From Where I Stand: Step 20

Sitting down to bagels and juice after seven games of volleyball, my teammate, Manuel, a native of Spain, asked why people in our country have difficulty discussing politics. Dan, still smarting from his team’s loss to us in the final game but ever the diplomat, said it was due to the great polarization that has overtaken today’s political environment. Our fellow teammate, Mike, indicated a lot of the problem arose over the role of government. For example, Mike pointed out that the government now owns General Motors. Realizing GM is still traded on the open market I asked what he meant. He said the government should have let them fail. A mute point since they did lend the former giant some hefty cash, but one with which I tend to agree, especially in lieu of what their long time competitor, Ford, was able to do. Then, I asked Mike what problem he had with the government’s current role with the automaker. From his vantage point the dealerships that were slated to close were able to pressure their representatives in congress and persuade them to let 660 of the 1,000 remain in business. Here’s where the other Mike, the one who played on Dan’s side this week, had a question. He asked our Mike if it wasn’t true that each of those dealerships was a privately held franchise. Receiving a concession to his observation their Mike, who happens to work in the auto finance world, made the assertion that even though the company was having trouble the individual franchise may still be profitable and deserve the chance to stay open. At this point I turned to Manuel and indicated he had done an admirable job of spurring a civil discussion around which differing views were held. Foolishly, however, I turned back to our Mike, who I respect as a level headed thoughtful and intelligent individual, and posed the question most investors want to know when assessing the merits of a financial decision: Has the playing field changed since the near collapse of GM and its current status. Just so we’re clear, any of you who have followed this blog for the past couple weeks, or read, listened or seen the news during this same time, realize a major player in the automotive world, Toyota, has been experiencing some problems. Our Mike attributed these problems to government meddling. For clarification, and since it has been brought up elsewhere, he did not think that the rise of Toyota and the fall of GM was in any way due to our government allowing the complaints about Toyota engineering over the past three years to go unheralded. He does however think the attacks congress has made on Toyota the past couple weeks prop up the company they own, which is GM. It would be nice if the representatives in congress could sit down with bagels and juice and discuss civilly the merits of the legislation in front of them, and actually get something done. When I got home the front page of this morning’s paper told how while state employees are losing money with furlough days they more than compensate with overtime. An example was given of a prison nurse who lost $10,000 last year to reduce her salary to $92,000, but received enough overtime to make her total earnings $270,000, almost $50,000 more than the head of the prison system. The article went on to tell of 50 state employees who received over a $100,000 in overtime last year. My wife, who due to cuts in the California budget, was given furlough days says she has not earned any overtime. In fact, as far as we know, teachers, and many like my wife put in hundreds of hours of overtime correcting papers, recording grades, and preparing lessons, have not received any additional compensation. Maybe, we’ll discuss this imbalance after volleyball next week. There is that election in Iraq today, and, oh yeah, the Academy Awards. As usual, your comments and responses are greatly appreciated.

Time to Reflect: Step 19

Before I started to write my reflections for this week I received an email from my sister. She said she thought of me when she went to one of her Facebook friend’s website. So, naturally I had to check it out. A blend of art and poetry from an environmentalist perspective, I wish to thank stewARTship studios at www.gianettaellis.com for providing me with the quote I have chosen to reflect upon this week. Henry Ward Beecher said, “Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his own nature into his pictures.” Nothing is truer of the tens of thousands of us who have found our daily routines disrupted by the loss of our service. It can feel like you have been kicked to the curb, and the paint bucket that was your soul is spilling out over the street. Sometimes struggling to stay in touch with my own soul is difficult. My self-image is strongly tied to the vigorous energy poured into work pursued over numerous years. Many pictures were literally and figuratively painted in the classrooms where my soul reached out to touch the lives of my students. This week my former employer, Los Angeles Unified School District, approved a measure allowing for the dismissal of up to another 5,200 teachers and staff. At the same time I realize bitterness and resentment are not pigments needed to improve this grim picture. Rather than looking upon the change of circumstances as a loss, it must be seen as an opportunity to dip the brush deeper into the soul and paint a more brilliant, hopeful picture. Certainly, not everyone envisions herself an artist. Yet, everyday people find themselves engaged in the art of being a thoughtful friend, a supportive parent, a respectful neighbor, a loyal fan, an honest critic, and a worthwhile contributor to the fabric of our society. When we take out a brush to create images few of us have the skill to paint faithful representations of what we actually see. If I had to rely on a paintbrush to express my soul the best I could hope for is someone would appreciate my interpretation of how my house should look. For those of you trying to get a handle on this at a literal level I covered the steel gray exterior with sunshine yellow two years ago. My soul exists in the words I write. For a number of years I resisted the idea of writing a blog. To me the idea seemed like relinquishing a portion of my soul without receiving anything in return. Perhaps, it is. As of this writing no money has been spent in the preparation of this transcript, nor has any compensation been received. Work is involved. Sometimes, some research, as described above. Sometimes, some thought and analysis. Sometimes, some editing. But always, always my soul. I hope you enjoy my picture. It’s from my soul. As usual, your comments, thoughts and reflections are appreciated.

Tex Returns to Grantosa Drive: Step 18

Baseball is America’s national pastime. Still, before any child gets his hands on a baseball he learns to play softball. The same holds true for girls. Unfortunately, during my years at Grantosa Drive girls did not participate in the noon softball games, and their adult counterpart, the women on the faculty, did not participate in the annual faculty-all star softball game. Mr. Magna started this game the year the school opened. In its first six years the champion of the noon softball league had often come close but had yet to manage a victory over the combined faculty-all star team. All four years when Mr. Magna selected the all stars and the following two years when he was promoted and became principal at another school leaving the selection and slugging duties to Mr. Nelson their teams defeated the noon champion. My intention was to make the seventh year different. After all, we were the first class that made it all the way through from kindergarten to sixth grade at this school. Becoming the first team to defeat the all stars and the male faculty and staff seemed to me a noteworthy way to end our tenure. The male faculty and staff consisted of the janitor, whose name escapes me, Mr. Nelson and Mr. Doyle. Now, even though Mr. Doyle wasn’t the homerun hitter the janitor and Mr. Nelson were, he drew a bigger crowd than his predecessor, the younger and quite handsome Mr. Magna. Fifth and sixth grade girls, who generally looked at this time as a chance to stay on the playground with their friends rather than return to the classroom after lunch, actually paid attention to the game. They knew Mr. Doyle would help them to learn and appreciate the game, not treat them like second-class citizens, and refuse to let the boys laugh at them. Changing the outcome of the game began by putting together a talented and cohesive team. As luck would have it when we selected members of our respective noon hour teams I won the honor of the first pick. It was a foregone conclusion it would be Tom. Yes, the same Tom who crushed me into a pile of snow a couple years earlier when he was known as Tommy. He could be counted on for making numerous kids chase his ball to the far end of the playground. But, to win the championship and beat the faculty-all star team required a solid lineup from top to bottom. Even Glen, our last pick proved valuable as he learned to put the perfect arch on his underhand pitch. While hitting was important I knew the key to consistent winning was solid defense. Tex was that key. He could scoop up the many hits down the third base line and rocket his throw to big Tom at first. Everything was going as planned until Tex announced one day in May that he was moving back to Texas. It’s not clear to me how we managed to win those final noon hour games, but I figured the all-stars would pick us apart by hitting singles down to third and then be driven home by the janitor or Mr. Nelson. To this day I am not sure of the whole story. Theoretically, schools in Wisconsin may have started their summer vacations later, or their was a need to come back to get some things, or they decided to pay a visit to some friends, or whatever. All I knew was it was the day of the game and there he was. Tex was back. Some of the girls started singing, “Tex is back, the all-stars are in trouble,” to the tune of “My Boy Friend’s Back” by the Chiffons. And, indeed he was back and his arm made the difference. We won. I never saw Tex again. So, if you’re out there in cyberland reading this Tex your comments to support my story would be appreciated. After all, not everyone believes you when your facts are stranger than fiction.

The Projectionist: Step 17

During the year before Mr. Nelson’s class, while still challenged by mid-twentieth century views of American history, it was my good fortune to achieve a more exclusive status than cadet. Mrs. Leitinger, who wore the rhinestone encrusted glasses that slanted upward toward the ceiling, you know the ones like Lady Gaga is trying to make fashionable once again, liked to accompany our thick text with films from the “You Are There,” series. Narrated by Walter Cronkite, often referred to as the most trusted man in America, the films would take the viewer back to a setting just before or after a well-known incident in history took place. Walter as if he were a reporter arriving on the scene would interrupt one of the characters to ask him a question. Just as one of the generals of the revolution, Benedict Arnold, was about to answer one of Walter’s questions the image froze. Mrs. Leitinger switched off the projector and Sharon turned on the lights. Loops of film were squirting out the bottom and side of the projector. Breathing heavily and mumbling under her breath Mrs. Leitinger turned to her students to see if any of us could provide a remedy. Looking around it was surprising neither Gary nor Greg offered to assist, but then she could quash the assertiveness out of the most demonic children. Despite possessing limited small motor dexterity my interest in Ben’s response motivated me to take action. After carefully pulling the loops away from the teeth of the spools I realized the links or tracking holes were not properly aligned with the sprockets. As an aside, sprockets took on a whole new meaning during the nineties, when Mike Meyers, who would later be better known for Wayne’s World, Austin Powers and Shrek, invented a character on SNL named Dieter. Turns out, we discovered once the old sixteen millimeter projector was properly functioning and Sharon switched off the lights, Ben was going to flip over on the rebels and help out the Tories. Seems kind of weird, the notorious traitor became a loyalist by being disloyal to the revolutionaries. For my part I was given the responsibility of showing the films at the monthly Saturday morning film program Grantosa Drive ran for a while during my last two years there. Although the classics, 20000 Leagues Under the Sea with Kirk Douglas and The Day the Earth Stood Still with Michael Rennie were the most popular with the kids in attendance, my favorite was a under appreciated gem The Incredible Shrinking Man with Grant Williams. When he shrank to the size where he had to live in the dollhouse everyone was mesmerized. To my horror the film broke just as the cat knocked over the little house. Luckily I had recently learned to cut and splice the film. Then, weaving the pliable plastic onto the sprockets and rekindling the luminous lamp, we were able to watch the further reduced figure plunge the hat pin up into the abdomen of the spider allowing him to evolve into ever smaller molecules and atoms. Seldom have I experienced such adulation as when I reached the pinnacle of responsibility at Grantosa Drive the coveted position of projectionist.

The Cadets: Step 16

One of the things, which happen to children, as they get older is they start to take on ever increasing responsibilities. Some would contend we need to shelter children from any responsibility because somehow it diminishes childhood. At Grantosa Drive your final year you could become a “cadet” if your grades were good enough. My problems with grades didn’t come until I left Grantosa Drive and went to junior high. So, I was given the privilege, honor, and responsibility of being a cadet. Although I am foggy on the specific details of how we were trained I am certain Mr. Nelson provided us with some basic instructions and plans to follow. There were both indoor and outdoor cadets. Indoor cadets monitored doors and hallways. They made sure no one entered the building before the bell without a pass. At the end of the day they made sure everyone left the premises and all the doors were shut securely. Indoor cadets wore the prestigious metal armband. A black cross with a red outline on a white background with the words safety on top and cadet on the bottom adorned the metal plate. A leather strap with a buckle for tightening held the plate to the outside of the cadet’s arm. Outdoor cadets monitored street corners. That’s right, you read it correctly, kids made sure kids crossed the street safely. Not just crossing Grantosa, but 82^nd Street, and the busy arterial Hampton Avenue. We would turn our backs to students, face the street, put our arms out to both sides, and no one, not even an adult, would dare to pass. When the cadet saw it was safe to cross she would put her hands down and turn to let the crowd continue to the other side. Outdoor cadets not only wore the armband they put on the belt, a predecessor to the orange reflective vests of modern crossing guards. The belt was around three inches wide, made of canvas, and was strung across one shoulder and ran diagonally to the waist where it looped around your body. A metal fastener allowed the cadet to adjust the belt at both the shoulder and at the waist for proper fit. Every kid from kindergarten through fifth grade aspired to be a cadet. In spring and fall the routine was fairly consistent from day to day, but winter had its own set of challenges. Snow often piled up as high as many of the little kids coming to school. Then, you never knew when a snowplow might happen by and add to the drift at the corner where you were posted. Sub-zero days made the twenty minute stretch feel like an eternity despite wearing thermal underwear, wool socks, flannel shirt, flannel lined pants, fleece lined nylon jacket, scarf, ear muffs, and a stocking cap. Every semester the cadets elected their leaders. The captain and lieutenant patrolled the halls and the street corners making sure everyone was on time and doing their duty. In the winter, they made the hot chocolate on days when the temperature dipped below twenty. Besides the armband and belt, the lieutenant had a silver badge with black lettering and the captain had a larger silver badge with gold lettering. While Gordy wore the larger badge, one of my fondest memories is patrolling the halls of Grantosa with him and how proud I felt with my small silver badge pinned to my belt. Your comments and stories are greatly appreciated.

What Do You Mean the Truth Will Set You Free?: Step 15

Greed and the temptation of evil struck me at a young age. Actually, to the best of my recollection it was around the time my personal chronology moved into the double-digit category. An arena, I have heard one does not get to leave for the rest of your life unless you are one of the fortunate few to reach the century mark. For those of you having difficulty keeping up I am talking about age. So, round about 10 years of age I was cursed with the need to impress others with of all things my material possessions. As stated before my life while comfortable included none of the excesses the Hardy Boys or Beaver Clever had. As far as I am aware neither of my parents were interested in sports. Still my life would become obsessed with Wisconsin’s proudest sports franchise, the Green Bay Packers. Some guy from New York with an Italian name, Vincent Lombardi, came to town and turned a fairly mediocre group of athletes into perennial champions. Kids at Grantosa Drive talked incessantly about Dowler or McGee’s great catch or the patented Hornung sweep with pulling guards Jerry Cramer and Fuzzy Thurston knocking down everyone in their path. Guys a few years older, but not that much bigger, such as Wade’s brother Glen, who lived next door, or Jesse, the first guy with a ducktail in the back, were “making the team,” at Custer High. When I saw their uniforms I knew I had to have one. The other phenomenon influencing this stage of my life was the radio. More specifically, kids were listening to the “Top 40.” Somehow, I had managed to get my own transistor radio. These pocket size beasts were the ancestors of the ipod. While reception depended on standing in just the right place without moving too quickly in either direction, the ability to take your personal music, the stuff parents said, “sounds more like noise than music to me,” and listen either outside or in the privacy of your own bedroom was a mid-twentieth century miracle. Beyond this invention there was the phonograph. Here again, analogous to itunes, you could own your own music. My parents had something called 78s, but the fashion on which the Top 40 was produced was the 45-rpm record. Rather than the little paper punch hole of the 78s, these babies had a hole in the center the size of a silver dollar. Now, neither the clerk at G.C. Murphy where I purchased my football uniform, nor the woman, who along with her husband owned and operated the record store where I purchased a copy of the top 10 of the top 40 records, asked where I got the money. It was a secret that would be short-lived. After hiding my uniform in my dresser drawer the first few days, I took it out to wear the afternoon Jesse offered to join one of our pick-up games. Thinking my shoulder and thigh pads would make me indestructible I ran up the middle and was tackled to the ground instantly covering the bright red jersey with green grass stains. At the same time, I think I had only played two or three of the records before the grass stain incident. Then, I’m not sure what I did to get my little brother to turn on me, but looking back it seems it was inevitable, and so the truth squad, aka Mom and Dad, were called in to settle the matter. I did try to hide in the closet and refuse to come out, but that proved useless. Admitting you stole money from your parents and agreeing to a year long plan to pay for the damaged goods was difficult enough, but when I had to wash out the uniform in order to donate it to Goodwill, and then return the records to the lady at the record store and apologize for my wrongful actions my embarrassment was mortifying. Your comments and stories are greatly appreciated.

Sunday Dinner at Aunt Jane's House: Step Fourteen

Some people and places take on epic proportions in life. Often it’s a parent or a sibling whose impact resonates in everything you do. Certainly my mother, father, sister and brother had and still have tremendous influence over my thoughts and behavior. Yet, somehow I know the one person who left an undeniable imprint on my persona is my Aunt Jane. When we would go to the house on Hi-mount Boulevard for chicken dinner on what seems like every Sunday for many years, even if Dad would ask, “Who wants to go to Uncle Joe’s?” because after all that was his brother, we knew to whose house he was referring. Aunt Jane had a personality larger than life. She had a zest for life and affection for everyone she encountered. When someone came into her store she made sure that person received the attention necessary to make him or her want to return again and again. Her little grocery bore her indelible mark and she practiced customer satisfaction as a way of living. While we didn’t get to the store as often as the house, whenever I did get a chance to visit her there, she always asked, “Well how’s my Marko?” She loved adding long vowels to the end of short names. Naturally, Uncle Joe was Joey, but if you went by Ann or Dan, you could count on her calling you Annie and Danny. I’d always leave the store with an apple, pear, or banana, never a piece of candy. On a hot day we might get a popsicle, but she believed in the value of nutritional snacks. For that matter, she knew value. Whether it was a relaxing ride in the country, or sitting on the comfortably upholstered leather lounge chair on the enclosed porch, or the heavy cast iron skillet in which she placed the freshest pieces of chicken, her life was filled with quality and value. Besides pure white flour I’m not sure what herbs and spices she used to batter the breasts, thigh and drumsticks that crackled in that skillet, but the moment anyone stepped into her kitchen the aromatic bouquet kindled the salivary gland to the point where calling dinner mouth-watering was redundant. My cousin, Carrie, was ten years older than me and so was off to college in New York by the time I reached the third grade. Even though Allen was five years older, if Stuart, our mutual cousin who was right in between us in age, came over I was likely to be included in playing catch, raking leaves, or whatever was going on in the backyard before dinner. After dinner we would wash dishes and watch Ed Sullivan before heading home. Occasionally, the routine would change. My fondest memory is of the time she and Uncle Joe hauled out their coin collection. The store had been a treasure trove of amazing currency. There were Indian head pennies, liberty head dimes, silver dollars, and twenty-five dollar gold pieces. To me the most memorable item was a five-dollar bill with portraits of both Lincoln and Washington on it. I’ve never seen another like it and I’m not sure if it was legitimate, but I can still picture it clearly. That day she had something special for her Marko, my first two-dollar bill, with the portrait of the third president of the United States, Thomas Jefferson. As always, your comments and stories are welcome.