When I was in third grade around our house I began to hear a lot about someone named Arthur Murray and his dance studio. I really didn’t know what it was all about and I certainly wasn’t interested in dancing.
My mother decided that my sister Loretta would benefit from some dance lessons since she would soon be going into junior high. My mother arranged 6 weeks of lessons that winter at the Arthur Murray Dance Studio in Burlington. Kind of as an after thought Mother decided I might was well take them, too, as I would be going along anyway.
On the trips I remember being relegated to the back seat. I had to wear my best church outfit. It was a jacket, shirt, tie, dress pants and some very uncomfortable shoes. I would ride along and listen to my Mother and sister chatter. By then they were talking about things older people talked about and I wondered if that would ever happen to me. Sometimes my mother stayed and watched and sometimes she went and visited my Aunt Lucille who lived in Burlington.
In was on the third trip I finally asked when Arthur Murray would be there? Our teacher was a rather unfriendly woman and I was looking forward to a change. Mother and Loretta just laughed. I didn’t realize there were Arthur Murray studios all over the country.
The studio was on the 3rd floor of a building in downtown Burlington. It was a very large room with a wooden floor. All around the outside of the room was a bench that was fastened to the wall. There were no other chairs in the room. A row of support posts was evenly spaced down the center of the room. Next to one of the posts was a small table with a record player on top.
So, we would all gather on the bench along the wall and the instructor would start talking. She was strictly business and wasted no time. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to do this if it was so serious. She didn’t seem like someone who could ever have fun. She was a tall, thin woman who scowled every time she looked at me. She would tell about some dance step, then cue a record and grab someone to demonstrate it with her. I dreaded the day that she would pick me. It didn’t come until near the end and all she could say as she jerked me around on the floor was ‘loosen up!” I figured if I did I would break my neck!
Once she had demonstrated the step she expected us to pair up and dance all over the floor. Loretta, of course, was mortified at the suggestion of dancing with her little brother and so she always paired up with someone else and left me orphaned in the middle of the floor. My choices were limited!
I usually ended up dancing with a very unattractive girl. She was at least a foot taller than me and had big feet. She was kind of cubby and wore thick glasses. I really hated putting my hand on her waste. She had very bad teeth and breath to go along with it. I must have danced with her twenty times and she never once looked at or spoke to me. I don’t think I ever knew her name or her mine. I imagine her out there today dancing in that stiff legged way and never looking anyone in the eye.
I actually did learn a few steps but with no place to practice them for years after that I soon forgot everything. There are still Arthur Murray Dance Studios out there. Just thinking about it makes me nervous!
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Things
Three things happened to me over the summer between my fifth and sixth grade years. It is funny how three minor events could blend together to change my life in ways I would never expect. Coming into that summer I hadn’t been successful about much of anything except swimming. I was pretty much considered to be a momma’s boy that no one took seriously. It was clear I wasn’t very smart and was mostly a follower. That was all to change.
Fankhauser’s Dairy was having a great baseball season. We were pretty much riding on the pitching of Bill Griest. He was “packin’ lightning” as they used to say. Dad said Bill came from a long line of great pitchers. Dad had stories of when Bill’s uncle played for the team in Trenton. I was a mediocre second baseman and I seldom got a hit in games. That summer we won our division and were in a play off with the other division winning team. All of my friends said we would get clobbered.
The game stayed tight down to the last inning. At that point we were tied 8 to 8. We held the other team to one run in the top of the inning. We managed to load the bases and the batter before me drove in one run to tie the game again. The man running to second was our second out of the inning. So with two outs and a runner on first and third I stepped up to the plate not realizing the magnitude of what was about to happen. The coach said, “walk!” A big hitter followed me in the batting order.
The first pitch was ball and I let it go by. The second was a strike and I swung. Nothing but air. I stood for the third pitch and the umpire said strike two. Desperately not wanting to strike out and lose the game and the championship for my team I swung at the fourth pitch. My Dad said it was a hard drive right between first and second base. I didn’t see it, of course, cause I was running to first.
I was mobbed at first base. It was pandemonium! The team was screaming and jumping all over me! The fans were yelling and there were people all over the field. I asked someone what happened and above the din I heard him say we had won the game. I was a hero for driving in the winning run.
We went on to play the All Star team and again my friends were sure we would get beat. Although, I didn’t do anything of note in that game we clobbered the All Stars and I played with a new confidence. That was the first.
In May of that year the second thing happened. I had seen the advertisements in comic books for bodybuilding and told my Dad I wanted some weights for weigh lifting. We had no money for that but he suggested I make my own. He helped me with the first part. We filled a large coffee can with cement and propped a pipe upright in the center. After it hardened in that can I filled a second can and stuck the other end of the pipe in the wet concrete. When it hardened I had my barbell.
I don’t know how heavy it was but would guess it to be between twenty and thirty pounds. I lifted that bar bell almost every day that summer. I didn’t know anything about what I was doing but would usually lift until I couldn’t do it anymore and then do it again in a little while. I got so I could lift that bar bell over my head 50 or 60 times without stopping. So between swimming and the weigh lifting I got plenty of exercise that summer.
In August the boys from my class got together one Saturday morning. We were walking around filling in each other on all we had done that summer. Of the group, only a couple knew about my baseball success. So when I told about it some thought I was just bragging. They hadn’t yet figured out I was the new confident Perry. We wandered up towards town and ended up in Danny Welcher’s back yard. His house was in the alley behind what is now Home Furniture. There in the back yard was Danny’s brother’s weight set. It included a bench and all of the weights for a perfect set up.
There were all kinds of badgering about who was strong and who wasn’t. Danny loaded the bar with a twenty-pound weight on each end. The bar, itself, weighed about 20 pounds so the total was probably around 60 pounds. Each person took a turn at lifting the bar doing a bench press. Everyone expected Danny to do it but he screamed and had us lift it off his chest. No one could budge it. I was last to try and everyone scoffed believing if they couldn’t do it I never could. We were all surprised when I lifted it off my chest with ease once, twice, and then three times. I set the bar on the rack and got up. That was the third thing!
None of this really changed anyone else but it changed me. Confidence can be a good thing and sometimes a not so good thing. I’ll tell you more about that another time.
Fankhauser’s Dairy was having a great baseball season. We were pretty much riding on the pitching of Bill Griest. He was “packin’ lightning” as they used to say. Dad said Bill came from a long line of great pitchers. Dad had stories of when Bill’s uncle played for the team in Trenton. I was a mediocre second baseman and I seldom got a hit in games. That summer we won our division and were in a play off with the other division winning team. All of my friends said we would get clobbered.
The game stayed tight down to the last inning. At that point we were tied 8 to 8. We held the other team to one run in the top of the inning. We managed to load the bases and the batter before me drove in one run to tie the game again. The man running to second was our second out of the inning. So with two outs and a runner on first and third I stepped up to the plate not realizing the magnitude of what was about to happen. The coach said, “walk!” A big hitter followed me in the batting order.
The first pitch was ball and I let it go by. The second was a strike and I swung. Nothing but air. I stood for the third pitch and the umpire said strike two. Desperately not wanting to strike out and lose the game and the championship for my team I swung at the fourth pitch. My Dad said it was a hard drive right between first and second base. I didn’t see it, of course, cause I was running to first.
I was mobbed at first base. It was pandemonium! The team was screaming and jumping all over me! The fans were yelling and there were people all over the field. I asked someone what happened and above the din I heard him say we had won the game. I was a hero for driving in the winning run.
We went on to play the All Star team and again my friends were sure we would get beat. Although, I didn’t do anything of note in that game we clobbered the All Stars and I played with a new confidence. That was the first.
In May of that year the second thing happened. I had seen the advertisements in comic books for bodybuilding and told my Dad I wanted some weights for weigh lifting. We had no money for that but he suggested I make my own. He helped me with the first part. We filled a large coffee can with cement and propped a pipe upright in the center. After it hardened in that can I filled a second can and stuck the other end of the pipe in the wet concrete. When it hardened I had my barbell.
I don’t know how heavy it was but would guess it to be between twenty and thirty pounds. I lifted that bar bell almost every day that summer. I didn’t know anything about what I was doing but would usually lift until I couldn’t do it anymore and then do it again in a little while. I got so I could lift that bar bell over my head 50 or 60 times without stopping. So between swimming and the weigh lifting I got plenty of exercise that summer.
In August the boys from my class got together one Saturday morning. We were walking around filling in each other on all we had done that summer. Of the group, only a couple knew about my baseball success. So when I told about it some thought I was just bragging. They hadn’t yet figured out I was the new confident Perry. We wandered up towards town and ended up in Danny Welcher’s back yard. His house was in the alley behind what is now Home Furniture. There in the back yard was Danny’s brother’s weight set. It included a bench and all of the weights for a perfect set up.
There were all kinds of badgering about who was strong and who wasn’t. Danny loaded the bar with a twenty-pound weight on each end. The bar, itself, weighed about 20 pounds so the total was probably around 60 pounds. Each person took a turn at lifting the bar doing a bench press. Everyone expected Danny to do it but he screamed and had us lift it off his chest. No one could budge it. I was last to try and everyone scoffed believing if they couldn’t do it I never could. We were all surprised when I lifted it off my chest with ease once, twice, and then three times. I set the bar on the rack and got up. That was the third thing!
None of this really changed anyone else but it changed me. Confidence can be a good thing and sometimes a not so good thing. I’ll tell you more about that another time.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Expectoration
Gary Warner could spit! My mother viewed spitting as ungentlemanly and unnecessary. She didn’t allow it around our house so I did not see my Dad spit often, either. I guess I didn’t think about it much. The only exception she allowed was my Grandfather Perry who chewed tobacco. He could do that outside but she did not allow it in our house.
I didn’t learn much about spitting until I met Gary. Boy, could he spit! Gary was the shortest kid in our class and was nicknamed “PeeWee” which he much preferred over his given name. His parents owned the Dream Drive In and he lived in a trailer behind the place.
Pee Wee had a different spit for each occasion. There was the general “speeuee” which he used almost constantly when were just walking around. It was almost as if he was marking his territory. As Gary approached he would spit once on the left and then quickly once on the right. When he stopped he would spit one “speeuee” in front almost right between his toes.
He would launch into conversation and to punctuate his sentences he would use a special spit. He would draw his lips back tightly to his teeth, open his mouth only slightly and propel spit between his upper and lower teeth. It was kind of a bullet spit always up into the air and off to his right. It was a “tu”.
Spitting is like yawning. Once somebody started doing it everybody starts doing it. When the guys gathered on the playground and Pee Wee came over it wasn’t long before the ground around us was covered and there was the constant “tu” or “speeuee” or “sperat” or “dut” as the boys cleared their mouths of all moisture. It was no wonder we were so thirsty after recess. If we had thought of it and timed in right we could have made our own kind of music out there.
More than once the teacher on recess duty would walk by looking down at the ground and say, “Is it starting to rain?” We would all giggle and move away as quickly as we could.
Occasionally, a spitter makes a mistake. I have seen it happen more than once. A spitter will be walking down the hall at school. Meeting one of his friends he will instinctively spit on the floor and then realize what he has done. Quick glances up and down the hall assure him that his secret is safe this time. Once in awhile, even today, when I see a wet spot on the floor of the hall in one of the schools I know what has happened.
Another spitting faux pas is spitting on yourself. That is something that you don’t ever want to happen and if it does you don’t want anybody to know about it. That sometimes happens when the spit is sort of strung out. This is really considered to be bad form and to be avoided at all cost.
Strange as it may sound spitting on someone else is also considered inappropriate under any but exceptional circumstance. Even in the heat of battle a self-respecting spitter would not spit on another except as a last resort. Then it would be a “touee” which is intended to sound bad and actually carries little spit.
So there ya have it! Pee Wee inspired our spitting through most of fourth and fifth grade. Most of us gradually moved out of that stage but occasionally I still catch myself offering out a “tu” or “speeuee”.
I didn’t learn much about spitting until I met Gary. Boy, could he spit! Gary was the shortest kid in our class and was nicknamed “PeeWee” which he much preferred over his given name. His parents owned the Dream Drive In and he lived in a trailer behind the place.
Pee Wee had a different spit for each occasion. There was the general “speeuee” which he used almost constantly when were just walking around. It was almost as if he was marking his territory. As Gary approached he would spit once on the left and then quickly once on the right. When he stopped he would spit one “speeuee” in front almost right between his toes.
He would launch into conversation and to punctuate his sentences he would use a special spit. He would draw his lips back tightly to his teeth, open his mouth only slightly and propel spit between his upper and lower teeth. It was kind of a bullet spit always up into the air and off to his right. It was a “tu”.
Spitting is like yawning. Once somebody started doing it everybody starts doing it. When the guys gathered on the playground and Pee Wee came over it wasn’t long before the ground around us was covered and there was the constant “tu” or “speeuee” or “sperat” or “dut” as the boys cleared their mouths of all moisture. It was no wonder we were so thirsty after recess. If we had thought of it and timed in right we could have made our own kind of music out there.
More than once the teacher on recess duty would walk by looking down at the ground and say, “Is it starting to rain?” We would all giggle and move away as quickly as we could.
Occasionally, a spitter makes a mistake. I have seen it happen more than once. A spitter will be walking down the hall at school. Meeting one of his friends he will instinctively spit on the floor and then realize what he has done. Quick glances up and down the hall assure him that his secret is safe this time. Once in awhile, even today, when I see a wet spot on the floor of the hall in one of the schools I know what has happened.
Another spitting faux pas is spitting on yourself. That is something that you don’t ever want to happen and if it does you don’t want anybody to know about it. That sometimes happens when the spit is sort of strung out. This is really considered to be bad form and to be avoided at all cost.
Strange as it may sound spitting on someone else is also considered inappropriate under any but exceptional circumstance. Even in the heat of battle a self-respecting spitter would not spit on another except as a last resort. Then it would be a “touee” which is intended to sound bad and actually carries little spit.
So there ya have it! Pee Wee inspired our spitting through most of fourth and fifth grade. Most of us gradually moved out of that stage but occasionally I still catch myself offering out a “tu” or “speeuee”.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
1824
Thursday, February 9, marks the 1824th day in a row that I have played my harmonica. I bought my first one on February 9, 2001. It was a snow day so I went downtown to get a haircut. On the way back to the parking lot I stopped in a small shop that was closing because it was to move to the new mall that would be opening soon in Coralville. The store was pretty much depleted of all items, but I did spot a single harmonica on a shelf. It had been marked down and then the price halved again.
I bought it! The harmonica was in a small box. It was wrapped in a very thin kind of paper. Also, included in the box, was a brief overview of the harmonica and the music for “When the Saints Go Marching In” in the key of C.
Now, I need to say here loud and clear, that I know nothing about music. It fact, on the scale of 1 to 10, with 1 meaning I know nothing, I would be at about -3. I can’t dance and have no rhythm. I have tried to learn to dance and twice took guitar lessons. I was a failure at both. I read or heard somewhere that a harmonica is the easiest instrument to learn so I decided to try.
On that snowy day I vowed to learn to play the harmonica. I decided to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” over and over, much to Becky’s chagrin. Those who know me know I am nothing if not stubborn. So I played it over and over. When I thought I had it, I moved on to another song with a familiar tune. So, over time I have added to my repertoire of songs.
When I say I have played my harmonica every day for 1824 days I don’t mean I have practiced it everyday. I practice once or twice a week. Playing it is just playing a song or two every day. To insure that I do that I play “Amazing Grace” every morning. I play it once as a prayer for me, once as a prayer for all of our loved ones, and once for the troubled in the rest of the world. So I guess you could say I pray for you everyday whoever you are.
Someday, I would like to take some lessons to learn how to do more of the blues stuff and the riffs that go along with many songs. I have a library of many “how to” books and have many different kinds of harmonicas.
I usually give away mini-harmonicas when I work with students and when I am doing storytelling. While I was principal at Longfellow we had a harmonica club that met once a week and occasionally performed during school assemblies.
I am still not any good at it but don’t plan to stop playing. I know they will probably take my harmonica away if I ever go to the nursing home. I hope you will all see that I always have one.
So, I have played 1824 days in a row. You’d think I could play a lot better by now. Hmmmmmm…
My Harmonica
I have a harmonica
That I have wanted to play
I do practice just a little
Almost every day
It makes a whistle
It screeches and brays
Doesn’t it know?
I have music to play?
I have a harmonica
It needs to be played!
No matter how I try
The notes are not made!
I huff and I puff
I draw and I blow
Breathless, I pause
Still, no music! No! No!
I’ll keep on tryin’
A quitter I’m not
It drove away my friends
So it’s all that I’ve got!
Perry O. Ross February 9, 2006
(I have practiced poetry even longer and I am not any good at that either.)
I bought it! The harmonica was in a small box. It was wrapped in a very thin kind of paper. Also, included in the box, was a brief overview of the harmonica and the music for “When the Saints Go Marching In” in the key of C.
Now, I need to say here loud and clear, that I know nothing about music. It fact, on the scale of 1 to 10, with 1 meaning I know nothing, I would be at about -3. I can’t dance and have no rhythm. I have tried to learn to dance and twice took guitar lessons. I was a failure at both. I read or heard somewhere that a harmonica is the easiest instrument to learn so I decided to try.
On that snowy day I vowed to learn to play the harmonica. I decided to play “When the Saints Go Marching In” over and over, much to Becky’s chagrin. Those who know me know I am nothing if not stubborn. So I played it over and over. When I thought I had it, I moved on to another song with a familiar tune. So, over time I have added to my repertoire of songs.
When I say I have played my harmonica every day for 1824 days I don’t mean I have practiced it everyday. I practice once or twice a week. Playing it is just playing a song or two every day. To insure that I do that I play “Amazing Grace” every morning. I play it once as a prayer for me, once as a prayer for all of our loved ones, and once for the troubled in the rest of the world. So I guess you could say I pray for you everyday whoever you are.
Someday, I would like to take some lessons to learn how to do more of the blues stuff and the riffs that go along with many songs. I have a library of many “how to” books and have many different kinds of harmonicas.
I usually give away mini-harmonicas when I work with students and when I am doing storytelling. While I was principal at Longfellow we had a harmonica club that met once a week and occasionally performed during school assemblies.
I am still not any good at it but don’t plan to stop playing. I know they will probably take my harmonica away if I ever go to the nursing home. I hope you will all see that I always have one.
So, I have played 1824 days in a row. You’d think I could play a lot better by now. Hmmmmmm…
My Harmonica
I have a harmonica
That I have wanted to play
I do practice just a little
Almost every day
It makes a whistle
It screeches and brays
Doesn’t it know?
I have music to play?
I have a harmonica
It needs to be played!
No matter how I try
The notes are not made!
I huff and I puff
I draw and I blow
Breathless, I pause
Still, no music! No! No!
I’ll keep on tryin’
A quitter I’m not
It drove away my friends
So it’s all that I’ve got!
Perry O. Ross February 9, 2006
(I have practiced poetry even longer and I am not any good at that either.)
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Miss Ikuta
As I have alluded to in previous pieces, elementary school wasn’t a particularly good time for me. I struggled with reading and learning in general. I didn’t think the teachers were too fond of me and I was sometimes miserable. I knew I was somehow different than the rest of the kids and didn’t know what it was or why. There was one place…a place that I loved…a place where the teacher welcomed me and I felt warm and comfortable. It was art class.
Tomie Ikuta was my art teacher in elementary school. I was in love with her! She was absolutely beautiful and she was so kind to me. She always greeted me with a smile and was very positive about everything I did. I called her “Miss I Cute a” and she would blush.
Miss Ikuta was Japanese. Her family had been sent to an internment center during World War II. During that time Americans of Japanese decent, unfairly, were not trusted because of the war and they were moved to internment centers all over the country. Many were humiliated by the experience. Miss Ikuta was only a child during that time. When she grew up she went to Central College in Pella and graduated in 1954 with a teaching certificate.
She was hired and came to Mt. Pleasant after graduation to teach art in the elementary schools. While she was there she taught at Saunders, Lincoln, Harlan, and a few sections at the junior high. She didn’t own a car so she walked to work at one building or another every day. There were a few days a week that she served two building so she would walk from one to the other over her lunch hour. Amazing when you think about it now!
It’s amazing, too, what affect the kindness and gentleness of one person can have on someone’s life. Miss Ikuta awed and inspired me. She made me feel like I had worth and I cherished the time I had with her in art class. It was an island of comfort in a stormy sea. After I left elementary school and on to junior high I had a different teacher. Art was never the same for me. Miss Ikuta left Mt. Pleasant and I lost track of what happened to her.
While I was an elementary principle a few years ago I was urging students to write former teachers and tell them how much they appreciated them. I had received a kind letter from a former student and realized what a powerful impact it could have. I decided to take my own advice and thought I would write Miss Ikuta.
I did some detective work and determined that Miss Ikuta had married and was now Mrs. Conaroy. She had lived in the Quad Cities for a while and now was living in the Minneapolis area. More work led to her last known address. I wrote a letter to her in March of 1996. In late April I received a hand written letter from Italy. Mrs. Conaroy and her husband were traveling in Europe (with some friends originally from Mt. Pleasant) and had finally found the time to write back to me.
It said, in part …”You can’t realize how much I appreciated your letter. You could not have known that I opened your letter at the end of one of the most frustrating and depressing days (related to my job). Your letter was the perfect tonic to my mood…It also inspired me to resolve to write one of my high school English teachers from who I learned all that I know of grammar…”
By this time Heather was living in Minneapolis so arranging a meeting was in order. Becky, Heather and I had dinner with Tomie that summer in Minneapolis. We had a very nice time and she said she remembered me. I am not sure she really did but she is so kind that I don’t think she would tell me even if she didn’t. Oh, if the world was just full of more people like Miss I Cute a.
Tomie Ikuta was my art teacher in elementary school. I was in love with her! She was absolutely beautiful and she was so kind to me. She always greeted me with a smile and was very positive about everything I did. I called her “Miss I Cute a” and she would blush.
Miss Ikuta was Japanese. Her family had been sent to an internment center during World War II. During that time Americans of Japanese decent, unfairly, were not trusted because of the war and they were moved to internment centers all over the country. Many were humiliated by the experience. Miss Ikuta was only a child during that time. When she grew up she went to Central College in Pella and graduated in 1954 with a teaching certificate.
She was hired and came to Mt. Pleasant after graduation to teach art in the elementary schools. While she was there she taught at Saunders, Lincoln, Harlan, and a few sections at the junior high. She didn’t own a car so she walked to work at one building or another every day. There were a few days a week that she served two building so she would walk from one to the other over her lunch hour. Amazing when you think about it now!
It’s amazing, too, what affect the kindness and gentleness of one person can have on someone’s life. Miss Ikuta awed and inspired me. She made me feel like I had worth and I cherished the time I had with her in art class. It was an island of comfort in a stormy sea. After I left elementary school and on to junior high I had a different teacher. Art was never the same for me. Miss Ikuta left Mt. Pleasant and I lost track of what happened to her.
While I was an elementary principle a few years ago I was urging students to write former teachers and tell them how much they appreciated them. I had received a kind letter from a former student and realized what a powerful impact it could have. I decided to take my own advice and thought I would write Miss Ikuta.
I did some detective work and determined that Miss Ikuta had married and was now Mrs. Conaroy. She had lived in the Quad Cities for a while and now was living in the Minneapolis area. More work led to her last known address. I wrote a letter to her in March of 1996. In late April I received a hand written letter from Italy. Mrs. Conaroy and her husband were traveling in Europe (with some friends originally from Mt. Pleasant) and had finally found the time to write back to me.
It said, in part …”You can’t realize how much I appreciated your letter. You could not have known that I opened your letter at the end of one of the most frustrating and depressing days (related to my job). Your letter was the perfect tonic to my mood…It also inspired me to resolve to write one of my high school English teachers from who I learned all that I know of grammar…”
By this time Heather was living in Minneapolis so arranging a meeting was in order. Becky, Heather and I had dinner with Tomie that summer in Minneapolis. We had a very nice time and she said she remembered me. I am not sure she really did but she is so kind that I don’t think she would tell me even if she didn’t. Oh, if the world was just full of more people like Miss I Cute a.
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