My Early Education Helped Shape Me

On a discussion forum I frequent, one of the regulars posted a photo of an old abandoned 1-room schoolhouse he used to attend, and made the following comments:

" K through 4.

"No Internet
No phones
No gym
No sports
No indoor plumbing

"No wonder I'm such a bitter, gun-toting domestic terrorist."


The school where I spent first grade in 1961 was a lot like that...although they did have indoor plumbing. Now an historic landmark known as the Leora Brown School, it had been the "colored school" in town before the school system integrated. When we "baby boomers" overwhelmed the capacity of our 1914-built grade school, a couple of "overflow" classrooms were set up a couple of blocks away when they put up a partition wall in the formerly-one-room "colored school."

Mrs, Bickel--who had been my dad's first-grade teacher in 1936, back when she was Miss Miller--was my teacher. The other classroom went to Mrs. Merk, the wife of the principal at the junior high. [Mr.Merk had been my dad's senior English and Latin teacher in high school...and Dad hated him.]

The only phone in the building was one that hung on the wall in the back hallway, and its purpose was for use in case there was an emergency, so the principal at the main grade school could be notified. There was no gym, and the only sports were whatever we could work into a short recess on the part-gravel, part grass-and-mud playground. I use the term "playground" quite loosely, since the only play equipment there--besides our own imaginations--were three 2x12's u-bolted to a crude pipe frame to approximate some teeter-totters.

While "busing" was something that caused some strife under court-ordered integration in Louisville in 1975--and still causes some controversy even today--it was nothing new to us. We rode the bus to school, except for the kids who lived close enough to walk. At the "Annex," we rode the bus the 3 blocks to the main grade school for a cafeteria lunch...at 25 cents a day for that meal [Extra milk was 2 cents for a half-pint carton...and chocolate milk was ONLY allowed on "special occasions', with an extra carton costing 3 cents.]. And we rode the bus back to the "Annex" for afternoon classes...and then we rode the bus home. Black kids and white kids all rode the same buses, and we all managed to get along. No, we didn't sit an a circle holding hands singing "Kum-Ba-Yah" at school; we were too busy teasing each other about who had a crush on what girl, or playing "catchers" ["TAG! YOU'RE IT!"] or some other game that normal first-graders play.

We weren't taught how to be "politically correct" back then. The environment? Well, they tried to teach us to clean up after ourselves, and not to waste things, with varying degrees of success...but I guess that's that's the heart and soul of effective environmental protection--cleaning up after yourself, and not wasting resources--isn't it?

In the community where I grew up, owning a gun was not only accepted, but it was almost expected. Back then, most everyone either hunted or fished, many did both, and we skinned or scaled and cleaned and gutted and cooked and ate what we shot or caught...or gave it to someone who WOULD cook and eat it. "Catch and release"?? Only if the fish wasn't big enough to be a "keeper." Often we seined our own minnows, and usually threw back the crawdads and hellgramites that we occasonally ended up with...although some folks used them for bait, too.

So I guess growing up as I did, I never understood the need for any of the "politically correct" BS we keep hearing abut these days...because we knew better than to pollute the places where we hunted and fished, among other things, because we wanted to continue to be able to hunt and fish there. And we knew who our friends were, and didn't care if they were black or white becaus we all grew up riding the same school buses, and shared the same classrooms, lunchrooms and restrooms at school anyway.

And in my eyes, it's a shame it's taking the rest of the country so long to try to learn what I was being taught in first grade, at what used to be the old "colored school."

Growing Up In Downtown Corydon

When I was a kid, I pretty much grew up in downtown Corydon, IN. And since my dad and grand-dad ran a business in town, I knew most of the businessmen [and women] as well. So anyone who grew up in Corydon during our era might well remember:

*when the Krause Hotel at South Capitol and Poplar Streets burned down;
*the Corydon Jaycees' annual Pancake Festival, which used to close off all of Elm and Beaver streets for carnival rides every May;
*the old Blaine Hays law office on the southeast corner of Chestnut Street and Capitol Avenue;
*the Eureka Telephone Company's green-glazed building;
*the Elm Restaurant [bonus points for having come and gone through the side door];
*Foley's Barber Shop, on the south side of East Chestnut street;
*Dwight Harper's barber shop, when it was between Berlin's and Davidson's Pool Room;
*Ledford's Grocery...as well as Johnny Frederick's;
*Rick Warrick's Buick dealership, on the "Mauckport Hill", across from Claude Windell's Shell station;
*Corydon Auto Supply, across Capitol Avenue from the courthouse;
*Hobie Poellein's Western Auto store, where we got most of our bicycle accessories;
*Nelson's Firestone, on Chestnut Street, where we got the rest of our bike stuff;
*Ordner's Variety Store...bonus if you remember when they were over by the Corydon State Bank;
*North Side Garage, operated by Kelly Hardin;
* West Side Garage, operated by Tom and Doug Robson;
*the original Hamburger Castle, and the pinball machines in the back that cost a nickel a game, 6 for a quarter;
*Roy LaHue and Sons mens clothing store;
*the A & P grocery [and the smell of freshly-ground coffee when you walked in the door];
*the Marathon station just before Parks Chevrolet;
*the Mobil gas station on the West Hill;
*Sherrill's Roller Rinks...the one on the hill AND the one at the fairgrounds;
*the rampside Corvair appliance delivery truck from Hurst-Miles Hardware store;
*home milk delivery by both Sealtest and by Kannapel's Dairy.

These are but a few of my childhood memories of growing up in Corydon. I'm sure you have your own, and some will be different from mine. But these were a part of growing up in an isolated small town, and with the interstate highway system, the kind of childhood we had can never happen again.

Organizing the Garage: An Exercise In Futility

Ever since the days of the caveman, the "man-cave," also known in modern vernacular as a "garage," has been disorganized. Man has, through the centuries, invented many storage devices to help organize this "man-cave," and yet nearly all have utterly failed in this purpose. Man has even used "wo-man" to help organize the "man-cave," but this arrangement has proven unsatisfactory because "wo-man" has different ideas on what is important and what is junk than does Man...and once "wo-man" organizes the "man-cave," Man can never again find what once was close at hand and extremely necessary. So the failure is one of the "cave-man" who utilizes his "man-cave," rather than the reverse. And it has been so since the time of the Neanderthals...and will most likely continue throughout the time of the George Jetsons and beyond. It is our nature, written in our DNA, it seems.

Tales Of Deer Camp and Beer Bread, 2010

Got an F-U phone call for my son awhile ago.

Seems he and my deer hunting buddy Alan have a history of pulling practical jokes on one another. Well, until last weekend Alan and my son had an unofficial truce going on. I gather that's over now.

Now, one of the staples of our deer camp is beer bread; and another is chili. Alan is the guy who made the chili the ONE night my brother spent with us in deer camp. My brother vowed never to return after we all sat down to some deer camp chili that Saturday night. Everyone ate their chili without incident except my brother, who broke out in sweats, palpitations, and tears, swear words, and mystical incantations before he finished his bowl. It was only about a year later that we finally learned that Alan had added the amount of cayenne reserved for an entire POT of chili into my brother's single bowl. My brother still thinks we have an inhuman capacity to ingest fiery creations while at deer camp, and being the type of manly men we are, we've said nothing to dispel that notion.

My son is a fan of all things spicy...so a week or so ago I took him to peruse the well-stocked hot sauce section at the local Bass Pro Shop. He didn't buy any hot sauce; instead, he picked up a mix for beer bread. I don't recall the name, but I believe it was something to do with scorched donkey parts. All I noticed when my son was mixing it up was that the package contained what I considered to be a HUGE pouch of cayenne or similar pepper spice. [As a culinary note, my son made a special trip to the liquor store to pick up a regional brew by the Bluegrass Brewing Company, called "Horse Pi$$" beer, to make the bread. Nothing but the best for OUR deer camp, apparently.] In contrast, our normal beer bread at deer camp consists of self-rising flour, sugar, and beer, and is usually a non-threatening side item served with chili, as well as a base for an occasional sandwich.

So my son made a loaf of that stuff from the mix with the donkey on the package. No, it wasn't a brown colored bread; it actually had a reddish cast from all the flecks of peppery potency throughout. After chasing down about six slices with 12 cold brewskis, my son asked me to deliver the remainder to Alan at deer camp last weekend.

So how'd it go for Alan? After telling me that "it's on" once again, Alan proceeded to tell me how he believes that not only did the beer bread lead him to sweat profusely, to suffer a red face, watery eyes and a runny nose, and to ingest an inhuman number of barley pops to get it down--because at deer camp, we NEVER, EVER back down from a challenge [at least not the FIRST time]--but he's pretty sure he melted some porcelain bathroom fixtures [and possibly some important body parts as well] as he bid adios to the digested remains of said beer bread the following day. And apparently deer hunting buddy Gary suffered a similar fate.

So I guess the game is afoot once again. Of such adventures are the tales of deer camp woven.

AMERICA, LAND OF THE … VICTIMS

These days, I'm having a hard time figuring out conservatives [well, I'm having a hard time figuring out liberals, too...but that's a different topic for a different day]. It seems it's now fashionable for them to decry “victimhood” while at the same time they are embracing it.

What the hell am I talking about? Tune into ANY conservative radio talk show [as if there was any other kind, other than sports radio talk shows], and the subject will ALWAYS turn to a look at America, and how sad it is that we've become a nation of victims. Of course, these talking heads are referring to folks on welfare, or to folks who are unemployed, or to minorities, or to anyone, apparently, who is not “them.”

But if you take a moment to analyze what these talk show hosts are saying—and, unfortunately, what a lot of Americans are buying—their rants boil down to the fact that THEY [and those who think like them] are ALSO victims. Interesting that these folks go on and on at great length about how America needs to shed this attitude of “victimhood,” and yet if that were to occur overnight, these radio hosts would have NO audience at all.

It appears that conservatives think they are victims of the people on welfare. They are victims of those on unemployment. They are victims of government spending, unless it's spent in their district on a project they approve of. They are victims of high income taxes, and of estate taxes even when no one close to them has died with an estate valued highly enough to trigger the “death tax.”

But most recently, they are victims of the propose building of a mosque and an Islamic community center within blocks of the site of the former World Trade Center. Supposedly, the mosque would “desecrate” the “hallowed ground” of what they refer to as “Ground Zero.” They take personal offense at what they perceive to be a symbol of Islamic victory over “infidel” America.

I find it quite ironic that the same people express ZERO outrage at Islamic services being held DAILY not just near, but INSIDE the walls of The Pentagon, another target of the September 11, 2001 terror attacks. But if the building of a mosque just blocks away from their hallowed “Ground Zero” is an outrage, then exactly WHAT about the holding of Islamic services INSIDE not only one of the buildings that was targeted, but the HEADQUARTERS of the ENTIRE US MILITARY ORGANIZATION is LESS offensive?

No, it's not the symbolism of the Muslims establishing a beachhead, if you will, inside the command center of the US military that offends these folks. It's the idea that the Muslims would be so insensitive as to build a mosque in the vicinity of the LARGEST MONUMENT TO AMERICAN VICTIMHOOD SINCE PEARL HARBOR.

On September 11, 2002, my workplace shut down for 30 minutes to hold a ceremony in honor of what's commonly referred to as “9-11.” I refused to participate. It's not that I wanted to show a lack of respect for those who died in the terrorist attacks of a year before; rather, I refused to be a part of a CELEBRATION OF AMERICAN VICTIMHOOD. I stayed on my job, and worked the production line until it was empty at my station. To me, THAT was how we best honor those who died on 9-11: by NOT giving into the celebration of victimhood, by continuing to work and produce goods and services, to show the terrorists and their sympathizers that they in fact did NOT cripple America with their attacks, that America continues doing what it has done so well for so many years DESPITE the actions of radicals and fanatics.

It turned out that I was a minority of one that day. My colleagues instead actually embraced an anniversary of mourning, a celebration of America's victimhood. And in that respect, on that day the terrorists won. They managed to disrupt America's lifestyle, to show that the America that for years had triumphed over tragedy was over.

Somehow, America cannot get past the victimhood of 9-11. When the American fleet was the victim of a dastardly surprise attack at Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, the American reaction was so different from the 9-11 reaction. First there was outrage, then there was sorrow at the loss of life...and then America got to work doing what America does best. We didn't have national days of mourning on December 7th, and we didn't have gatherings “celebrating” our victimhood. We went about building planes and ships, and gathered our national resolve that THESE COWARDS WILL NOT WIN. After the war, we built homes and cars and TV's to show these folks that they didn't stop the American way of life, and during the Cold War we showed a national resolve that WE WOULD NOT BACK DOWN from those who would try to destroy us and our way of life.

How totally different from today.

Now, we are still arguing about the shape, size, and scope of the monument we plan to build to 9-11, the day America became a nation of victims. We curse and shout and cry about plans to build a mosque several blocks away from the “hallowed ground” of America, the nation of victims. Instead, we should be telling Muslims everywhere: “BUILD YOUR MOSQUE WHEREVER YOU WANT. BUILD AS MANY AS YOU WANT. THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE, AND OF FREEDOM, WILL NOT BE SIDETRACKED BY WHATEVER ACTIONS YOU CHOOSE TO TAKE. AND WE REFUSE TO BE A NATION OF VICTIMS...ESPECIALLY VICTIMS AT THE HAND OF ANY RELIGION.”

Unfortunately, that will never happen. Those words will never be spoken by any American leader...elected, appointed, or even self-appointed, such as the hosts of the talk radio programs. They're too busy decrying America as becoming a “nation of victims,” while at the same time they embrace the concept of America as a nation of victims from 9-11, and apparently are unwilling or unable to move forward as long as the fear they sell, the “victimology” they sell, remains popular. During the dark days of the Great Depression, President Franklin Roosevelt inspired America with his words declaring that the only thing Americans had to fear was “fear itself.” Now, it's fear—particularly fear of Islam, but also the sense of fear inherent in the idea that since 9-11 we are all victims—that “inspires” us. But it is inspiring us toward our darker nature, to the idea that freedom is BAD, especially when it comes to allowing Muslims the freedom to build their mosque and cultural center wherever the laws allow them to build.

And when we allow these fears to curtail the exercise of freedom, guess what? Game over. The terrorists have won. They have managed to take away that which made America special: our love of freedom. And they will have done it by converting the hearts and minds of Americans...not necessarily to their religion, but to their idea that freedom, such as practiced in America prior to 9-11, is inherently evil. And those who cultivate the culture of America as a nation of victims over 9-11—yes, the Rush Limbaughs and the Glenn Becks and the Sean Hannitys—shall have been their [I would hope] unwitting accomplices.

It IS A Wonderful Life

Survived the big Day-After-Christmas family get-together pretty well, all things considered. The only ugly spill was when 75-year-old Aunt Ellie, the Altzheimer's patient, took a bad step and stumbled/tumbled/slid down the 4 steps between the dining room and the living room. No injuries, just an embarrassing moment...glad she wasn't wearing a dress, or it could've gotten really ugly really quickly.

All the food we cooked turned out delicious, and everyone had plenty to eat. We had lots of good conversation, but I kinda feel for my brother-in-law, Les, who had his afternoon/evening monopolized by Unk, the retired asphalt plant specialist and civil engineer from the Illinois State Highway Department. If Les retains even 10% of what Unk told him, he'll be qualified to work in an asphalt plant for the rest of his natural life. I guess I can't blame Unk, though. After all, with Aunt Ellie' Altzheimer's, sometimes he has to tell her what day it is, several times a day, several days a week...so yesterday was probably the longest adult conversation Unk has had in the past four months. Kinda makes me understand where my brother--the one we nicknamed "Earoff"--gets it, if longwindedness has a hereditary component to it.

Mamaw pretty much sat in one spot--but then, it's not like you're gonna get up and play Twister with your great-great-grandkids when you're 98, y'know--and took in a lot of the conversation. She asked for, and got, current addresses for both of my kids, because she insists on sending out those birthday cards, just like her dad did until he was well into his 90's as well. We had to help her negotiate the two steps at the stoop, but she's doing pretty well with steadying herself with a cane...something she's only need for the past year or so.

Maw was...well, she was pretty much Maw. She went on and on about how good the coffee was, and I really hated to tell her it was from one of those gift sets that we'd never used until this week. [I believe it was called "Branson Blend," for those who, like Maw, simply "must" know.] Maw apologized for not having any presents--of course, she never shops for anything but her groceries, so we really weren't expecting anything but her company--and then she handed me a DVD of the local Saddle Club's 100-Mile Trail Ride, which includes photos from the early years, from back when Papaw and some other club members started the trail ride back in 1963. Maw didn't realize it, but that one gift nearly brought a tear to my eye.

Brother-in-law Les was as helpful as possible, as he and sister-in-law Rhonda brought a table and some folding chairs. Along with Mamaw's card table that Unk brought,and the extra chairs that my daughter and her fiance brought, it worked out perfectly.

So now after the food's been eaten and the gifts have been exchanged, everyone's gone home and all the leftovers--the ones not sent home with others--are put away. [Thank the Lord for disposable plates and cups and plastic forks.] The wife is taking a short nap to recharge her batteries. And I'm sitting here with a short glass of Wild Turkey American Honey on the rocks, with a Diet Pepsi for a chaser if I need it [so, far, I haven't needed it]. I'm realizing that, with all its trials and tribulations, real or imagined, it truly IS a dadgum wonderful life.

So here's to you, Jimmy Stewart...a toast to George Bailey and what he taught me about philosophy, life, and the relationship between the two. If we ever meet down at Martini's Bar, the first one's on me.

Lost Another One

In today's newspaper obituaries, I see that yet another former co-worker of mine has passed away. This one I worked with starting 30 years ago this month, for four years...or, more correctly, for four "seasons," since work at the old W. R. Grace granular fertilizer plant was nothing if not seasonal.

Larry was 53.

The Grace plant sat on a site now occupied by a WAL-MART Supercenter in New Albany, IN. On the shipping dock, we bagged and loaded tons of fertilizer onto everything from 1-ton grain trucks to large flatbed semi trailers. I was a bagger operator, and Larry was either a bucket tractor operator--we had a small fleet of Hough/IH bucket tractors, about the size of your average Bobcat, and one John Deere articulated bucket tractor--or a truck loader.
The tractor operators would load the particular variety--maybe 6-24-24 this time, or 10-40-10 the next, or 12-12-12 the next--into the hopper, where it would make its way through the elevatoes and screens until it ended up in the supply hopper for the bagger. The bagger operator would place a bag on the chute, making sure not to clamp his hand in the process, fill the bag, drop it down onto the chain conveyor, and repeat the process. The bag would next go to the sewing machine, where it was stitched shut,and then continue down the line to the belt conveyor, where it was routed uphill until it started back down the roller conveyor, out the door, and onto the truck. There it was stacked, either onto pallets or directly onto the floor of the truck, in an interlocking fashion so that the load would be less likely to shift as the truck made its way to its destination.

For the shipping dock, the "official" shift was from 7 am until 3:30 pm, with a morning break of 15 minutes whenever the "roach coach" showed up, and with a 30-minute lunch from 12 to 12:30. an ACTUAL shift was from 7 am until the last scheduled truck was loaded...which is how I came to spend my first wedding anniversary working until 10:30 pm, arriving home at about 11, just in time to shower and go to bed so I could do it all again the next day.
Larry's sense of humor helped me cope with that disappointment, and he always seemed to be smiling. Larry was known to go out at lunchtime on occasion and "cruise a quart," as we called it, making a trip to the liquor store about a half-mile down the road and having finished a "liquid lunch" of St. Louis' or Milwaukee's best-known product by the time the rest of us were clocking back in. And he might've been there when some of the guys "passed around a fat one" as well, as some of the guys were known to do. But none of it appeared to have a negative effect on his work, as he was always one of the first to retake his position when lunch was over.

After four seasons at Grace, I lost track of Larry. We were different enough that we didn't hang out together, and I have no idea where his life's journey took him this past 26 years. But for a time we were co-workers, and he was one I could count on to get the job done on either side of me.

And so it's difficult to know that another person I'd been able to count on at one point in my life is gone. The obituary was short, with no details concerning survivors, so I don't know whether he has any family to mourn his passing or not. But I wanted to take this opportunity to let people know that folks like Larry don't pass from this world unnoticed, or unappreciated.