JohnCr8on’s Snapshots

Game Six 1985 World Series

I will be cheering for the Philadelphia Phillies tonight in Game 6 of the World Series.  Truth be told I won’t see much, if any, of the game because I will be at a school board meeting.  But, I’ll still be cheering for the Phillies.

I’m not a Phillies fan.  It still sticks in my craw the way Pete Rose interfered with a double play ball swinging momentum from the Kansas City Royals to the Phillies in game five of the 1980 World Series.  The Phillies won in six.

I have been an avowed Yankees hater ever since first baseman Chris Chambliss hit a Mark Littell fastball over the right field fence in the bottom of the ninth inning of the decisive game 5 of the 1976 American League Champion Series.  The Royals scored three runs in the eighth inning to tie the score.  I felt confident that the Royals’ reliever, Littell, could take the game to extra innings.  I sat on my mom’s lap and cried for at least thirty minutes when the Chambliss fly ball cleared the fence.

The Royals were at the center of my universe from 1976 to 1980.  Those were the Royals’ glory years and I was eleven to fifteen years old.  A perfect combination.  I listened on the radio to at least part of all 162 Royals games for five straight seasons.  My neighbor Mamo Hayden is the only other person I know who can make that claim.

We have cheering rules in our house.  For college sports, the rules are to cheer for the Kansas Jayhawks first, the Big 12 second and never for Mizzou.  The rules for baseball are similar.  Cheer for the Kansas City Royals first, then the Orioles, Red Sox and Rockies (places we’ve lived) and never, ever, ever for the Yankees (I don’t care how nice a guy Joe Torre was when he was manager of the Yankees).  The Royals losing to the Yankees three straight years in the play-offs etched that ethic in stone.

The Phillies can take heart.  A three game to one World Series deficit can be overcome.  I witnessed part of such a miracle when the Royals came back from a similar deficit against the St. Louis Cardinals in the 1985 World Series.

The Royals were lucky to be in the World Series that year.  They lost three of the first four games of the 1985 American League Championship Series to the Toronto Blue Jays.  It was the first year the champion series was extended to seven games.  Any previous year, the Royals would have been done.

George Brett kept the Royals alive with two home runs in game three.  I attended game four of the playoffs with my dad, the night after my 21^st birthday.  It was a tough night.  The Blue Jays scored three in the ninth to put the Royals on the edge of elimination.  And, I had to break the news to my dad about some poor choices I made the night before (for another post).  But, the Royals somehow managed to win the next three games and set up the I-70 Series against the Cardinals.

I had a soft spot in my heart for the Cardinals.  Long time Royals manager Whitey Herzog and catcher Darrell Porter were part of the Cardinals organization by 1985.  I loved those guys.  But, this affection didn’t temper my passion to see the Royals win.

The Royals dropped the first three of four in the World Series just like they did in the play-offs.  My friend Matt Cunningham and I had tickets for game six of the Series and we were just hoping that game would be played.  Fortunately, the Royals won decisively in game five to bring the series back to Kansas City.

Matt was already in the television business by 1985 and scored us fantastic seats up the right field line just beyond first base.  They were the best tickets I’d ever had up to that time.

Charlie Leibrandt pitched a brilliant game six for the Royals but gave up the games’ only run in the eighth inning.  The Royals’ bats were cold.  The Cardinals’ Danny Cox was brilliant, too.  The feeling in the stands was somber.  A Royals’ victory seemed impossible with the team trailing 1-0 in the bottom of the ninth.

And, then, there was the call.  A Royals batter was incorrectly called safe at first.  Porter followed up the next few plays with a dropped pop foul and a missed tag on a bunt.  The miscues set up the Royals for a ninth inning rally for the ages – for Royals fans at least.  I will always consider this the greatest game I’ve ever witnessed.

Matt and I, along with thousands of other Royals fans, stood in the stadium and cheered for nearly an hour.  We cheered even longer in the parking lot because we could not remember where we parked the car.  We had to wait for the lots to clear out to find it.  While we were waiting, Paul Hayden jumped out of a passing vehicle and gave us both a bear hug.  It was that kind of night.

Game seven was not nearly so exciting.  The Royals pounded the Cardinals 11-0.  I was watching with about thirty members of my fraternity in the dining hall of our house.  The outcome became clear early so we all piled into cars to drive to Westport in Kansas City to join the celebration.

It was a good time to be a Royals fan.

Casey Kasem

flickr photo by stereo-240 pictures

There is much I enjoy about the iTunes era of music.

I like that I can take my entire music collection with me when I go for a bike ride.  I can find the music that matches my mood and workout pace whether I’m riding on the highways or my trainer.

I like that I can bypass poor playlists broadcast on the radio stations.  I find that I enjoy only about one in four songs when I am forced to listen to the radio.  That’s a pretty poor ratio and a good indication of why the iPod is popular.

I’m even warming up to the Genius feature on iTunes that creats playlists I would not think of on my own.  But I’m still an album guy.  I like to listen to a single artist for an hour or two at a time.

I like that you don’t have to haul around a big appliance to listen to music.  It’s much easier to keep an iPod charged than it is to keep a stock of D batteries or always have to find an outlet.

I like that it’s easy to let our kids listen to our favorite music.  We don’t have the worry of the past – that the kids might scratch our albums.  So, it’s easy to share music among the family.  Joni’s successfully nurtured a new generation of Beatles fans.

But, I do miss the social experience that listening to music used to be.

I was feeling nostalgic today for the old Sunday ritual of listening to Casey Kasem’s American Top 40.  I asked my daughter Emma what the number one song was these days.  She has no idea.  I asked her what the most popular songs are among her friends.  “We all listen to different stuff,” she said.

We listened to music together even when we were sitting in our bedrooms listening alone.  American Top 40 was a stable of everyone’s music week.  You could count on a conversation about the new number one song on Monday morning by the lockers in school.

We used to cheer for our favorite songs to move up the charts.  I can still remember Tim Yount going crazy with excitement when Kool and the Gang topped the charts with Celebration.  I couldn’t stand that song.  But, that was part of the fun – hoping that your favorite song would beat out the others.

The boombox was a school bus must on field trips and track meets.  The “dj” would try to play a mix of music that appealed to the most people (except country music fans).  Again, part of the fun was lobbying for your favorite songs to be played and heckling the choices of others.

Music was something that brought teenagers together – back in the day.

Today, I don’t see young people crowded around a turn table or a boom box sorting through albums negotiating which song to play next.  When I see kids traveling in groups, each has their own mp3 player.  Where there once was lobbying for songs to be played there is now silence a set of earphones dangling from each person’s ears.  Perhaps one or two pairs of kids are sharing earbuds.  But, for the most part, they listen to their own stuff.

The shared music experience today seems to be limited to a handful of kids playing Rock Band on Wii.

Music today is one more example of how we are able to tailor our experiences to our individual preferences without having to take into account what others may or may not enjoy.  There’s no conflict.  No reason to negotiate.  We can all do what we want to do.

There is a lot to be said for the individual play list.  It’s one less thing for kids to fight about in the back seat of the car when going on a long family road trip.  Parents worldwide have fewer occasions to say, “Don’t make me pull this car over.”

But, the individual music experience is one more thing that fragments people from one another.  It’s one more shared experience we can cross of the list of shared experiences.  A list that continues to grow.

I like my iPod.  I use it every day.  I have no plans to give it up.

But, today, I’m feeling nostalgic for the shared experience of wondering what will be the number one song this week.  I’m even feeling nostalgic for Casey’s corny sign-off, “Keep your feet on the ground and keep reaching for the stars.”  Well, maybe not so nostalgic for that part.

So, to celebrate shared experiences of the past… A tip of my hat to my old friend Tim Yount.

This stinkin’ song’s going to be stuck in my head all day.

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Photo credits:

boombox by stereo-240 pictures

Casey Casem from wikidpedia

The Kansas Jayhawks men’s basketball team is kicking off the official start to a new basketball season with the 25^th Annual Late Night in the Phog.  Hopes are running high this year with dreams of reaching Indianapolis for the Final Four.  My brother-in-law, Phil Priebe, already is planning the trip.

Like all good fans I am beginning to sharpen my game, too.  You might ask what preparation I have to do?  It’s not too hard to sit on your butt and watch young men play basketball.

Oh, but the passionate fans know there is much that can be done in the stands or in front of the T.V. to turn the tide of close games in the favor of your team.  So that I am prepared when I’m needed I have been refining my technique to deliver the most powerful hex that I know…  The Pissy Rivers.

I learned this mysterious curse from my friend, eighteen year classmate (kindergarten through super senior year at KU) and fellow Greg Dreiling Fan Club member Scott Focke, aka Scooter.  The Pissy Rivers is relatively easy to describe but extremely hard to execute.

The basic moves of the hex are simple.  Cross the first and second fingers of your writing hand.  Place your hand with crossed-fingers casually behind your back.  Do not make fanfare of what you are doing.  At the crucial moment in the game, quickly swing your hand and crossed fingers from behind your back as if you are throwing an underhand curve ball.  Snap your wrist just before your arm fully extends.  And, at the moment your hand jerks, whisper (or if you are alone in front of a T.V. shout) “Pissy Rivers.”

Sounds simple doesn’t it.  Only the masters are consistently effective.  There is a lot that can go wrong when casting a Pissy Rivers.  The hex can even be reversed on your own team.  Overuse is the surest way to ruin the Pissy Rivers.  If someone sees or hears you throw the curse, it can kill the spell.

Some people believe a double Pissy Rivers – crossing all four fingers rather than just two – is more powerful than the traditional version of the curse.  I’m not a believer in the double Pissy Rivers.  I’ve seen it backfire just as often as I’ve seen it work.

Skeptical about all this?  Think this is nothing but superstition and coincidence?  Well I have evidence.

Scott Focke propelled the Jayhawks over Michigan State in the Sweet 16 of the 1986 NCAA tournament and on to the Final Four.  Several members of the Dreiling gang scored tickets to the game in Kansas City’s Kemper arena.  It was one of the most exciting games I’ve seen.  It included controversy – a stopped clock for 15 seconds when KU was trailing – and role player heroics.

The Jayhawks were down by six points with just over one minute to go.  I was a nervous wreck.  Scott told me not to panic.  I shouted back, “There’s only sixty seconds left in the whole *#%$@ season, don’t tell me not to panic.”  But, Scott just gave me a look. 

The Jayhawks began to foul the moment Michigan State touched the ball in a last ditch effort to close the seemingly insurmountable gap.  That’s when Scott went to work from the top row of the arena.

Michigan State missed the front end of a one-and-one two consecutive times in the last minute of the game allowing KU to tie the score on an Archie Marshall tip-in with just a few seconds left.  I still feel hoarse thinking how loud and long we screamed with joy.

KU’s best players, Danny Manning and Ron Kellogg, had fouled out of the game.  But the momentum had already swung the way of the Jayhawks and fan favorite Calvin Thompson led the way to a 10 point victory in overtime.

I didn’t see it, of course.  But, Scott told us later that he’d used the Pissy Rivers when the Michigan State players were shooting their clutch free throws.  That’s the moment I became a believer.

Mario's Miracle Shot

I use it myself now when the moment is right.  I’m not a master like Scott.  But, occasionally I do my part to help out the ‘Hawks.

I don’t want to claim too much credit.  But, I was in the stands in San Antonio when Mario Chalmers hit his miracle shot and the Jayhawks won the national title.

And, you might remember, the Memphis Tigers did miss a few key foul shots down the stretch…

Just sayin’.

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Picture Credits:

Late Night in the Phog Logo from KU Athletic Department

Mario’s Miracle Shot from Daylife

YouTube video by Joe

Cruisin' in the Hatch

I enjoy driving back and forth on three town blocks for hours on end just as much as the next person.  Don’t get me wrong.  But sometimes it’s just not a satisfying experience.

Dragging “Main” was our primary activity on Friday (after the football or basketball game) and Saturday nights in high school.  We didn’t actually spend much time on Main Street.  Fourth Street was the main drag in town.

The Fourth Street circuit was bookended by the Methodist Church and Grade School on the north and Dr. Poling’s office and Leinwetter’s Funeral home on the south.  We put in hundreds of miles on that one street over the course of a school year.  On a good night, there would be twenty other cars honking as they drove by.  Some nights there were only a handful of cars.

Dragging “Main” without getting bored was an art.  The best at the craft knew how to mix up the evening with a stop at Dunker’s Radio and T.V. side lot to chat with someone in another car; drive around Atwood Lake; go up High School Hill; around Kelley Park or stop at John’s Dew Drop Inn for a game of pool (or in my case Frogger).

On a slow night, the masters of dragging main would mix up who was in the car or combine one carload of passengers with another.  The best nights were spent in cars that could easily pick up KOMA out of Oklahoma City or, if you were lucky, WLS out of Chicago.  A good tape deck with 8-tracs from now classic bands such as REO Speedwagon, Journey and Foreigner helped, too.

But, even these tricks of the trade were not enough to satisfy.  Sometimes you had to get creative.  Or, go home out of sheer boredom.

Matt Cunningham, Tim Yount and I faced that dilemma one night.  I can’t remember if it was early fall or late spring.  I remember it was cold enough for jackets.  We just couldn’t get fired up about steering the family Chevette around the streets of Atwood.  Hard to imagine, I’m sure, but that’s how we felt.

Our first attempt to liven up the evening fell flat.  Singing Christmas Carols in October or March (whichever it might have been) annoyed more than entertained our audiences.  After awkward experiences at three houses we climbed back into the Chevette to brainstorm plan C.

I don’t know who the fourth, fifth or sixth person was to join us in the car.  I don’t even remember how we came up with the idea.  But, by the time there were seven or eight riding along we were on a mission.

People started to notice the number of passengers in the car as we cruised down Fourth Street and through the Dunker parking area.  Some people lobbied to join us.  After a few more bodies we realized we had to be more strategic.  We needed freshmen and others of diminutive stature.  At one point, we stopped at John’s (Dew Drop Inn) in search of people near five feet and 100 pounds.

The rule we made for ourselves is that the car had to be drivable (a relative term clearly with no regard for safety).  Our goal was to shoehorn in as many people as possible and still drive down Fourth Street.  We packed people on the floor, popped the hatch (the most comfortable seat available) and rolled down the windows to accommodate protruding body parts.  Our final tally exceeded 20 in the car.

My dad was in the middle of his take pictures of everything phase of life.  We stop at our house where I ran to find my dad while the rest of the passengers tried to hold their positions.

Our night that began in the doldrums became one for the record books – or at least the scrap books.

Cramped Quarters

Heidi Priebe, the younger sister I never had, asked me to make some suggestions for the update she is submitting to The Rawlins County History Book Vol. III.  She said that she’s probably not going to use all of the suggestions – the write up is currently over the 400 word limit.  So you can read my version now or her version when the book comes out.

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The Shores of Kitty Hawk, NC

Phil and Heidi (Mickey) Priebe

Heidi Jo Mickey Priebe is the daughter of John and Betty (Rooney) Mickey. She was born in Atwood on June 30, 1972, the first year of the Lake Atwood 10 Mile race.  She graduated from Atwood High School in 1991 and attended Kansas State University (because she couldn’t get in anywhere else).

She and her husband Phil Priebe, who is much older (in fact rediculously older) met while part of the wedding party for her sister Joni and John Creighton. While Heidi was at Kansas State, John invited both Phil and Heidi on a summer vacation to North Carolina with a group of Atwood alumni and future residents. Marriage soon followed. Thanks John! (No worries, you’re welcome.)

Philip Nathan Priebe was born on March 20, 1965 in Hackensack, New Jersey (which Heidi just learned in their 15th year of marriage but is now trying to cover up that fact by saying she was only confused about Phil’s brother). He is a graduate of Seneca High School in Louisville, Kentucky. Phil graduated with a degree in civil engineering from the University of Kansas (the greatest school ever) in 1998.

Phil and Heidi were married at the First Presbyterian Church in Manhattan Kansas on July 23, 1994. That same year, they moved to Louisville, Kentucky where Phil earned his Doctorate in Medicine from the University of Louisville Medical School in 1997.

Phil and Heidi lived in Westminster, Colorado from 1997 to 2001 while Phil completed a residency in Obstetrics/Gynecology at St. Joseph’s Hospital. During this time period, Heidi worked as an assistant for one of the greatest managers she’s ever known (her brother-in-law, John), cared for her neice Emma, graduated from the Art Institute of Colorado School of Culinary Arts and owned and operated her own business as a personal chef for highly paid athletes and other Denver luminaries.

Their daughter Elizabeth Agnes was born in Denver on June 12, 2001 on the same day that her Uncle John had a business trip.

Phil joined the staff of The Medical Center of Bowling Green, Kentucky in the summer of 2001. Phil and Heidi lived in Bowling Green for five years. Their second daughter, Anne Wesley, was born there on April 15, 2004.

Missing the Creightons desperately, the Priebes returned to Colorado in 2006 and continue to live in Fort Collins where Phil is a partner and rabble rouser with the Women’s Clinic of Northern Colorado. Their son Coy Lewis was born in Ft. Collins on June 8, 2008.  The Priebes are active members of the Ft. Collins United Methodist Church.  Heidi also serves on several school committees for Poudre Public Schools.

Phil enjoys his annual trip to Rawlins County to hunt pheasant. Heidi continues a career as mom. Realizing that she is so close to 40 that she should just call herself 40 and pining for more adventure, Heidi lives vicariously through the characters in the novels she reads, collects memories visiting famous restaurants and sometimes wonders how her “family update” would read if she was a heartless woman with no children.

6 Ash Street from Google Maps

I was part of an international community my first year of graduate school.  I lived in the Cronkhite Center when I was a student at Harvard’s Kennedy School of Government.  The housing dorm was originally part of Radcliffe College.  It’s claim to fame at the time I lived there is that it was once the residence of Benazir Bhuto, the former Pakistani prime minister who was assassinated in 2007.

Cronkhite was the temporary home to students from every continent – except Antarctica of course.  Next door to me was a woman from Korea; across the hall a man from China; a little further down the hall a man from the former Yugoslavia and a woman who became a close friend whose family was originally from India.  In other parts of the housing complex were students from really exotic places such as southern California.

Conversations in the cafeteria one day turned to cultures and cuisine – what are our favorite dishes from our respective “homelands.”  The conversation turned into an idea which turned into an event.  It was decided that we would hold an international food night.  A sort of Taste of the World potluck featuring everyone’s favorite cultural dish.

The day of the event was a time of much activity and many smells.  Many of our dorm mates spent the entire day preparing complex dishes.  Spices I’d never before smelled wafted through the halls.  Traditional meals from across the globe were being created right before our eyes – when I peeked through the kitchen doors.

I spent most of that weekend day watching sports on T.V. with my friend Jim Macrae.  Neither Jim nor I were much for cooking.  His favorite meal, probably to this day, is a cheese sandwich.  My palate was not much more sophisticated.  Indeed, at age 24, our idea of a good meal was the one that took the least amount of preparation.  We were eager to participate in the Taste of the World party but weren’t keen on a long day of preparing a meal.

We faced another dilemma, too.  What do two twenty something guys from the Midwest (Jim was from St. Louis) bring to an event like this?  What would be authentic?  I claim Scottish heritage but I’ve never eaten or made haggis and I don’t intend to in the future.

I don’t know exactly when or how the light bulb went off but we came up with what we thought was a brilliant idea.  About one hour before dinner was to be served, we ran to the market and purchased the three ingredients for the most authentic of all possible meals – by the standards of Midwestern, 20-something guys.  It was with pride that we served an entire platter of some of the best eatin’ there is:  Manwiches.

The Manwich

Atwood Golf Course Fairway #2

There was water flowing in the creek beds then, always a steady stream.

We paused on the banks debating whether to take off our shoes.  It was far easier to feel the creek bottom surface with bare feet.  The risk of slicing a toe on broken glass was real.  The prospect of more bounty typically prevailed.

Shoes and socks safely stored beneath the rickety wooden bridge, we slipped into the waste deep water to begin our search for treasure.  Optimism always ran high as mud began to ooze through our toes. Anticipation and excitement took hold the moment we felt a hard curved surface touch on the sole of our foot.  We’d reach down, sift through the mud and pull up our prize – would it be worth keeping?

Creek (pronounced crick) balls from the Atwood Golf Course were our treasure.  The golfer’s misfortunes were our opportunity for riches.  Once washed up and displayed on a tee box we could collect 10 or 25 cents per ball – 50 cents if you found a jewel like a brand new Titlest – from golfers in need of supplies.

Creek ball hunting was one of my primary sources of income in grade school supplementing what I earned mowing lawns.  These were completely discretionary dollars.  My parents did not make me report what I earned on my trips to the golf course so dollars were not diverted to a savings account.  Anything I made on the course turned into baseball cards, comic books or a Chocolate 400 at Currier Drug before I went home.

Lots of kids spent time on the golf course at one time or another to try to find creek balls.  My main partner-competitor was Tim Yount.  We went together for companionship and we would take turns checking for golfers (so we wouldn’t get hit by an errant drive).  But that’s as far as our cooperation went.  It was a brutal competition in the creek each of us wanting to find the most and best golf balls.  We lived by a simple rule that governed our marketplace: Finders-keepers, losers-weepers.

We typically made our rounds east to west starting at the creek on hole number two, moving to three and finishing up on number seven of the nine hole course.  We spent most of our time in the open water of each stream but if creek balls were scarce we’d venture into the weeded areas.

With weeds came the possible of greater reward but also more risk.  We’d always spend five or ten minutes picking leaches off our legs and from between our toes after exiting the water.  I can still feel the sting and trickle of blood that followed.

We often wore blue jeans if we planned in advance to search the weeds.  We’d convinced ourselves long pants deterred leaches, but I don’t know if that’s true.  I often found leaches in the shower a few hours later at home.  There was a downside to the jeans.  Crawdads would dart up our pants.  If Tim or I started shrieking and dancing for no apparent reason, the other knew what had happened.

Wednesdays, Ladies’ Day, was the best day to do business.  The Ladies were always encouraging, supportive and kind.  If we could find Maxine Finley or Hilda Eaton on the course, we knew we were guaranteed at least one dollar in sales, each.

Thursdays, Men’s Day, we tried to remain unseen.  On Thursdays, the men weren’t so generous, often chasing us off the course.  On other days, they were fine.  I suppose the Thursday “competitions” led to shorter nerves.

A few golfers, seeing one of their own lost balls in our collection, would demand to have it back free of charge.  They didn’t understand our rule of finders-keepers.

We would return a ball if we were in the creek when the ball went into the water.  It seemed like good course etiquette.  It also helped to facilitate our sales.  But, if we found the ball when golfers were nowhere in sight, we considered it our own.

On those days when few creek balls or customers could be found, our hunt would be suspended for water fights, throwing mud balls or golfing by hand – throwing the golf balls we found from hole to hole.

The Atwood Golf Course was a great workplace.  I can’t imagine one better for kids.

The drop in water table, so I’m told, is the main culprit for the dry creek beds today.  I’d like to see the water come back except, of course, the first week in August.  Paul Hayden and I often play out of the creeks during the Atwood Jamboree.  It’s a more pleasant experience when we are able to keep our shoes dry.

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Photograph from the Atwood Country Club website.

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I couldn’t help but think of this SNL skit when writing this post.

How do we make our dreams come true?  I contemplated that question recently when I was asked to give a high school commencement address.

One of the first people I thought of was Mr. Bray.  He was the custodian at our high school.  His son Jeff was in my class, Jerry was a year older and Mark was in Alec’s class.  They had several older siblings who I didn’t know well.  Mrs. Bray sold Paul and I our number 18 jersey’s, which we promptly converted with paint to number 19 so we could play Johnny U, at Williams Bros. Department Store.

I also thought of a book I’m reading with my daughter Emma, Rain of Gold, by Victor Villasenor.  The story is about Juan and Lupe Villasenor who fled revolutionary Mexico to California about a century ago.  Juan’s and Lupe’s respective families faced many hardships before finding peace and prosperity in the United States.

I will forever remember one scene in the book.  Juan and his family are camped outside of Ciudad Juarez hoping to cross the border into the United States.  They have nothing.  They must pick corn from manure to stave off starvation.  One night, after a terrible sandstorm, Juan’s mother, Dona Margarita, is all but blind.  A sister already is.  The family wants to give up.

Dona Margarita calls a family meeting.  This is a woman who has lost several children to war.  She is nearly blind.  Her grandchildren are crying with hunger.  They have no home.  No money.

With all these hardships, Dona Margarita says to her family, “We must open our hearts so that we can see the possibilities in our predicament.  If we do not look for the possibilities, we have nothing.”  She went on to tell her children that they must pray to God for the strength to make miracles happen.

That is a central theme in this book.  God makes miracles happen, if we’re willing to do the work.

Mr. Bray exemplified this idea.  He dreamed of a grand home for his large family.  That’s hard to come by on the modest income of a high school custodian.  Most of us might not move beyond the stage of dreaming thinking to ourselves, “It can’t be done.”  I can imagine Mr. Bray thinking, “I will not be deterred.”

From the time I was about five or six, I have memories of Mr. Bray at different places around town – in the evenings, on weekends and all through the summer.  We would be out riding our bikes or playing basketball and we’d see Mr. Bray hard at work tearing down abandon homes and buildings.

He carefully took the buildings apart and saved the lumber, doors and window frames.  When his work was done, he left clean lots removing eyes sores from the community.  His work was a service in and of itself.

I didn’t really understand what Mr. Bray was doing at the time.  I thought it odd how carefully he stacked and stored the lumber.  Most demolition projects I’d seen were more violent.  The materials headed for the dump.  From the vantage point of a child, Mr. Bray’s efforts seemed like a big waste of time.  But, by the time we were in high school the Bray’s had one of the biggest houses in town.

Now, when I think of what it takes to make dreams come true, I think of Mr. Bray.  Dona Margarita, the wise mother in Rain of Gold, had it right.  Miracles are possible if we’re willing to do the work.

Mr. Bray is a testament to that.

Stop Sign Montage by JaypeeOnline on Flickr

I learned the word ennui in the 10^th grade.  In Nanon Claire’s sophomore English class, we used the book 25 days to a better vocabulary – or was it 30 days?  Either way, I’m sure ennui was on our list.

My kids would love to know that word.  They might try it out instead of saying, “I’m bored.”  They’ve learned not to utter those words.

Joni doesn’t tolerate our kids saying they’re bored.  “There’s no reason for you to be bored,” she’ll say.  “You need to figure out something to do that you find interesting.  That’s your responsibility.”

I support Joni’s philosophy.  I do my best to support it as well.  The no boredom rule challenges our kids to use their imaginations; to be creative.  It requires our kids to accept responsibility for their own sense of contentment.  A good life lesson.

I must confess that escaping boredom can be more difficult on some days than on others.

Amy McClellan and I stared the ennui beast directly in the eye one Sunday night when we were 16 or 17.  My parents were hosting a dinner party.  Amy’s parents were there.  Amy and I were the only kids.

We were bored!

We waited patiently for about 15 or 20 minutes after dinner before we made our move.  “We’re going to go drive around,” we told our folks.  We figured there must be a few other people out that night.  We climbed into my parents car and headed for “Main” (aka 4^th street).

Not another car in sight. No one was out.  The streets were the most deserted I’d ever seen.  What to do now?  Dragging main just isn’t the same when there’s no one else to honk horns.

I coasted through the stop sign by the Farmers Bank when an idea took hold in our car.  No one was out.  The streets were completely deserted.  We could take a few liberties.  Hmmm.

I don’t know who asked the question.  It could have been Amy or me.  “How many stop signs do you think we can run?”

We did a U-turn by the Methodist Church and headed back south.  Coasted through the stop sign by Williams Bros.  Moved down the street toward the stop sign near Ridgeway’s.  Coasted through that one, too.  We were gaining some confidence.  We could do this thing.

Another u-turn at Dr. Poling’s clinic and were headed back north.  A little more speed.  A bit more confidence.  We passed through the stop signs with little concern.  We were off to the races.

We began to mix it up a bit.  Driving around blocks to catch a wider variety of stop signs.  Back and forth.  Around and around.  Stop sign after stop sign.  The count started to add up.

60 stop signs in one hour.

That has to be some kind of a record.  Not an achievement of any significance.  But, at least we weren’t bored.

Atwood Fire Hydrant

I was standing near, or perhaps sitting on, this fire hydrant the first time I saw him.  (The fire hydrant came from Atwood and is now in our Longmont yard.)  I was playing by myself in the front yard.  I realize now I was no more than four years old.

A car I didn’t recognize pulled up from the west stopping in the middle of State Street.  There were three kids sitting in back.  A man called out from the driver’s seat, “Do you know where the McClellan’s live?”

“Just up that hill,” I replied pointing toward the curve in the road near the high school two blocks to the east.

Little did I know at the time that this family, the Younts, would become a central part of my life.

Tim and I were classmates.  So were Alec and Kent.  Kristin was their big sister.  Mr. and Mrs. Yount, as teachers, touched the lives most of us who grew up in Atwood in the 1970s and 1980s.

The day I met the Younts they were on their way to check in with the high school principal, Mac McClellan.  Mr. Yount had recently accepted a job on the high school faculty.  Mrs. Yount would become kindergarten teacher a year or two later – the year after we completed kindergarten.

My memories of Mr. Yount are as Tim’s friend and his student.

The Younts moved from the south side of town to our block somewhere around the third grade.  They bought the green house on the opposite corner of the block from the Hortons.  It worked out well for me.  My trips up the alley to see Silas became trips up the alley to see Tim.  We went swimming in their pool, rode wagons down the alley starting at the high school (that always ended badly), traded baseball cards and played countless games of APBA baseball (Tim kept meticulous stats).

Mr. Yount would be sitting in his chair in the front room, pipes nearby, whenever we burst through the front door.  (Mrs. Yount was never sitting down.)  He always kept us on our toes.  “What are you doing,” he’d say in a tone that made us wonder if he was curious, we’d done something wrong or if was just teasing us.

Mr. Yount’s students have many memories of his unique style.  Every high school student knew the phrases H. E. Double Toothpick and Phantasmagoric.  It was years before I knew that Phantasmagoric is a real word.  It was in Mr. Yount’s freshman orientation class that I learned how the brain works, gained an appreciation for all the universities, colleges, community colleges and vo-tech schools in Kansas and fell over in my desk, hitting my head on the floor.

As a kid running through the Yount house I never fully appreciated what an accomplished artist he was.  I thought the miniature streetscapes in their basement were cool.  Some of the scenes reminded me of an old western movie set – only really small.

Now that I’m a father, I look at Mr. Yount through different eyes.  I have three children as did he.  I can only hope that I leave behind a legacy on par with his.  Mr. Yount accomplished what fathers hope to accomplish.  He had a successful marriage of nearly fifty years. He raised three children who are successful and who have families of their own.  These are the things that matter most in life.

I have not had the opportunity to see Mr. and Mrs. Yount since they left Atwood.  Tim and I don’t keep in touch like we should.  Busy schedules trump good intentions.  But even though long gaps of time lie between our conversations, at times like the passing of a parent you feel the old bonds.

I did have the chance to talk to Tim on the phone last night.  It was good to hear his voice.  We briefly exchanged stories of being at our parents’ bedsides when they passed.

Tim was mostly curious.  How am I?  How are Joni and the kids?  Even in this time of grief Tim’s affection for people and enthusiasm for life came through, like all the Younts I know.

Mr. Yount’s memorial service is today in Greeley, Colorado.  I’m in Detroit.  I will miss being there.  I will miss my chance to give Mrs. Yount, Kristin, Kent and Tim a hug.  I will miss saying good-bye to Mr. Yount.