educational curriculum. Some might even question whether I bothered to show up to class, but let me assure you my attendance record throughout my years as a student was nothing short of excellent. Occasionally, I would even pay attention. When we studied the different states in fifth grade and started to learn about the branches of government my curiosity was sated. A few experiments and projects like making a salt map or simulating a lava flow, and anything dealing with reproduction, such as pistils and stamens, captured my imagination. But, for the most part most of the academic lineup created little desire or hunger for learning and had my parents allowed me to use the most precise word to describe my level of interest it would have had to have been boring. By the time I left Grantosa Drive there was no basic arithmetic problem that posed a challenge. Yet, for some reason the counselors at Muir and Morse placed several more gifted mathematicians and me in a remedial class. As noted before, there were some outstanding teachers at Samuel Morse Junior High, but as you might expect there were some exceptions. A kind and gentle soul with wavy silver hair my belief to this day is Mr. Gray never intended to intentionally harm anyone. My other assumption is he suffered from a condition which many teachers contract after years of giving their best only to be rewarded with dismal results. This condition may have not had a name during my years as a student, but as a teacher I knew it as burnout. To cope, everyday he would go over homework, introduce the next assignment, ask one of the students to mark down any misbehavior, and then leave the room for twenty minutes. While he was out we passed around spiral notebooks known as slam books. Inside was a page you signed up and took a number. This page was torn out if you were caught with your slam book. Then you used your number on each page to answer important questions like: What is your favorite song? Who is your favorite group? Who do you like? Are you going steady? Along with numerous other important statistics. When Mr. Gray returned smelling of smoke and so shaky you worried that breathing on him too hard may cause him to fall over, all the slam books disappeared and assignments were front and center on our desks. Naturally, we all passed but had to take yet another remedial math class with Mr. Brown. Now, don’t ask me why I absolutely abhorred being in this class, perhaps it was the complete repetition of the same work we completed the previous semester, or that Mr. Brown was so rotund his mass completely hid his chair from view, or that he never got off the chair to demonstrate, help, or instruct in any way. In order to relieve the tedium several of us took to playing cards at the rear of the classroom. Imagine my shock when after two weeks of our uninterrupted game Mr. Brown reached down and grabbed my cards from me. My immediate reaction was to reach up for the cards, and as I got up from my seat my hand smacked across his face. Whatever words were exchanged at that point in time escape my memory, but it seems like an infinitesimal amount of time passed before my father arrived and found me sitting in the guidance counselor’s office. When the counselor said, “It’s good to see you, Abe,” and Dad responded with, “Good to see you too, Art,” I knew my days on earth were numbered. I was reassigned to Mr. Grotbeck’s math class, and he helped me get ready for algebra. For some reason I don’t remember what punishment was involved but I always treaded softly when I went past the office or saw Mr. Dirksen in the hall.

My First Date: Step 50

For various reasons most people don’t start dating until they reach high school. One of the obvious reasons is the fear of rejection. Most boys in junior high, myself included, would rather stand around with their friends at a school dance listening to the music, discussing how stupid the decorations look, wondering if the cute girl has the nerve to come over and ask you to dance, than cross over to where the girls are standing to ask one of them to dance. My assumption is the girls actually are glad the boys continue to talk because they fear if one of them does actually get up enough nerve to come over that she would not be the one asked to dance, or worse, she has to dance with the one with a bad haircut and awful breath. Given these conditions it is amazing to me that I actually had my first date while at Samuel Morse. I’m sure it helped that a number of my friends, including Ron and cousin Jim had been invited to Big Steve’s house party and were required to bring a date, too. Three factors that I recall may account for Big Steve appearing more mature than the rest of us. While we never actually called him Big Steve, a fictitious name I give him here to differentiate him from other Steves to come later, there was no disputing he was both older and larger than anyone else in our class, he never raised his voice to make a point, and his brother Frank, an outstanding wrestler, captain of the Custer High School team, and dating a cheerleader, was an inspiration to us all. I’m not sure why Big Steve’s parents let him have this party, but since he was older it probably was his fourteenth birthday. Still, whatever the reason, the thought of calling a girl and asking her for a date to a party struck fear and trepidation into my heart and conveyed an extreme sense of queasiness in the pit of my stomach. Now, there was no doubt once I convinced myself I was actually going to go through with the act as to who I was going to ask. Despite the fact she was a full year ahead of me in school and technically we were distant cousins, her father being the previously eluded to heavyweight boxer, Lolly was my only choice. Her willingness to talk about whatever I wanted to talk about, her ability to laugh without forcing it, her cute smile, not to mention some physical attributes that cause a hormonal teenager to salivate made her the target of my desire. Fortunately, she could not see my trembling fingers or sweaty palms when I dialed the phone I had taken down to the basement to maintain the necessary privacy for such a mission. Once again, the aforementioned attributes, not the physical ones, allowed me to get through the ordeal without vomiting, wetting my pants, or worse still, being rejected. My father drove us to the party but I have no memory of whether we sat alone together in the back seat or on the bench seat in front. Frank and his girlfriend left shortly after we arrived. Ron was there with Janice, and cousin Jim came with Carol, which I thought was cheating since her parents were like best friends with his and my parents. Most of the activities at the party are foggy. What I do remember is slow dancing to Paul Anka singing Put Your Head On My Shoulder. Looking over at Ron I saw his head was conveniently placed on an area just below Janice’s shoulder. Thinking if I just closed my eyes and imitated his innocent look I could do the same with my head, but Lolly was having none of it. I’m sure she laughed or covered up in some other friendly way, but my ego was definitely damaged. At the end of the night, my father had to remind me to walk her to the door. I did, but I knew my first date would be my last with Lolly.

One of a Few Significant Dates: Step 49

In life there are a few significant dates, such as the day you were born, the day you got married, the day you graduate, the day your child is born, the day you die, and for a Jewish boy the day he is a bar mitzvah. Please don’t ask me what day on the Hebrew calendar my bar mitzvah was, but on the one we use everyday in most parts of the world, the Gregorian calendar, it came on leap year day, February 29, 1964. Since the Jewish people follow a lunar calendar the day actually begins and ends at sunset. So, at sundown that Friday, just three days after Cassius Clay who would soon change his name to Mohammed Ali became heavyweight champion, I took on the heavyweight challenge of leading the congregation of my synagogue in the Kiddush, a blessing over wine. As noted before male voices at this age have a tendency to suddenly revert to soprano sounds of childhood rather than maintaining a clear tenor tone. My cantor, who had sung the Kiddush with me numerous times during my soprano years recommended I use the falsetto I was fortunate to possess. It worked that night, but when the main event came the next morning and I sang the maftir I had worked laboriously on for the past twelve months there were squeaks and squeals as bad as fingernails on a chalkboard. Some of you younger readers may have never experienced a chalkboard and so know nothing of the simile I just used to describe the sound, but believe me it is awful. Fortunately, my friends really didn’t care what I sounded like and my aunts still pinched my cheeks and told me how wonderful they thought I was. My parents were always struggling with their finances and while they were thrilled beyond belief to have their son become a bar mitzvah they could not afford to rent out a banquet room and cater a big dinner with a band. So, we had a luncheon in the synagogue social hall that just happened to be in the basement. My parents made sure there was plenty of herring, smoked fish, and lochshen kugel made from egg noodles layered with cream cheese and cottage cheese to which I always added a dollop of sour cream. Of course, the most important part as far as my friends and I were concerned was what was planned for the evening. Since we couldn’t afford to go anywhere my father and I had worked together to get our recreation room ready. We spent hours working together laying the tile floor and putting in a tile ceiling around the light fixtures. Dad recruited a number of firefighters to assist with the wiring and paneling. When the big night arrived we were ready, and while the relatives from out of town gathered upstairs, my friends made their way to the beautiful faux solarium in the basement. On a borrowed stereo phonograph we took turns playing an assortment of 45s and LP records. Most of the titles escape my memory but slow dancing to Gene Pitney and Johnny Mathis had been the standard even when hotshot deejays were hired. But, just a month after their release the needle spent most of its time in the grooves of Introducing and Meet the Beatles, establishing the party in the house on Lancaster Avenue as a complete success. The one unfortunate incident was somebody threw a bowl of popcorn at Janice. A very attractive girl who moved to Milwaukee from Chicago about a year earlier she and Ron had an on again off again romance. Now, I am sure he would not perpetrate such a distasteful and childish prank, but it surprised me when he neither helped clean it up nor console her. I’m just as confused as to what part I played in the events following the popcorn fiasco. But having forgotten to bring my gift to the party, Janice showed up at my house on Sunday, and I still remember the unusually warm smile she gave me. She and Ron continued their on again off again romance until her family made yet another move about a year later. Comments welcome.

From Where I Stand: Step 48

First, let me start by wishing my Christian audience a Happy Easter and my Jewish audience a Happy Passover. For those of you in neither category let me just wish you happiness. After volleyball today since bagels qualify as a bread product we were treated to what is referred to as matzah brie. When Manuel asked what it was I explained that it was what a lot of us call fried matzah. To which Manuel said he knew what fried matzah was but this dish looked different. Sam said it was just shaped into a nice omelet form. Mike said it resembled a kugel. I noted that my grandmother used to use the Yiddish word gfrishta to describe the dish, which I believe means fried matzah. Ham never inspired such confusion or controversy, probably another reason it is not kosher. Beyond epicurean delights the news this week contained an unanticipated change. Instead of the continuing loss of jobs our country has faced for the past two years the month of March actually had an increase of 162,000 jobs. According to the Los Angeles Times this marks a “3-year high” in job growth. Some, like myself, feel this must be taken in the larger context of an economy that has lost some 8 million jobs during the tumultuous recession. While I remain cautiously optimistic and continue to look for the silver lining inside each and every cloud I am not ready to say, “We are beginning to turn the corner,” as the president said yesterday. Certainly, it is good to hear people are finding employment even if it is temporary, such as census workers. Another way people are finding employment is by freelancing. From graphic designers and chefs to architects and human resource specialists opportunities to work as an independent contractor for a limited period of time is a growing trend. As is implied in the term freelance the freedom to select the projects the worker wants to become involved in and construct a schedule that balances other areas of personal life remains attractive to numerous individuals. On the other hand many see this as a way for employers to shed responsibility to loyal workers and hire people without providing them benefits such as health insurance or a retirement plan. Coming from a pragmatic point of view, at least I think that’s where I am at, individuals need to decide whether they need the paternalistic security of union bargained or employer granted benefits. While savings may be gained from the group approach, an individual with specific skills related to a given task may be able to gain compensation in excess of previous levels of salary and benefits combined. Only time will tell what freelance or independent contract workers will earn as a segment of the entire workforce in the future. Someone who hasn’t had trouble increasing her compensation package is Angela Braly, the chief executive officer of Wellpoint. Her total earnings rose from $8.7 million to $13.1 million at the same time Anthem Blue Cross, a subsidiary of Wellpoint, announced its intention to raise rates on policy holders by as much as 39%, supposedly because of an increase in medical costs. Even Kobe Bryant who once again is leading the Lakers into the playoffs signed a contract extension which will earn him only $2 million more each year. Makes you wonder what the earning power of one of the Butler Bulldogs or Duke Blue Devils playing in tomorrow night’s championship game might be. If they don’t make it into the NBA they might consider becoming a health insurance executive. Comments welcome.

Time to Reflect: Step 47

In The Magician’s Nephew, C.S. Lewis wrote, “What you see and hear depends a good deal on where you are standing; it also depends on what sort of person you are.” Living in Orange County, California provides a distinct vantage point from which to see and hear what is happening in the world. Most of my friends who either grew up here or have lived here long enough to become immersed in the general mindset consider accurate information to be derived the FOX news networks and from talk radio other than NPR and its affiliates. On the other hand, my daughters, especially the oldest, find it difficult to believe I would even listen or watch what they consider trash. As I told my eldest and as pointed out in Lewis’s quote, it depends on where you are standing. When I am working out on the elliptical my eyes fall on a television tuned to a channel set by a staff member of 24 Hour Fitness. Naturally, recognizing most of the members share the aforementioned OC mindset the channel happens to be FOX. Now, I could just look away or strain to see one of the sets showing infomercials, but as the second part of the quote states it also “depends on what sort of person you are.” My thirst for knowledge makes me want to know what someone else sees and hears even if it is completely the opposite of what I am comfortable with seeing and hearing. It is clear my inner self lost some control this week when I found myself laughing aloud at the interview of a congressman who was still talking about repealing the health care law. Even if he was able to sway a majority of his colleagues to rescind the law what are the odds he could find the two-thirds needed to override a presidential veto? All right, it shows poor judgment to laugh at a congressman, but it’s definitely what Kevin Beacon’s character Fenwick referred to as “a smile,” in the movie Diner. Getting back to the place where one stands I have to admit to wondering last summer whether Senator DeMint a man who follows closely in the footsteps of his predecessor, Strom Thurmond, was correct in seeing health care as a Waterloo for Obama. Maybe, where he was standing at the time colored his vision much like mine was this past fall. Our assembly district in Orange County held a special election. Thinking people may see things differently given the opportunity to elect someone with fresh ideas on how to govern our struggling state my time was spent trying to get voters to elect someone from a party that had not won in fifty years. Like the good senator from South Carolina and so many well-meaning meteorologists my prediction was wrong. One of the great lessons the senator and I can take from these miscalculations is not to deny who we are but just move over to gain a more accurate assessment of where people are standing. People wrote off the Republican Party after the Goldwater fiasco…in Step 35 readers will recall my admission of admiration for Barry. But, then the GOP resurrected Nixon and basked in the glory of the Reagan-Bush era. Similarly, people told me Apple was dead. Today they add the ipad to the ipod, itunes, imac and iphone. All right, so someone tell me how far does a person with my view have to move before it no longer looks like I’m standing in front of one of those funhouse mirrors. Comments, criticisms, and controversy welcome.

Clay Beats Liston and the Art of Dignity: Step 46

Sports have always been a fascination for me. I’m not sure where it came from since neither of my parents played any sports nor were they fans of any sports teams or individuals. My Uncle Joe, my father’s brother and Aunt Jane’s husband, loved to watch golf on television and cousin Jim’s father actually played golf many weekends. Yet, for some reason my early interest was not in golf but more in baseball, football, and boxing. Mom told stories of how her cousin Milt had been a professional heavyweight boxer but all I ever heard about his career was he had a glass jaw. While at Samuel Morse the Packers continued to dominate their opponents throughout the National Football League, and none of us believed the rumors that the Milwaukee Braves were going to move out of town. Wrestling carried some mystique because The Crusher was from Milwaukee, and his mother lived in a house on Tim’s paper route. Most of us didn’t really consider it a sport though because we had heard the matches were choreographed. Despite the stories of boxing being infiltrated by some of the most unsavory characters in the entire sports world there was a general consensus, at least among adolescent boys, that only a few fights were thrown and most were legitimate. Few would argue that Sonny Liston had won the heavyweight championship without so much as breaking a sweat when he pummeled Floyd Patterson to the canvas. Scowling, brooding, and sinister the immense and powerful hulk finished off his more affable opponent in a little more than two minutes to win, and ten months later to retain the championship. Everybody believed this massive menacing mauler would remain world champion for the rest of the decade, if not longer, much the same as Joe Louis or Rocky Marciano were able to win fight after fight as heavyweight champions. That is everyone except Mrs. McGuckin and me. She caught my friends arguing with me at lunch. They insisted Liston was just too big and powerful for anyone, especially a guy who shot his mouth off as much as Cassius Clay. Having seen the newsreels of Clay fighting his way to the gold medal at the Olympics I was convinced he could, “Float like a butterfly, and sting like a bee.” It seemed both poetic and completely feasible to me that a faster, smarter adversary could take down The Big Ugly Bear as he called him. So, I was willing to take all of my friends bets and wager my next three years earnings on a fight none of us was going to see live because we couldn’t afford to go to the theater to see a closed circuit broadcast in the days before HBO. This is where Mrs. McGuckin stepped in to take control. Never fortunate enough to have her in class, the former nun who asserted her belief in the 7:1 underdog said she didn’t want to see us throwing all our money away on a foolish bet. She convinced us that a single dollar was sufficient to honor our commitment. She held my dollar and the dimes and nickels that accrued from those who were certain I had just made the stupidest wager of my life. Sitting by the radio my palms were loaded with sweat when the first bell rang and I am pretty sure I didn’t take my next breath until the bell rang again to end the first round. Having made it through the first round was a good sign. Listening, it did seem like Clay was floating and stinging, and when Liston refused to come out for the seventh round my feet lifted off the ground. Mrs. McGuckin told me it was wrong to gloat and to accept my victory with grace and dignity. After all, she said there was little doubt the two fighters would have a rematch and it would be presumptuous to think the outcome might not be altered. No one would have guessed the next time they met it would be Liston on the canvas in the first round. One thing I was already sure of was Mrs. McGuckin was a class act. Comments welcome.