During my time in Boy Scouts we had a Jamboree each year. It usually involved a two or three-day camp and troops from all over our part of the state would attend. There were competitions between troops and chances to earn merit badges.
I remember one Jamboree in particular. Terry and I always shared a tent together at the Jamborees and at Camp Eastman. Most of the time we got along, but Terry loved practical jokes. That was good as long as we were doing it to someone else but I didn’t like it much when he would do it to me.
Late at night we would sometimes sneak around and loosen tent stakes. When the wind picked up tents would fall over on sleeping campers. Foil dinners in the campfire were big then and Terry was good at thinking of new thing’s to spike others dinners. He was skilled at getting a rock or a stick in someone else’s dinner without being detected. We short sheeted beds and put creatures in sleeping bags.
I remember one Jamboree that was held one fall somewhere near Wapello. It was in a huge rolling pasture full of grass and cow pies. Friday night was fine and on Saturday morning our orienteering team, Terry and I and two others, won the entire event by successfully navigating the entire course and returning to the starting point with a flag from each point. We had taken just under two hours and the next closest team was over 30 minutes behind us. Some teams didn’t finish until after lunch and others never did finish. Terry was driven to excel at Scout events and that we did. We got some kind of prize for finishing first and we were “big stuff” in the camp that day.
After a beans and hot dog lunch the Iowa Highway Patrol came and gave a tear gas demonstration. They set off a tear gas canister out in a low spot and then invited anyone who wanted to walk or run through it. I declined after watching kids screaming and rubbing their eyes while they buried their heads in the pillows.
The problem that day was that there was no wind and gradually the tear gas spread out across the camp and just seemed to hang there. We were soon all miserable with no sign of a change anytime soon. By suppertime we prepared our foil dinners through teary eyes. The gas had dissipated considerably but was still there, in our clothes and in our hair. The Highway Patrol had long since deserted us and the Scouts and the leaders were mad.
By eight o’clock that night it became obvious that we weren’t going to be able to sleep that night. It had turned cold and the thought of crawling in the tear gas smelling sleeping bag wasn’t all that pleasant no matter how faint the odor. After some consultation we all packed up and headed for home, as did most of the other groups. I guess this time the joke was on all of us!
Monday, June 26, 2006
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Meet the Principal
Play fighting was a popular activity by the time I was junior high age. We honed our skills as play fighters and delighted in making in all look real. We would throw punches and then sprawl across the ground when we were play hit. We even threw in sound effects when we could.
On balmy summer nights we would play fight on the parking of White street east of the school building. I don’t know why we chose that spot except that my parents probably couldn’t see us through the Elm trees that were abundant then. At about dusk we would wait for a car to start down the street and then we would engage in what was to appear as a horrific brawl.
Cars would honk and slow down but it was rare to get one to stop. I imagine because the fight did not look nearly as real as we thought it did. On one occasion a car did stop and the driver got out. We, of course, high tailed it out of there. We ended up under the big evergreen on the west side of Saunders. Breathless, we rolled on the ground giddy with our perceived success. There were comments like, “Did you see that guys face!” and “We got that guy!”
It was only later that I found out that the driver had known what we were up to all along and had jumped out and yelled to try to scare us. He told my Dad that we ran like “scared rabbits!” I never did tell the rest of the guys what had really happened.
At the junior high kids would often greet each other with a fake belly punch or a kerpluuee to the jaw. I don’t know what compelled us to do it but it was very common in those days. Actually, it is pretty common in these days, too. I have seen many elementary students play fight and bring the supervisors rushing over. We finally had to ban play fighting at Longfellow.
My first close encounter with the junior high principal came right after a play-fighting event in the boys’ bathroom. I had unleashed a series of belly punches to Gilbert Galyon when the principal walked in. I immediately stopped and the bathroom cleared. The principal walked up to me as I explained that we were just play fighting. He said, “How would you like it if I did that to you?” He shoved me back into the coat rack and threw several very convincing fake punches.
He stepped back and said, “How does it feel when it happens to you?” I said, “Fine! I don’t see why you had to make such a big deal out of it!” That was a big mistake on my part! He got very red in the face and escorted me by the nap of my neck to a chair outside his office. He left me there to ponder my fate while I think he went off to plan his next steps. It was sitting there that I first felt the pain in my back. The pain from him shoving me into to coat rack at the very beginning of the encounter.
After what seemed like hours but was only about 20 minutes he came back and took me into his office. What followed was a long and somewhat confusing lecture. He said he knew all about me and that I was a real troublemaker at Saunders. I was baffled by that and wondered if he had me confused with someone else at first. I didn’t say one word and in time he calmed down. He began talking about my sisters and then my parents. Then he suddenly stopped and said, “Get to class!” and I left.
That was the one and only encounter I had with the principal in junior high. He was an elementary principal in the district during my entire teaching career in Mt. Pleasant and served on the school board there for a time. He was on the interview team when I interviewed for a principal job in Mt. Pleasant. I didn’t get the job but I doubt it had anything to do with our junior high play fight.
On balmy summer nights we would play fight on the parking of White street east of the school building. I don’t know why we chose that spot except that my parents probably couldn’t see us through the Elm trees that were abundant then. At about dusk we would wait for a car to start down the street and then we would engage in what was to appear as a horrific brawl.
Cars would honk and slow down but it was rare to get one to stop. I imagine because the fight did not look nearly as real as we thought it did. On one occasion a car did stop and the driver got out. We, of course, high tailed it out of there. We ended up under the big evergreen on the west side of Saunders. Breathless, we rolled on the ground giddy with our perceived success. There were comments like, “Did you see that guys face!” and “We got that guy!”
It was only later that I found out that the driver had known what we were up to all along and had jumped out and yelled to try to scare us. He told my Dad that we ran like “scared rabbits!” I never did tell the rest of the guys what had really happened.
At the junior high kids would often greet each other with a fake belly punch or a kerpluuee to the jaw. I don’t know what compelled us to do it but it was very common in those days. Actually, it is pretty common in these days, too. I have seen many elementary students play fight and bring the supervisors rushing over. We finally had to ban play fighting at Longfellow.
My first close encounter with the junior high principal came right after a play-fighting event in the boys’ bathroom. I had unleashed a series of belly punches to Gilbert Galyon when the principal walked in. I immediately stopped and the bathroom cleared. The principal walked up to me as I explained that we were just play fighting. He said, “How would you like it if I did that to you?” He shoved me back into the coat rack and threw several very convincing fake punches.
He stepped back and said, “How does it feel when it happens to you?” I said, “Fine! I don’t see why you had to make such a big deal out of it!” That was a big mistake on my part! He got very red in the face and escorted me by the nap of my neck to a chair outside his office. He left me there to ponder my fate while I think he went off to plan his next steps. It was sitting there that I first felt the pain in my back. The pain from him shoving me into to coat rack at the very beginning of the encounter.
After what seemed like hours but was only about 20 minutes he came back and took me into his office. What followed was a long and somewhat confusing lecture. He said he knew all about me and that I was a real troublemaker at Saunders. I was baffled by that and wondered if he had me confused with someone else at first. I didn’t say one word and in time he calmed down. He began talking about my sisters and then my parents. Then he suddenly stopped and said, “Get to class!” and I left.
That was the one and only encounter I had with the principal in junior high. He was an elementary principal in the district during my entire teaching career in Mt. Pleasant and served on the school board there for a time. He was on the interview team when I interviewed for a principal job in Mt. Pleasant. I didn’t get the job but I doubt it had anything to do with our junior high play fight.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Colorblind
Being colorblind is a frustrating thing! Just the other day I told someone I was colorblind and they immediately begin holding up or pointing at things and saying, “What color is this?” It is a refrain that has been repeated to me, and I suppose other colorblind people, a thousand times over the years. It is as if they don’t believe you and you have to prove it all over again.
I have even had people argue with me and say “You are not colorblind!” or “How do you know?” I wonder if they would treat a blind person the same way? The Army confirmed I was colorblind in 1968. When I went for my physical they made me go though the colorblind test six times and finally the guy said, “You’re colorblind.” I asked him if that would keep me out of the service and he said, “No, colorblind people make good snipers!”
Let me just say that we do see something, just not in the same way as you. When you say, “What color does this look like to you?” I can only say what it looks like red, green, or whatever, because it has always been that way for a colorblind person. Blended colors or colors side by side are hard for us to distinguish, so red next to green might look all green or vise versa.
When I was 12 years old I didn’t know what was wrong. More than once someone said, ‘Don’t you know your colors?” The first time through kindergarten my teacher thought it was just immaturity. They second time through some thought I just wasn’t quite right. “It’s too bad! His sisters are such bright girls! I guess they got all of the brains.”
I am actually quite skilled at hiding it. I only share my secret with those I think I can trust. Unfortunately, the world is color-coded, so I can’t always get away with it. I wish that people wouldn’t laugh when they find out but they usually do.
Now, lest you think I was terribly scarred by this it is not so. I learned to compensate for it and am probably a better person for it. I would never consider trading what I see for what you see. I am just looking for a little tolerance here. In truth, everyone in the world sees things a little differently and that is a good thing. We should celebrate that!
I have deuteranopia. Wanna see what I see? Check http://www.vischeck.com/examples/. In case you want to know the first two look exactly the same to me. There are entire websites now about colorblindness and even several about how to design things so colorblind people won’t have trouble reading it.
Growing up I didn’t understand all of the fuss about color TV. I just really didn’t see a lot of difference and what I did see didn’t look like real life. Things that seem to be the most difficult are things like: weather maps are hard to read because so many of the colors blend together; traffic lights aren’t too bad because you can almost always tell which one is lit, but it is difficult to determine if a flashing light ahead is red or yellow; people who get too much sun don’t look much different from anyone else; matching clothing can be hard if not impossible; crayons with the color name on them are very helpful; fall leaf colors, except for yellow, aren’t all that different from any other time; and I need help determining if meat is fully cooked. Directions that include colors like, “Look for the green house on the right.” can be tough, too.
At least one in ten men is color blind in one way or another. I have heard of many who are a lot worse off than me. Think about us when you use colors.
I have even had people argue with me and say “You are not colorblind!” or “How do you know?” I wonder if they would treat a blind person the same way? The Army confirmed I was colorblind in 1968. When I went for my physical they made me go though the colorblind test six times and finally the guy said, “You’re colorblind.” I asked him if that would keep me out of the service and he said, “No, colorblind people make good snipers!”
Let me just say that we do see something, just not in the same way as you. When you say, “What color does this look like to you?” I can only say what it looks like red, green, or whatever, because it has always been that way for a colorblind person. Blended colors or colors side by side are hard for us to distinguish, so red next to green might look all green or vise versa.
When I was 12 years old I didn’t know what was wrong. More than once someone said, ‘Don’t you know your colors?” The first time through kindergarten my teacher thought it was just immaturity. They second time through some thought I just wasn’t quite right. “It’s too bad! His sisters are such bright girls! I guess they got all of the brains.”
I am actually quite skilled at hiding it. I only share my secret with those I think I can trust. Unfortunately, the world is color-coded, so I can’t always get away with it. I wish that people wouldn’t laugh when they find out but they usually do.
Now, lest you think I was terribly scarred by this it is not so. I learned to compensate for it and am probably a better person for it. I would never consider trading what I see for what you see. I am just looking for a little tolerance here. In truth, everyone in the world sees things a little differently and that is a good thing. We should celebrate that!
I have deuteranopia. Wanna see what I see? Check http://www.vischeck.com/examples/. In case you want to know the first two look exactly the same to me. There are entire websites now about colorblindness and even several about how to design things so colorblind people won’t have trouble reading it.
Growing up I didn’t understand all of the fuss about color TV. I just really didn’t see a lot of difference and what I did see didn’t look like real life. Things that seem to be the most difficult are things like: weather maps are hard to read because so many of the colors blend together; traffic lights aren’t too bad because you can almost always tell which one is lit, but it is difficult to determine if a flashing light ahead is red or yellow; people who get too much sun don’t look much different from anyone else; matching clothing can be hard if not impossible; crayons with the color name on them are very helpful; fall leaf colors, except for yellow, aren’t all that different from any other time; and I need help determining if meat is fully cooked. Directions that include colors like, “Look for the green house on the right.” can be tough, too.
At least one in ten men is color blind in one way or another. I have heard of many who are a lot worse off than me. Think about us when you use colors.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Pee Wee and the Bay of Pigs
The Old K-line was a railroad that ran from Keokuk to Salem, crossed the Skunk River near Oakland Mills and followed what is the present day Oakland Road to Big Creek. It ran up through the woods to Saunders Park on what is now the road on the west side of the park. It kept going north and crossed old highway 34 near what is now a car dealership on one side and Jennings Tire on the other. It continued north and crossed a trestle over West Monroe. It crossed Madison and Henry and ended joining the CB& Q railroad.
On the spot where that car dealership is now, for many years there, was Biggs’ Hatchery. Henry Biggs, our neighbor owned the hatchery. On the west side of the hatchery was the Dream Drive In. Gary (Pee Wee) Warner’s parents owned that place and lived in a trailer behind it.
Many times when I was going to Pee Wee’s house we would walk west on Madison Street and then walk down the K-line and the across the trestle. This was pretty much the country in those days but we preferred to call it “uninhabited wilderness.” At the hatchery we would turn west and go behind the building to Pee Wee’s. Walking the trestle was pretty exciting! Occasionally a train would come down from the main line and drop off cars at the hatchery. By this time the railroad stopped right there. The rails had been pulled up all the way from Highway 34 to Keokuk.
One Friday night in late April of 1961 I was spending the night with Pee Wee. We were 12 years old and almost out of 6th grade. We considered ourselves quite mature. That day we took our usual route to Pee Wee’s. Not hurrying to his place we lingered on the rails near the hatchery, balancing on them and talking over the issues of our lives and the world.
The United States had joined in an attack on Cuba at a place called the Bay of Pigs. There was a lot of talk about the country going to war. Balancing on a rail and spitting into the air Pee Wee said, “If we go to war I’m going!” He spit again as he slipped off the rail. He told me about how young men almost our age had lied and joined the army during World War II. I wasn’t excited about the thought and I think he realized it. Standing between the rails he turned straight toward me, spit on the ground with passion and said, “I don’t care what people say! I’m gonna do it and my parents can’t stop me!” He spit again.
Now, if you didn’t already know, Pee Wee was short for his age, thus the nickname. The thought of him being able to pass for eighteen was a stretch for even my vivid imagination. I sought only to contain my disbelief as to not damage our friendship, much less our plans for the night and all the free ice cream I would be getting. I managed to change the subject and we soon headed for Pee Wee’s house.
Pee Wee’s family sold the Dream Drive In and moved to Ottumwa that summer. I did go and stay with him for a week, but we never discussed the Bay of Pigs again. I forgot this incident until 911 and was reminded of it when I saw a TV interview of a young man who had decided to join the army.
On the spot where that car dealership is now, for many years there, was Biggs’ Hatchery. Henry Biggs, our neighbor owned the hatchery. On the west side of the hatchery was the Dream Drive In. Gary (Pee Wee) Warner’s parents owned that place and lived in a trailer behind it.
Many times when I was going to Pee Wee’s house we would walk west on Madison Street and then walk down the K-line and the across the trestle. This was pretty much the country in those days but we preferred to call it “uninhabited wilderness.” At the hatchery we would turn west and go behind the building to Pee Wee’s. Walking the trestle was pretty exciting! Occasionally a train would come down from the main line and drop off cars at the hatchery. By this time the railroad stopped right there. The rails had been pulled up all the way from Highway 34 to Keokuk.
One Friday night in late April of 1961 I was spending the night with Pee Wee. We were 12 years old and almost out of 6th grade. We considered ourselves quite mature. That day we took our usual route to Pee Wee’s. Not hurrying to his place we lingered on the rails near the hatchery, balancing on them and talking over the issues of our lives and the world.
The United States had joined in an attack on Cuba at a place called the Bay of Pigs. There was a lot of talk about the country going to war. Balancing on a rail and spitting into the air Pee Wee said, “If we go to war I’m going!” He spit again as he slipped off the rail. He told me about how young men almost our age had lied and joined the army during World War II. I wasn’t excited about the thought and I think he realized it. Standing between the rails he turned straight toward me, spit on the ground with passion and said, “I don’t care what people say! I’m gonna do it and my parents can’t stop me!” He spit again.
Now, if you didn’t already know, Pee Wee was short for his age, thus the nickname. The thought of him being able to pass for eighteen was a stretch for even my vivid imagination. I sought only to contain my disbelief as to not damage our friendship, much less our plans for the night and all the free ice cream I would be getting. I managed to change the subject and we soon headed for Pee Wee’s house.
Pee Wee’s family sold the Dream Drive In and moved to Ottumwa that summer. I did go and stay with him for a week, but we never discussed the Bay of Pigs again. I forgot this incident until 911 and was reminded of it when I saw a TV interview of a young man who had decided to join the army.
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