tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-64426966648259564402024-03-14T03:14:48.970-05:00Young at Heart and MindPersonal observations, opinions, reflections, trivia, recommendations, and other miscellanea by Bob Mead, known to some as Jedi Master.Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.comBlogger503125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-14966770216581712122021-06-08T17:59:00.002-05:002021-06-08T17:59:32.700-05:00Eyeball Developments<p style="text-align: center;"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OB4dK-VW850/YL_0QZBLaFI/AAAAAAAA3bY/WViVzT0mBrI1uXEBICE5j-vEDTAkH2epgCLcBGAsYHQ/s340/Eye%2BTerms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="255" data-original-width="340" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OB4dK-VW850/YL_0QZBLaFI/AAAAAAAA3bY/WViVzT0mBrI1uXEBICE5j-vEDTAkH2epgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Eye%2BTerms.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p>A number of years ago (I can't even guess how many.), my ophthalmologist informed me that I had a condition in both eyes called Fuchs' Dystrophy. The good folks at the Mayo Clinic describe the condition this way, "In Fuchs' (fewks) dystrophy, fluid builds up in the clear layer (cornea) on the front of your eye, causing your cornea to swell and thicken. This can lead to glare, blurred or cloudy vision, and eye discomfort.</p><p>"Fuchs' dystrophy usually affects both eyes and can cause your vision to gradually worsen over years. Typically, the disease starts in the 30s and 40s, but many people with Fuchs' dystrophy don't develop symptoms until they reach their 50s or 60s.</p><p>"Some medications and self-care steps may help relieve your Fuchs' dystrophy signs and symptoms. But when the disorder is advanced and your vision is affecting your ability to function well, the best way to restore vision is with cornea transplant surgery."</p><p>Gradually, the effects of this condition have become more pronounced and onerous. A few weeks ago, during a regularly-scheduled exam, I told my doctor that I'd like to consider a surgical remedy. He informed me that during the years since I was initially diagnosed, some new techniques had been developed for dealing with the condition. There happen to be a couple of expert corneal surgeons in Birmingham whom he would be happy to refer me to.</p><p>Thus it was that last Wednesday I drove to Sheffield, Alabama, to meet with Dr. Jack Parker, M.D. and Ph.D. Dr. Parker is the son of a father-son surgical team specializing in corneal surgery. Dr. Parker's credentials are impressive, as described on the Parker Cornea Website: "<span style="background-color: #f0f5f7; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif;">Jack Parker is considered one of the world’s foremost authorities on the treatment of keratoconus and Fuchs dystrophy. He is currently the only U.S. eye surgeon fellowship trained at NIIOS–the Dutch institution that developed modern corneal lamellar surgery (DMEK, DSEK, and Bowman layer transplantation).</span></p><p style="background-color: #f0f5f7; box-sizing: border-box; font-family: Raleway, sans-serif; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;">During medical school and residency at UAB, Jack collaborated with world renowned corneal surgeon Gerrit Melles of Rotterdam. Following completion of a UAB ophthalmology residency, Jack completed a joint fellowship with NIIOS in Rotterdam and his father at Parker Cornea in Birmingham. Jack’s PhD thesis <em style="box-sizing: border-box;">Recent Innovations in Minimally Invasive Anterior and Posterior Lamellar Keratoplasty</em> was co-promoted by Dr. Melles and Dr. Martine Jager and was accepted by Leiden University on July 4, 2017. Jack currently serves on the board of Directors of NIIOS USA."</span></p><p style="background-color: #f0f5f7; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Needless to say, I feel extremely fortunate to have made contact with such a highly qualified practitioner. He greeted me most cordially on Wednesday and then examined my eyes. He confirmed that I have a mature case of Fuchs, but the good news is that my corneas are not yet scarred (a condition that can result if the disease progresses long enough). He suggested that I would benefit from a procedure called </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Descemet Membrane Endothelial Keratoplasty (DMEK). In this process, the back layer of cells on the cornea is removed, after which the same layer of cells (called the </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Descemet membrane and endothelium) from a donor cornea is implanted on the back of my cornea. Talk about <u>micro</u>-surgery! Sources on the internet describe the procedure in much more academic terms, "</span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">DMEK is a partial-thickness cornea transplant procedure that involves selective removal of the patient's Descemet membrane and endothelium, followed by transplantation of donor corneal endothelium and Descemet membrane without additional stromal tissue from the donor. The graft tissue is merely 10-15 microns thick. Similar to DSAEK, direct contact with the DMEK graft tissue should be avoided to prevent endothelial cell damage and graft failure. A clear corneal incision is created, the recipient endothelium and Descemet membrane are removed, and the graft is loaded into an inserter. After injecting the tissue into the anterior chamber, the surgeon orients and unscrolls the graft, and a bubble of 20% sulfur hexafluoride (SF6) is placed in the anterior chamber to support graft adherence. A variation known as Descemet membrane automated endothelial keratoplasty (DMAEK) utilized an automated preparation of the donor tissue that left a rim of donor stroma peripherally for easier tissue handling, but the procedure is no longer performed due to advances in DMEK that have allowed for easier insertion and manipulation of the graft tissue."</span></span></p><p style="background-color: #f0f5f7; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">There's a really informative animation of the procedure at </span></span><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><a href="https://youtu.be/7Ai8PxaXE2s">https://youtu.be/7Ai8PxaXE2s</a></span></span></p><p style="background-color: #f0f5f7; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Dr. Parker suggested that we start with my right eye, which would benefit the most in visual acuity. Today, I had a call from his scheduler and I'm scheduled to have the first procedure on Tuesday, July 6th. I'm really excited.</span></span></p><p style="background-color: #f0f5f7; box-sizing: border-box; line-height: 24px; margin: 0px 0px 25px;"><span style="background-color: transparent;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Reading the comments from people who have undergone this surgery is enlightening and encouraging. People talk about almost instant results, "miraculous" changes in clarity of vision, and amazing changes in color perception. I'm incredibly grateful that we have such procedures and dedicated specialists available in my lifetime. Recovery will take about a month before we repeat the process on my left eye.</span></span></p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-57715104147560369132021-06-06T15:24:00.006-05:002021-09-21T15:02:03.124-05:00David Page Robbins February 14, 1940 - September 25, 2018<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xgqFMHRX9i0/YL58pf92m5I/AAAAAAAA3ak/gF2jvwlhyEglpC5exHW3IN8jeUDV8sIxACLcBGAsYHQ/s245/Dave%2BRobbins%2B%2528Young%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="245" height="254" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xgqFMHRX9i0/YL58pf92m5I/AAAAAAAA3ak/gF2jvwlhyEglpC5exHW3IN8jeUDV8sIxACLcBGAsYHQ/w320-h254/Dave%2BRobbins%2B%2528Young%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave Robbins in the 1960s</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: left;">A few days ago, I was explaining to someone how I became a member of the Sigma Chi social fraternity. When I left my home to attend the University of Rochester, I wasn't certain that I wanted to join a fraternity. My brother Bill had been a member of the Chi Psi fraternity at the University of Michigan, but there wasn't a Chi Psi chapter at Rochester. My father had been a member of Delta Sigma Delta at Michigan, but that was a dental society. Thus, there was no legacy tradition that would motivate me to become a member.</p><p>I had looked through a list of fraternities at Rochester, and could relate to three of them. Our good friends, the Gardners, had two sons at Rochester who were members of the Alpha Delta Phi fraternity. My father's insurance broker, Chick Heckenburg, had been a Psi Upsilon brother. My "Aunt" Betty's late husband, "Uncle" Ned (Edward McGrew) had been a Sigma Chi at Northwestern. I decided I'd visit these houses during the Fall rush period and see if the idea of fraternity membership might interest me. I don't think I realized until I had arrived on campus that one of my sister's high school friends, Dave Robbins, was attending Rochester and had become a brother in the Sigma Chi house.</p><p>When rush week rolled around, I visited these and several other houses. The group that I seemed to "connect" with was the Sigme Chi brotherhood. I decided I'd go back for a second visit if I was invited. Shortly thereafter, I read something in the <i>Campus Times</i> that dampened that idea. It seems that the Sigma Chi national consitution had a "White Clause" stating that only white males were eligible for membership. That ran directly counter to my personal culture and belief framework. I prided myself on my non-racist attitudes. I then decided that even if I were invited to the Sig house, I wouldn't respond. I could navigate four years at Rochester perfectly well without a fraternity.</p><p>I received an invitation to return to the Sigma Chi house for a follow-up Rush Smoker (Doesn't that term sound archaic?). I ignored it. The next day, I received a phone call from Dave Robbins, asking if we could meet to discuss Sigma Chi. I explained my reason for ignoring their invitation. He was persistent and we met for coffee at the student union.</p><p>Dave presented it this way. He, too found the white clause to be abhorrent. There was a "Grand Chapter" coming up the next summer at which he was quite sure it would be removed. There were several undergraduate chapters, including the Rochester chapter, that had been informed by their host universities that the clause must be removed by a specified deadline or they could no longer be recognized by the institutions. You could do a whole lot more to bring about change from within an organization than from the outside. Would I please reconsider?</p><p>Dave, in his extremely low-key approach, had changed my view. I subsequently pledged and was initiated into Sigma Chi. The white clause was removed the next summer. Our chapter survived. I eventually served my chapter as its Social Chairman, Pro-Consul (Vice-President), and Consul (President). The brotherhood and its principles have been a most powerful and meaningful influence in my life. I have never regretted my decision to become a brother.</p><p>Today, the fraternity is a remarkably inclusive organization, celebrating its diversity. In 1995, Sigma Chi adopted its Statement of Policy on Human Decency and Dignity. Sigma Chi’s Executive Committee approved the formation of a Diversity and Inclusion Commission. When the Commission was formed, the international Grand Consul stated, "The commission is charged, foremost, with listening. They will listen to anyone who wants to speak. All opinions, thoughts, perspectives and recommendations are encouraged and needed. They will be responsible for organizing the thoughts of the collective and distilling those thoughts into a series of recommendations to be brought forward to the Executive Committee. Recognizing the urgency of this work and the importance of tackling the subject of diversity and inclusion in our Fraternity,"</p><p>Dave Robbins was right. I owe him a debt of gratitude for his wise counsel. Unfortunately, I recently learned of his passing. His obituary speaks volumes about his character. All Honor to His Name!</p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><b>Obituary for David Page Robbins:</b><br /></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia;">David P. Robbins, 78, of Fredericksburg, passed away on Tuesday, September 25, 2018.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia;">David was born in Schenectady, New York. He spent his school years there and his summers in York Beach, Maine. In 1961, he graduated from the University of Rochester with his fiancée, Martha Lightbown. They were married later that year. David served in the US Army Reserve 1962-68. In 1965, he graduated from UC Riverside and returned to the east coast. He and Martha raised their two daughters in New Hampshire and later retired to Virginia.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia;">David was a lifelong learner. He was a passionate public educator (US history and geography) at New York and New Hampshire schools for many years. A cheerful, friendly man who was full of wit, he loved talking with and learning about others. He treated everyone with equal respect and interest, touching the hearts of all who met him. He was deeply committed to helping the overlooked and the underprivileged. David was exceptionally musical: he sang, played the piano, listened to music all day long, and collected vintage sheet music. His other special interests included baseball, maps, current events, statistics, and religion. He was a lifelong Christian—a Presbyterian as a child, an Episcopalian as a young adult, and then a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, where he served as a pianist, teacher, and leader for almost 40 years.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia;">Above all, David adored his family. He delighted in his beloved wife, children, grandchildren, and great grandchild and spent many hours communicating with treasured extended family. He kept a journal, wrote his personal history for his posterity, researched family history, and covered his walls with family trees and pictures of his ancestors and descendants.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia;">Left to cherish his memory are his devoted wife of 57 years, Martha; children, Beth Austin (Gary) and Meg Andrew (Bruce); grandchildren, Michael (Rachel), Sarah, Becca, and Daniel Austin and Wil, Amy, Henry, and Martin Desposorio; great-grandson, Clive Austin; brother, Doug Robbins; nephew, Joseph Robbins; niece, Deborah Speckhard (Jesse); cousins, Joanne Smith and Paula Page (Lee); and many other cousins, nieces, and nephews. David has now joined his parents, Barbara and Ralph Robbins; aunt and uncle, Muriel and Clayton Robbins; niece, Sarah Robbins; nephew, Thomas Robbins; and cousin Joanne’s husband, Bruce Smith.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia;">A service to remember and celebrate David’s life was held privately, per his wishes.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia;">In lieu of flowers, memorial contributions may be made to Doctors Without Borders (https://donate.doctorswithoutborders.org/onetime.cfm), the American Indian College Fund (https://collegefund.org/make-a-gift/?source=website), and the United Negro College Fund (https://www.uncf.org/ways-to-donate).</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3K9ezvfCVn4/YL59Mzu0vwI/AAAAAAAA3as/QUdzRlfJlqEBPTY5CIt0PAWcHeNsS7fWACLcBGAsYHQ/s534/Dave%2BRobbins.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="360" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3K9ezvfCVn4/YL59Mzu0vwI/AAAAAAAA3as/QUdzRlfJlqEBPTY5CIt0PAWcHeNsS7fWACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Dave%2BRobbins.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">David P. Robbins (1940-2018)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="color: #666666; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span><p></p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-30684171938445991862021-06-06T14:00:00.009-05:002021-06-07T15:41:46.273-05:00Marvin Collins, Doctor of Motors<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-01zHGa-T0F4/YL6EGMlTrnI/AAAAAAAA3a0/nDtJRNYjLUomOb8ElH_01rlhgiuJFmFOwCLcBGAsYHQ/s832/Collins%2BGarage3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="832" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-01zHGa-T0F4/YL6EGMlTrnI/AAAAAAAA3a0/nDtJRNYjLUomOb8ElH_01rlhgiuJFmFOwCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h400/Collins%2BGarage3.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Collins Garage as it appeared in the 1960s. Entrance on the right.</td></tr></tbody></table><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">I moved to Norman, Oklahoma, in August of 1965. My only transportation was my 1932 Plymouth Model PB business coupe, which I drove from my former Navy duty station in Groton, Connecticut, to Norman. I went by way of Milwaukee, where I had to attend a Navy indoctrination training program at Marquette University. Within a few weeks of my arrival, I decided to find a mechanic whom I would trust to work on my prized vintage car.</span></p><p>I spoke to a number of newly-made friends and colleagues at the University of Oklahoma and concluded that my best bet might be Marvin Collins, the owner of Collins Garage at 420-422 East Main Street in Norman. The following Saturday, I drove my old Plymouth to that location and ventured through an open door. I saw a lone mechanic bent over the front fender of a fairly new car. I spoke after a short delay, "Would you happen to be Mr. Marvin Collins?"</p><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ZMzVL-4tNwI/YL0XNZzZgXI/AAAAAAAA3aE/hz-T-Wq0T1IqGpgOFfYV_NmwzxfOcAvIQCPcBGAsYHg/w200-h150/IMG_1075.HEIC" /> The man emerged and greeted me with a cigarette locked between his lips, "I sure am, and who are you?" This began a friendship that would last many years. He admired my car, asked how long I had owned it, told me that the early Plymouths were fine machines, and agreed to help me maintain it. He was amazed that I had chosen to drive the car halfway across the country.<p>I learned from Marvin's business card that he jokingly referred to himself as "Marvin Collins, Doctor of Motors." I also realized that the trademark Chesterfield hanging from Marvin's lips was a permanent fixture.</p><p>Over many years of employing him to work on my cars, I realized that Marvin was a walking encyclopedia of automotive knowledge. A specific example that comes to mind was the day I walked into the shop and he was working on a late 1940s Lincoln with its flathead V-12 engine. The owner had rebuilt the carburetor, after which the car refused to start. Out of frustration, he had towed the car to Collins Garage to see if Marvin could help. Shortly after I walked in, Marvin got in the car, hit the starter, and the car burst into life. He fidgeted with the carburetor to get the idle speed where it belonged, then turned off the key. "Poor fellow that owns this didn't realize they made a design change halfway through the model year. All it needed was a different economizer valve." That's the kind of obscure information that resided in Marvin's head. Keep in mind that this was a 20-year old car at the time.</p><p>Marvin was outspoken. He didn't mince words. One day, I happened upon an early Saturday morning estate auction being conducted on a front lawn in an older neighborhood in Norman. I registered as a bidder "just in case." Before the auction concluded, the auctioneer announced that the family had owned three cars. The first to be sold was a 1957 Cadillac Sedan de Ville with only 35,000 miles on its odometer. It soon was mine at a hammer price of $735.00. As a proud new owner, I immediately headed down to Marvin's to show off my new acquisition.</p><p>Marvin saw me pull in, walked around the car surveying its merits, then asked, "Is this yours?" I nodded. "Didn't talk to me before you bought it, did you?" I didn't like what I was hearing. "You're gonna pay me a lot of money if you keep driving this thing." </p><p>It turned out that the 1957 Cadillac engine, a 365 cu. in. V-8 (shared with the Oldsmobile 98, I was to learn) had a fatal design flaw. The webbing around some of the valve seats in the cylinder heads was too thin and would develop thermal stress crack over time. Marvin and I scoured the junkyards in and around Oklahoma City and acquired three spare "good" cylinder heads for each side of my engine, "just in case."</p><p>Sure enough, within a few months, I started to notice a rough idle and a compression check revealed which cylinder head had cracked. Upon removing it, the crack was easy to spot. We retrieved one of the good heads, made sure everything was nominal, and installed it. </p><p>I was at the garage just as Marvin was about to start the rebuilt engine for the first time. It cranked over, started, and then produced a horrible loud metallic clattering sound. Marvin instantly shut down the engine. His character as an honest man was then displayed. "There's something in one of the combustion chambers. That's my fault. Any costs from this point forward are on me," he said.</p><p>We later reconstructed what probably happened. After the cylinder head was installed, as well as the intake manifold, we concluded that a small washer on the workbench had adhered to Marvin's sweaty arm. When he reached across the engine it dropped off of his arm and into one of the openings in the intake. When the car started, that little washer was ingested through an intake valve and was bouncing around inside the combustion chamber. </p><p>Marvin used a borescope to spot the culprit, removed the appropriate cylinder head for a through inspection and to remove the battered washer. After completion of the reassembly, the car ran beautifully. I had to replace one more cylinder head before I decided to sell that car. Marvin, as usual, was right.</p><p>Marvin Collins was a rare breed -- incredibly knowledgeable in his chosen profession, honest as the day is long, and one of the most decent human beings you could ever ask for. He passed away in 1987 at the age of 66 and is buried in Norman. I feel privileged to have benefitted from his skill and knowledge as a Doctor of Motors. Even more, I feel blessed to have called him a friend. <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto; font-size: 13pt;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto; font-size: 13pt; line-height: 107%;">† </span>RIP <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Roboto; font-size: 13pt;">†</span></p><p><br /></p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-72849427426278468662021-02-14T17:47:00.001-06:002021-02-14T17:50:57.812-06:00A Cane-Inspired Poetic Memory...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZaS_D4LEFo/YCm2RruLPSI/AAAAAAAA2nM/kVrRA5wqrX8wpPExaAZtwx5_VxbrOcLVQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1588/toucan%2Bcane.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="1588" height="266" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-0ZaS_D4LEFo/YCm2RruLPSI/AAAAAAAA2nM/kVrRA5wqrX8wpPExaAZtwx5_VxbrOcLVQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h266/toucan%2Bcane.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><p>Mary Ann showed me a picture of a new cane she had ordered. She said that when she saw the handle, she simply had to get it. I said, "It looks like a toucan," and immediately was reminded of a poem.</p><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Very few can Tell the Toucan</span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><div style="text-align: center;">From the Pecan — Here's a new plan:</div><div style="text-align: center;">To take the Toucan from the Tree,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Requires immense agilitee,</div><div style="text-align: center;">While anyone can pick with ease</div><div style="text-align: center;">The Pecans from the Pecan trees.</div><div style="text-align: center;">It's such an easy thing to do,</div><div style="text-align: center;">That even the Toucan he can too.</div></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">From: How to Tell the Birds From the Flowers: a Manual of Flornitology for Beginners (Nature Series No. 23) Hardcover – January 1, 1907, </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">by Robert Williams Wood (Author, Illustrator). Dr. Wood, a world-famous physicist and inventor was a good friend of my friends growing up, the family of Dr. Alfred Theodore Goble, a professor of physics at Union College in Schenectady.</span></span></p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-46951526629402415792021-02-14T11:49:00.005-06:002021-09-21T15:09:26.187-05:00An Unexpected Family Connection...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YB9ztOrnSMY/YClgLEBtemI/AAAAAAAA2m0/bJmSio_gDCQMeazTKFlAO4Y2GKV8JeJYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s515/Edward%2BS%2BFarrow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="427" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YB9ztOrnSMY/YClgLEBtemI/AAAAAAAA2m0/bJmSio_gDCQMeazTKFlAO4Y2GKV8JeJYwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Edward%2BS%2BFarrow.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Edward S. Farrow 1898-1962</span></div><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="text-align: left;">In January, 1962, in my senior year at Rochester, my Sigma Chi brothers honored me by electing me to serve as Consul, the president of the chapter. Not long before that, I had learned that Edward S. Farrow, a resident of Rochester and a former international president (Grand Consul) of Sigma Chi, had suffered an acute brain aneurism and was comatose and in critical condition. </span>Mr. Farrow had retired from Kodak in 1958 as Vice President and Assistant General Manager, with over 37 years of service.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Ed Farrow had a unique role in the establishment of the Sigma Chi chapter at the University of Rochester. In the late 1920s, Sigma Chi had collectively decided that they were no longer interested in expanding to additional campuses. But Ed Farrow, who at that time was a young engineer at Eastman Kodak, wanted the undergraduates at Rochester to have the opportunity to become brothers in Sigma Chi as he had done at MIT a few years before. In 1929, he was aware of an outstanding local fraternity at the University of Rochester (I recall that it was Sigma Delta Epsilon) that would be a perfect candidate to petition Sigma Chi for acceptance as a new chapter. So, in spite of the prevailing "no growth" attitude of the international fraternity, Ed Farrow made it his personal mission to add at least one more chapter. He brought a crew to the campus and made what today would be called a promotional film depicting the men and activities of the local candidate fraternity. Then he traveled the country visiting chapters, showing the 16 millimeter black and white film, and making his case for the establishment of a new chapter at the U of R. His one-man campaign was successful, and in 1932 the Gamma Pi chapter of Sigma Chi was recognized and its first brothers initiated.</p><p style="text-align: left;">In 1962, as I assumed the leadership of that chapter, Ed Farrow was in a vegetative state, not expected to live. I proposed to the chapter that we rededicate our chapter room, the place we conducted our most solemn fraternal ceremonies, to the memory of Brother Farrow's devotion and service to Sigma Chi. Every brother embraced the idea. We had some brainstorming sessions and decided we would refurbish the space and place a memorial plaque above the fireplace in the basement room that served as our dining room and chapter ceremonial room. I contacted Marnie Farrow, Ed's wife, to advise her of our plans and to ensure that we would not offend her or cause any emotional pain by moving forward. She wholeheartedly supported our effort.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I wrote a letter to Mr. Lloyd Balfour, CEO of the Balfour Jewelry Company, the official Sigma Chi jeweler at the time, to determine if they could produce a silver plaque, etched with a likeness of Ed Farrow and containing a dedicatory inscription. Our alumni and brothers would donate to pay for this memorial panel.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Mr. Balfour, himself a prominent Sigma Chi alumnus, responded within just a few days. He advised me that he and Ed Farrow were close friends and that he was thrilled that we wanted to honor Ed's many years of service to Sigma Chi. He proceeded to say that he would like to donate the memorial plaque and couldn't imagine charging the chapter for its manufacture. We would be receiving his contribution in a few weeks and he was honored to be part of this tribute. The next part of his letter took me by surprise.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Mr. Balfour said that he noticed my last name was Mead. He recalled that in the early 1930s, a woman named Ethel Mead Van Auken had been largely responsible for bringing the jewelry business of the Alpha Chi Omega sorority to his company. He wondered if I was related to that person to whom he was especially grateful. As I have written in a previous blog entry, I knew that woman as Aunt Ethel, my father's sister. I wrote back to Lloyd Balfour to advise him of our connection.</p><p style="text-align: left;">A few weeks later, the engraved plaque arrived. It was stunning! The engraved image of Ed Farrow was remarkable and the inscription was flawless. And so, on a sunny spring Saturday, a date suggested by Mrs. Farrow, the chapter gathered for a formal celebration and dedication. Dignitaries from the University and the fraternity participated, as did Mrs. Farrow and one of the couple's daughters. Just a few months later, in August 1962, we lost Ed Farrow at the young age of 64. His death impacted many institutions, the city of Rochester, and hundreds of friends. In his community, Ed Farrow had served as president of the Rochester Civic Music Association, board member of Rochester Art Gallery, vice president of the Rochester Council of the Boy Scouts of America, and chairman of the finance committee for the Episcopal Diocese of Rochester. In addition he served as a member of the Corporation of M.I. T. As we say in the brotherhood of Sigma Chi, "All Honor to his name!"</p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-13144783278520727422021-01-20T16:01:00.000-06:002021-01-20T16:01:30.510-06:00Mike Armstrong, Gone But Not Forgotten<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iXd6MWrBwNk/YAim5TXfkYI/AAAAAAAA2aY/KPn_-qXFMQQ_KJ6hodif4wFR4rqCMmuXACPcBGAsYHg/s400/IMG_0410.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="305" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iXd6MWrBwNk/YAim5TXfkYI/AAAAAAAA2aY/KPn_-qXFMQQ_KJ6hodif4wFR4rqCMmuXACPcBGAsYHg/w244-h320/IMG_0410.JPG" width="244" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Michael F. Armstrong<br />1941-2020<br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">A few days ago I was reviewing the Christmas cards we had received this year and noticed that one of the names missing was Mike Armstrong. I first met Mike Armstrong in 1959 when he entered the freshman class at the University of Rochester. I can’t recall who first introduced us. Mike was from Ballston Spa, New York and so we had been relatively nearby neighbors growing up but had never known each other. We became close friends through a common interest in physics. Not long after we had established a friendship I began talking to Mike about possibly joining the Sigma Chi fraternity. Mike decided not to pledge a fraternity until his sophomore year at which time he did become a Sigma Chi pledge and I became his big brother. We had a lasting friendship that that went on for years. He was initiated into the fraternity in 1961. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Mike and I had some fabulous experiences as undergraduates. One time he had acquired a 1953 Ford convertible. It was a very tired car. We had driven home for a weekend and were on our way back west on the New York State Thruway on Sunday evening after dark when a horrible sound erupted from under the car. We were sure there was some major mechanical problem so we pulled over decided to sleep in the car and worry about solving the problem the next day. The next morning when we got out of the car and walked around it we noticed that it had nothing more than a flat tire. We changed the tire and were on our way. We didn’t share that story with very many people. We lived together in the Crosby Dormitory our last two years at Rochester. We remained close friends who corresponded regularly over the next several years. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">One of the funniest experiences Mike and I had involved an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting although Mike was never an alcoholic. Mike had gone to work for a company in Florida, Ryder Systems, that implemented information technology systems. He had gone to Memphis on a business trip to discuss the implementation of one of their systems for a company in Memphis. He called to inform us that </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">he was driving </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">and asked if he could drive through our hometown of Fayetteville on his way back to Florida and perhaps spend the night with Margo and myself. This was probably in about 1985. I had only recently gotten sober and was trying to get to as many AA meetings as possible. Margo and I had heard that one of our favorite speakers, Father Hilary Dreaper, a Benedictine monk, was speaking that night at an AA meeting in Lawrenceburg, Tennessee. I suggested to Mike that since he would be driving right through Lawrenceburg on his way to our home he could meet us at the AA clubhouse in Lawrenceburg. We would go to the meeting together, then go out to get a bite to eat, and then come to our house. It was a plan!</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">As usual Margo was late and we didn’t leave the house on time in order to be at the meeting prior to its start. Mike had arrived in plenty of time, found the location of the AA house, gone in and gotten himself a cup of coffee and sat down to wait for us to arrive. The meeting started. They started reading excerpts from the AA "Big Book" and introducing members of the local AA group. Mike was convinced that I had done this as a practical joke. Of course we arrive 15 minutes late, found a place to sit next to Mike and the rest was just a great story.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Gradually our friendship grew more distant because we never lived in the same area for any length of time. Nonetheless we stayed in touch, corresponded, and exchanged Christmas cards. In about 1992, I invited Mike and his wife Bettie to come to Tennessee and hike up Mt. Le Conte in the Smokies. They flew into Knoxville where a small group of my fellow hikers picked them up and we proceeded to spend the night in Townsend prior to our two-day hike. I got the impression that this was not Mike's idea of fun.</span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">This year when I realized that Mike had not sent a Christmas card I began to search for his name on Google with various tags that might locate some information on him such as Mike Armstrong University of Rochester. Sure enough I learned the worst -Mike had passed away last July. Even worse, he died of Lou Gehrig’s disease, the dreaded ALS. A further search revealed that the ALS foundation has a forum used by victims of this horrible disease and that Mike had been a regular contributor for several months. Reading those entries on the ALS forum I could hear his voice clearly speaking to me of the experience he was going through. I only wish I could have been there to help. It makes me regretful that sometimes we let relationships die when they need nurturing. </span></span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">His obituary reveals the life of a unique and very talented individual:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: trebuchet;"><i><span style="background-color: white; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;">Michael Frederick Armstrong</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;">Michael Frederick Armstrong passed away on July 20, 2020, in Hansville, Washington, after waging a courageous battle against ALS with humor and strength.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;">Michael was born on March 6, 1941 to Frank and Virginia (Hawkins) Armstrong. He received his Electrical Engineering degree from the University of Rochester in 1963 and worked for the University of Rochester Computing Center for fifteen years. In 1973 he met Bettie Francis scuba diving in the waters off Grand Cayman Island and they married in 1981.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;">Michael loved problem-solving, learning, teaching, mentoring and all things computers and airplanes. He built his own crystal radio and received his Ham Radio license, call sign K2RDB, at the age of thirteen. Michael was vice president of Information System for Ryder Corporation in the 1980s and some of his most cherished memories were as SHARE president from 1986-1988. Michael was also a pilot, a licensed aviation mechanic and a Quiet Birdmen member. He volunteered at the annual Sun N Fun Fly-In in Florida and assisted with rewiring WWII airplanes at Fantasy of Flight. There wasn't a tool, manual or book he didn't like, and he secretly wanted his own hardware store (so he could play with even more tools). He relished receiving calls from friends with challenges, so he could show his problem-solving skills. His college years were so important and transforming for him that he created an Endowed Fund at the University of Rochester to provide educational opportunities for future students. No one was ever a stranger in Michael's eyes. He loved life, music, laughing, and appreciated his incredible klatch of family and friends. His beard could never hide his big grin and Mikey's twinkly blue eyes always made you smile.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;">Michael is preceded in death by his father and mother. He is survived by his wife and soulmate, Bettie, his sister, Patty and all of his loving extended family members. His ashes will be interred at Hansville Cemetery, Hansville, Washington and the Armstrong & Hawkins Family Plot, Corinth Rural Cemetery, Corinth, NY.</span><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;">A memorial service date is pending until sometime next year. If anyone wishes to honor Michael, donations may be made in his name to the ALS Association Evergreen Chapter at </span><a class="obit-text-link" href="http://webwa.alsa.org/" rel="nofollow, noindex" style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; color: #006699; font-size: 18px;" target="_blank">webwa.alsa.org</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #404f57; font-size: 18px;">.</span></i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small;">Mike, I will always miss your company and know that you are loved and missed. All honor to your name. </span><b style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-size: 17.5px;">Σ</b><b style="background-color: white; color: #202122; font-size: 17.5px;">Χ</b></span></p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-12806641949747250192020-08-28T17:47:00.003-05:002020-08-29T21:46:39.149-05:00A Manresa Retreat...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EtU5PjPYRj8/X0l6mFAir1I/AAAAAAAA03g/_71jmfMX1IYrzv9nb_8e_QFWeg0lbHo1wCLcBGAsYHQ/s874/Manresa%2BEntrance.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="874" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EtU5PjPYRj8/X0l6mFAir1I/AAAAAAAA03g/_71jmfMX1IYrzv9nb_8e_QFWeg0lbHo1wCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Manresa%2BEntrance.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">The Palm Tree Lined Drive Entering the Manresa Property<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I have written previously about Frank Priest, who was one of my first sponsors in the recovery program of Alcoholics Anonymous. Frank was a very important influence in my early recovery. He guided me through the twelve step program with compassion but also with a level of discipline that I sorely needed. Much of the time that I spent with Frank involved conversations about the steps, my progress in proceeding through them, and Frank's guidance on my continued growth.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Step four of the twelve step program is, "[We] made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves." I had proceeded under Frank's guidance to complete this "inventory" step, when one day he called me at Hughes Aircraft, where I was working. "What are your plans for the weekend?" Coming from Frank, that could have had all kinds of implications. I told him that I had no plans. "There's a men's AA retreat this weekend at Manresa, and I've made a reservation for you. I'll cover half the cost. It'd be a good time to do your fifth step. (<i>Fifth Step - Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.</i>) </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">You need to do this. Are you in?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I agreed to go, but had to ask what and where Manresa was, what was a men's AA retreat, and a number of other questions. I'd never heard of an AA retreat. The answers were fascinating.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">Manresa was a Jesuit-run retreat house in Azusa, California. This was about 40 miles from where I was working. Frank informed me that check-in was Friday afternoon, that most guys would arrive in time for dinner, which would be served at 6:00 PM in a common dining hall. He informed me that the tradition of conducting men's AA retreats at Manresa had begun with a recovering alcoholic priest lovingly referred to as Father Barney and that they had been held for several years. This annual retreat was a continuation of the first one, held in the 1960s. Although there were now a number of retreats focusing on recovery hosted throughout the year at Manresa, this was the "real deal," going back some twenty years. Frank assured me that I would benefit from some fellowship with new AA friends, some profound discussion meetings, prayer and meditation, and completing my fifth step.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">A little research reveals some interesting history about the Manresa property. There's a Web site devoted to the "Father Barney Retreat" that continues to this day. That site informs us, "In 1947 the property for the new Jesuit Retreat House, to be called “Manresa”, was purchased from two descendant sisters of the early Slauson family in Azusa, California. The land was once part of the old Rancho Azusa from the early 1800’s. A large portion of the property was sold to the Monrovia Nursery, and, was to become the largest potted plant nursery in the country. The Retreat center was located on an island of land within the nursery property and jutted up against the foothills at the east end of the San Gabriel Valley. A very long palm tree lined driveway connected Manresa to the outside world. The Jesuits owned and operated the Retreat House from 1947 to 1994."</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I asked someone at work that week how long I should allow to drive to Azusa on Friday afternoon to arrive in time for sign-in and dinner. I was shocked when people suggested I leave by 2:30 PM. This was to drive from El Segundo to Azusa - a distance of around 40 miles! Allow 3-1/2 hours! I was told, "You'll be taking the 105 and the 605. They're both like parking lots on Friday afternoon." I left at 2:30 on Friday. I barely made it in time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I recall distinctly driving into a tree-lined road that went through countless acres of flowers with hundreds of laborers tending them as I approached what looked like a mansion in the middle of nowhere. This was Manresa, and a magic place it was. It was an imposing somewhat modern Spanish colonial building, although I have been unsuccessful in finding pictures of the structure. I found a parking place and walked to the main entrance, beyond which was a registration table. I recognized a couple of the men standing near the entrance from having seen them at AA meetings in LA's South Bay area.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z5q4h6uVkjc/X0mGKyMb6EI/AAAAAAAA03s/7kYG3V7mHWUmjZH8kS0fINYQpE9eytHhACLcBGAsYHQ/s775/Manresa%2BDoor%2B1955.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="775" data-original-width="379" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z5q4h6uVkjc/X0mGKyMb6EI/AAAAAAAA03s/7kYG3V7mHWUmjZH8kS0fINYQpE9eytHhACLcBGAsYHQ/s640/Manresa%2BDoor%2B1955.jpg" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> The only picture I've been able to <br />locate of Manresa - One of the <br />Chapel Doors shown in a book of <br />Mid-Century Architecture in America,<br />Honor Awards of the AIA, 1949-1961</span></td></tr></tbody></table>I checked in and was assigned a room. Soon I had stowed my clothes, washed up for dinner, and returned to the dining hall. Dinner was served cafeteria style. After we were seated, the blessing was invoked, and a series of short introductions followed. I can't recall the name of the spiritual leader's name, but he was a recovering alcoholic Jesuit priest from Spring Hill College in Mobile, Alabama. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">One of the more interesting introductions was of a man who had just celebrated his first AA birthday. It seems that the previous year, this fellow had attended his first AA meeting and was clearly desperate to get sober. A number of the men at the meeting where he happened to show up were regular attendees at this retreat. They took up a special collection, got him some clean clothes and a bath, and had brought him out to Manresa on his second day sober. Over the serving line was an abstract painting of the Last Supper. It was done in powerful sweeping shapes in vivid and brilliant colors. The fellow, now sober for a year, explained that when he entered the room the first time, he saw that painting and thought he was experiencing hallucinations related to delirium tremens (DTs), an experience that he had been very familiar with. His story brought the house down with laughter.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">As I recall, we were given a schedule of AA mini-meetings, periods of prayer and meditation, and opportunities for one-on-one meetings if we wanted them. I specifically recall periods of reflection walking through the exquisitely kept Manresa gardens.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: georgia;">I met Father Terry, more properly Father Father Terrance L. Mahan, head of the Manresa Retreat House. He was perfect for the job, deeply spiritual, but with an outgoing, warm personality. I found a quote from Father Terry in a Los Angeles Times article on religious retreat houses in southern California done in the 1970s. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia;">“It’s more and more true today that people live a mad life,” he said. “To spend a weekend where you do not have telephones or people pressing you for one thing or another allows you to give to yourself and reflect upon your higher power, your God, whatever you might believe in.<br /></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia;">“It can have a great deal of meaning.”</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: georgia;">I met a gentleman named Mike at Manresa who had been sober for several years. He had also served time in prison for murder. I asked him to hear my fifth step and he accepted. It was a transformative experience. There's something very liberating about putting the past behind us and moving forward. I still had many steps ahead:</span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><div>Step 6 - Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.</div><div>Step 7 - Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.</div><div>Step 8 - Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.</div><div>Step 9 - Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ah, yes, those amends. I had those to still look forward to.</div><div><br /></div><div>I recall that on Sunday morning, as we gathered for breakfast, the priest who was leading the retreat rose and asked for our attention. "The Catholic Church is kind of funny in its attitude about Holy Communion. Even though Jesus was really inclusive in His ministry, the Church only wants Catholics to receive Communion in the church. As far as I'm concerned, if any of you plan to attend my Mass at 9:00 AM in the chapel, you're all honorary Catholics. I won't be checking IDs." His remarks really captured the spirit of fellowship that prevailed that weekend.</div><div><br /></div><div>I shall long remember Manresa the place and Manresa the experience.</div><div><br /></div><div>Even today, when I reflect on those who have contributed to my sobriety, I think about Frank and my many other sponsors, people like Mike and the other folks I've met in AA, and the clergy, recovering and otherwise, who have helped make the spiritual journey so uplifting,</div></span></span></div>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-86825440165301249682020-08-13T06:30:00.004-05:002020-08-15T08:00:34.440-05:00An Encounter with the Jesuits... Circa 1969<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: small; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1162" data-original-width="850" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9ki79BLklwA/XzbBCHh70yI/AAAAAAAA0qo/uwKhUuhLieMoRgepQ0CHCcOx-WxmkKWOQCLcBGAsYHQ/w234-h320/Jesuit%2BNovitiate.jpg" width="234" /></span></div><p></p></blockquote><p style="text-align: left;">I returned to school in 1967 to earn an engineering degree at the University of Oklahoma. Fortunately, I found a good-paying job in the Office of Financial Aids that gave me great flexibility in the hours that I could work. To avoid conflicts with my classes, I worked almost every Saturday (the office was open from 8:00 AM to Noon).</p><p>The financial aids department was on the second floor of the old Carnegie Building between the Evans Hall, the Administration Building and Monnet Hall, which served as the Law School building. It faced the North Oval, more officially, the Parrington Oval. Our offices were across an open reception area from the university's counseling services department. On one wall of this open area was a book rack filled with brochures from many different professional organizations, other colleges and universities, and recruiting organizations.</p><p>One Saturday, probably in the Spring of 1969, I arrived at work early and happened to notice a brochure in that book rack that was to shape my life for several months. It was a recruitment brochure published by the Missouri Province of the Society of Jesus (The Jesuits), an order of Roman Catholic Priests who were known for their educational and missionary achievements. I had known a couple of individuals who had entered the Jesuit order and I had the highest regard for them. One was a Father James Kelly from my home town, who never missed an opportunity to visit my grandmother when he visited his family in Schenectady. I have no clue what the connection was, but I vividly remember "Father James" coming to our home. I was always entranced by his tales of missionary work in Central and South America among indigenous people.</p><p>I picked up the brochure and took it to my office. It was still early and there were no clients. I read through the brochure and was very impressed. Some of the work that the St. Louis Province was engaged in interested me. I had thought seriously of the priesthood when I was younger (Doesn't every Catholic boy?). I had recently experienced a fairly robust re-energizing of my Catholic faith by my involvement with a unique interfaith experiment called the "Community of John XXIII." So without too much hesitation, I sent in a post card attached to the brochure expressing interest in talking to their "recruiter," a young priest named Joseph Damhorst (I think they referred to him as a Director of Vocations or some such title).</p><p>A couple of weeks later, I was in my apartment on a Saturday afternoon when someone knocked on my front door. I answered it to be greeted by a very tall individual who introduced himself, "Hi, I'm Big Joe Damhorst. Some folks call me Damn Big Joehorst.. I'm with the Jesuits at Rockhurst College. I'm here because I was in Oklahoma City on business and had recently gotten a postcard from you. You are Bob Mead I hope." I invited Joe in and offered him a drink and a seat.</p><p>Father Joe Damhorst and I had a wonderful conversation over the next several hours about life and vocations in general, the Catholic priesthood as a calling, and even more specifically a life of service to God as a Jesuit. Our conversation was long ranging and very personal. I recall his describing the challenge of ensuring that the young men entering the Jesuit seminary were mature enough to make an informed decision with such profound meaning in their lives. They were not looking for high school graduates with zero life experience. I was an unusual respondent to their publicity brochure because I was older, already a college graduate, a military veteran, and still single at 29 years of age.</p><p>By the time Joe left, I had decided to look further into this special life of service, I had some reading to do, some time of prayer, and I agreed to go to Rockhurst College in the coming weeks to spend a few weekends at the Jesuit residence, and make some individually-directed spiritual retreats under the guidance of Joe Damhorst.</p><p>A few weeks later, I took a Friday off and left Thursday afternoon for Kansas City. I think I slept in my car somewhere enroute. I arrived Friday afternoon having found the Jesuit house using paper maps (remember those?). One interesting memory I have of that first weekend was that one of the priests had lost his father the day that I arrived. The Jesuit community, I would estimate about twenty priests, had a memorial Mass in their modest chapel, after which they ordered pizza and beer to celebrate the man's life. I recall the contagious joy of celebrating a Christian life well lived and the knowledge that this good man was now in the presence of his creator. One interesting memory: I met a retired Jesuit priest named Thomas Bowdern that weekend who was the former President of Creighton University. He was an activist for racial equality and women’s rights in the 1960s. I learned that his brother, William Bowdern, was also a Jesuit, and was the priest who had performed an exorcism in 1949 on which was based the movie, "The Exorcist." Needless to say, it was a memorable weekend, filled with new friendships, great fellowship, and spiritual growth. I had much to think about on the drive back to Norman, Oklahoma.</p><p>I spent a lot of time during that weekend and several subsequent weekends in prayer and meditation and long conversations with Father Joe trying to discern whether I truly was being called by God to this life.</p><p>On one weekend, I traveled to Columbia, Missouri, where another Jesuit colleague was serving as both a faculty member in the department of Electrical Engineering and as the Catholic Chaplain at the University of Missouri. I had asked Joe what might my career path as a Jesuit and an engineer look like. He responded by suggesting I spend a weekend with this other engineer who had been ordained a few years earlier and then gone on to get doctorates in both theology and electrical engineering.</p><p>I made a number of retreats, met a large group of exceptional priests, developed a deep respect for the Jesuit order in general and their procedure for vetting potential seminary candidates. I learned that the Jesuit way of life involved a dedication to six fundamental values, six values that are known as the principles of the Jesuits:</p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>Magis, meaning “more.” This is the challenge to strive for excellence.</li><li>Women & men for and with others: Sharing gifts, pursuing justice, and having concern for the poor and marginalized.</li><li>Cura Personalis: “Care for the individual person.” Respecting each person as a child of God and all of God’s creations.</li><li>Unity of Heart, Mind, & Soul: Developing the whole person and integrating all aspects of one's life.</li><li>Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam: All effort must be for the Greater Glory of God</li><li>Forming & Educating Agents of Change: Teaching behaviors that reflect critical thought and responsible action on moral and ethical issues.</li></ul><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="Father Joe Damhorst today, living in Denver" border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="229" height="256" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2F8tNm0wCOg/XzfYailhiUI/AAAAAAAA0rQ/sDJJ6uifV7IIhK3TsMybWrDsZyYBBKBLwCLcBGAsYHQ/w194-h256/28220A4B-F131-42DA-AD94-EB7E6CF6B357.jpeg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" title="Father Joe Damhorst today, living in Denver" width="194" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Father Joe Damhorst, <br />living today in Denver</td></tr></tbody></table><p><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2F8tNm0wCOg/XzfYailhiUI/AAAAAAAA0rQ/sDJJ6uifV7IIhK3TsMybWrDsZyYBBKBLwCLcBGAsYHQ/s300/28220A4B-F131-42DA-AD94-EB7E6CF6B357.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"> </a>Ultimately, I concluded that this was not the life that God had in store for me, but Joe Damhorst and I corresponded for quite some time after I had reached that conclusion. I felt then and still feel that my time with Joe and his fellow Jesuits was an important part of my spiritual journey.</p><p>Many years later, when I sought a place in which to get married, it was more than a coincidence that the priest who married Margo Burge and Robert Mead, Father Jeff Burton, was a Jesuit. I have the utmost respect for this uniquely dedicated society of individuals who have devoted their lives to missionary work and education.</p><p>By the way, I have recently learned that Father Joe is still living and resides in the Denver area. You can rest assured that he will be made aware of this post.</p>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-86477536569017362312020-07-26T17:26:00.001-05:002020-07-29T11:07:12.039-05:00Mike Leding...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yA1Ye_GpWgk/XyCDAXyuGCI/AAAAAAAA0g4/_072qTJKhyMJ1WSkHOIgLjrD9KoGM_57ACLcBGAsYHQ/s1279/St.%2BJohns%2BMusical%2BQuartet%2BSmall.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="477" data-original-width="1279" height="233" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-yA1Ye_GpWgk/XyCDAXyuGCI/AAAAAAAA0g4/_072qTJKhyMJ1WSkHOIgLjrD9KoGM_57ACLcBGAsYHQ/w625-h233/St.%2BJohns%2BMusical%2BQuartet%2BSmall.jpg" width="625" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike Leding, on right, with Yours Truly, on left,<br />
in a church-sponsored musical, ca. 1954</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in;">
I grew up in a neighborhood full of kids. The Mead children
started out their educations at St. John the Evangelist Catholic School.
Most of the kids we knew at school lived within a radius of a few blocks.
We knew them and their families well through church and school
activities. But we also knew other kids who lived in our neighborhood --
Jimmy and Ruth Ann Livingston, the Goble boys (Rob, Louis, Johnathan), Sandy
Carr, the Albert kids, the McCones, Carol Pray, Mo Lynch and so many others. There
was never a shortage of kids for a game of hide-and-go-seek or stick ball on a
Summer evening. Remember, this is about a pre-Television, un-air-conditioned
time. Kids played outside and parents sat on porches to enjoy an evening
breeze.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
But one young man was closer
than the others - more like a brother or cousin than just a neighbor.
That was Mike Leding. Not surprisingly, we still stay in touch.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k743hVX_n5k/XyCHQzV9GgI/AAAAAAAA0hQ/jRJ2iESXo5UsBcZ3fR0AvCiaerAOLGV1ACLcBGAsYHQ/s826/1047%2BGillespie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="697" data-original-width="826" height="216" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-k743hVX_n5k/XyCHQzV9GgI/AAAAAAAA0hQ/jRJ2iESXo5UsBcZ3fR0AvCiaerAOLGV1ACLcBGAsYHQ/w256-h216/1047%2BGillespie.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Leding House at 1047 Gillespie St.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mike lived at 1047 Gillespie
Street, only a stone's throw away from the Mead household on the corner of
Union and Gillespie Streets. Michael lived with his mother, Rosemary, and
his Grandmother, Rose Cummings, whose husband Richard, a machinist at General
Electric, had passed away in the mid-1930s. It was a house that had been
occupied by his family for at least four generations. The 1910 census
shows his great-grandmother, Margaret Cummings, a 69-year old widow, as the
head of the household. Her son, Richard and Mike's grandmother, Rose are
living there with their infant son. Mike's mother would be born to this
same household in 1914. Mike's family lived in the downstairs "flat"
of a two-story, two-family dwelling. Upstairs lived Mr. and Mrs. Sauter, as
far back as I can remember. Gillespie street was lined with this type of
upstairs/downstairs kind of two-family homes.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Mike's father had also
tragically passed away when Mike was an infant. Mike was just about a
year younger than me, but we grew up as "buddies." We entered
school at the same time, so we were classmates at St. John's until 7th grade,
at which time my parents chose to put me into the public school system.
We were altar boys together, and in choir together, and in Boy Scouts together,
and in school musicals together -- the list goes on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
My grandmother, Eva Ann Neddo
McLaughlin, lived with us from the time I was about 3 years old when my
grandfather William McLaughlin died. She and Rose Cummings, Mike's grandmother, were very
close friends. At a time when many Roman Catholics attended daily Mass,
Rose and Eva could often be found trekking together down Union Street at 6:45 AM
on their way to 7:00 Mass. They remained close friends, spiritually and
socially, until Rose Cummings passed away in 1952, shortly before
Christmas. Mike was home with his grandmother at the time of her
death. That had to be a major "growing up" experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Mike's mother was a charming,
attractive, and very sociable individual. And there is no doubt she was a
very capable lady as well. She kept the Leding household intact while
working full-time for the General Electric Company. For many years, she
served as the Administrative Assistant to Dr. C. Guy Suits, the Director of the
General Electric Research Laboratory. Rosemary Leding was near the top of
the GE food chain.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Because Mike had lost his dad,
I think my father felt an obligation to try in some way to fill the void that
resulted. We included Mike Leding in our vacation plans, for example, and
when the Meads went to Lake George each August, we made sure that Mike was
included as a guest for at least a week. I believe my dad had a very warm
spot in his heart with regard to Michael John Leding.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
As we grew older our lives somewhat drifted apart. I followed the public school system through junior high
and high school. Mike remained in the parochial system, eventually
graduating from the highly-regarded Vincentian Institute High School in Albany,
where he was trained by the Brothers of the Holy Cross.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
While I moved on to the
University of Rochester, Mike attended the College of the Holy Cross in
Worcester, MA, where he majored in accounting. We'd see each other when
we'd get home for holidays, especially at church, but we had developed
different sets of friends while in high school, so our socializing was fairly
limited during our college years.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
After graduating from
Rochester, I had a date with Uncle Sam to pay back my four-year obligation as a
commissioned naval officer. One
day, while I was home from school for a weekend with my parents, I received a phone call
from Mike wanting to discuss the issue of military service. Viet Nam was
heating up, we all faced the universal draft, and he was looking at his
options, one of which was to pursue a Navy commission through the Officer
Candidate School (OCS) program.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
I shared with Mike that he'd be
a perfect candidate for the Navy's Supply Corps with his accounting and
business background. As it turned out, Mike applied for and was accepted to Navy OCS. Coincidentally, I was to report aboard my first ship, the USS Hugh Purvis, a destroyer undergoing a shipyard overhaul in Boston, at the same time Mike was to report to OCS in Newport, Rhode Island. My parents drove us to Boston where we stayed overnight with Michael's cousin, Loyola Hogan, who was a nurse serving in a Boston hospital and who lived in a brownstone on Beacon Hill. In one evening we learned that it would be in our best interests and that of the Navy if we were never again together on shore leave. My head throbs just thinking about it.</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Mike went on to excel in Navy Supply
School in Athens, GA. And then, he became the Paymaster on the USS
Springfield (CLG-7). He suffered through a 3-year assignment on the
French Riviera. War is Hell!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
One very beautiful result of
Mike's assignment in Europe was that when he completed his obligated service as
a supply officer, he flew his mother to Europe, whereupon they had a two week excursion around the continent. I'm sure Mike has a million stories from
that memorable expedition. After his Navy tour was over, Mike returned to
school, earning an MBA from Columbia's Business School.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Mike has lived in Tampa for
many, many years. Most years when I can remember, I call him to wish him
a happy birthday and we get caught up on family news. This year, when
called, Mike mentioned a couple of interesting items. The first was that
Dr. Anthony Fauci, long time Director of the National Institute of Allergy
and Infectious Diseases, is a classmate of Mike's from his Holy Cross
years. Small world. The other subject that Mike brought up was his
father, whom he never got to know.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
I've wondered about Mike's dad
since I was a little kid. My parents said that he was a wonderful man,
extremely bright, and on a "fast-track" career path at the General
Electric Company. Sadly, he was diagnosed with leukemia and died in
1942. Michael was 18 months old when he lost his father. I learned
during this year's birthday call that Michael had donated some of his dad's
papers, found among his mother's belongings, to the University of Notre Dame
archives. One of the items was the typewritten valedictory address his
father had delivered as Valedictorian of Notre Dame's class of 1933. I
was elated to find out that his dad was so accomplished. But I also
learned that he had graduated with a 96.5 average in electrical
engineering. And, Oh, by the way, played varsity football, earning a position as Left Tackle in his junior year. The 1932 Notre
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W9VbujhRCGo/XrAWgmaB9VI/AAAAAAAAzbM/WNRixXRFtlopubHWHM67gR75nM1eDZ1UgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/MJLeding%2B1932.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="390" data-original-width="332" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W9VbujhRCGo/XrAWgmaB9VI/AAAAAAAAzbM/WNRixXRFtlopubHWHM67gR75nM1eDZ1UgCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/MJLeding%2B1932.jpg" width="272" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">1932 Notre Dame Varsity Team<br />
Michael J. Leding, Left Tackle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Dame Football Review described him this way, "<i>Michael John Leding is
another South Bend boy making good at Notre Dame. And Mike is that rarest of
individuals, a student with a 95 per cent average in his studies.
Maintaining a scholastic record of this kind and at the same time absorbing the
bumps of a tackle assignment on a football team is one of those "believe
it or not" feats.</i><br />
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"Leding has another year's
eligibility and should he return to join the lists of those contending- for the
left tackle post next year, stands a good chance of being one of the leaders.
Of course, there will be big Ed Krause, two-year first stringer and
all-American, to meet. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"Mike himself has plenty of
heft, is tall, rangy and powerful. He is six feet, two inches tall, weighs 180
pounds and is 2l years old. He is a graduate of Central high in South Bend
where he played a lot of baseball, a sport he gave up after coming to Notre
Dame. Summers he holds a job as municipal playground
director." </i> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hu2SMvfcxtE/XyB937Rqv6I/AAAAAAAA0gs/UpYBt9_KFdg1-9yzwMCo1uumefSIoi48ACLcBGAsYHQ/s383/Michael%2BJ%2BLeding%2B1933.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="383" data-original-width="258" height="256" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Hu2SMvfcxtE/XyB937Rqv6I/AAAAAAAA0gs/UpYBt9_KFdg1-9yzwMCo1uumefSIoi48ACLcBGAsYHQ/w173-h256/Michael%2BJ%2BLeding%2B1933.jpg" width="173" /></a>There can be no doubt that my
friend's father was an exceptional and well-rounded individual.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
Michael has kindly given me
permission to publish his father's valedictory address in this blog. It
reveals the mind and spirit of a man who was taken from us way too soon.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<b><i>--
Valedictory Address, Class of 1933, Notre Dame University --</i></b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Michael John
Leding</span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"About 20 years ago each
member of this class received admission into that natural society commonly
called the human family. Great indeed was the courage of the Mother who bore
each one of us. The greatness of her courage was manifested by her willing descent
into the valley of the shadow of death in order that we might have life. The
greatness of her courage and the courage of the father was manifested by their
voluntary acceptance of “the grave obligation to see to the religious and moral
education of their child as well as to its physical and civic training, and
moreover to the provision for its temporal well-being.” </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"Thus we were placed, as
regards education, in the first natural and necessary element in the social
environment, the family. In those first days our mothers were, as they are now,
indeed the most beautiful creatures in the world, closely resembling God as they
tenderly nourished, sustained and warmed us, their children. In the
well-ordered and well-disciplined Christian family with instructions from our
parents, instructions exemplified by their clear and constant good example, we
came upon our first conception of right and wrong. We were brought up in a holy
and filial “fear of God the beginning of wisdom.” </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"However, we belong also, to
a society not of the mere natural order. Most of us were fortunate enough to
become through baptism members of a supernatural society, the Church, which
supplied us with a further environment, one associated with the family in a
most intimate and harmonious manner. The church, as did our natural Mothers,
generated, nurtured, and educated our souls in the Divine life of grace, with
her Sacraments and her doctrine. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"But man is a social being,
with obligations Beyond those of the family and those of the Church.
Consequently, we had to be trained in the arts and sciences in order that we
might take our proper places in civil society. Thus, when we had attained the
age of six years or so, it was necessary for our parents to give over a portion
of their responsibilities to a social institution, the school. Here the good
nuns and kind teachers looked after our many wants and educated us in subjects
known from experience to be the most beneficial for us. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"From the grade school we
passed to high school. Not all of us continued with a Catholic education; some
of us had to enter city or state schools where the surroundings were not entirely
conducive to our spiritual advancement. However, in the home our parents still
were able to counteract false doctrines and false ideals as they arose and were
thus able to keep us directed towards the Supreme Good, our last end. </i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"We were ready for college.
Many of us preferred state schools again, but our mothers, ever watchful for
our welfare, ever conscious of their divine mission, in many cases for the last
time used their rightful authority to insist on our enrollment in a Catholic
College. As we now look back, we see as they did, that the place for a Catholic
student is in a Catholic school.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"In college we no longer had
easy access to our mothers with our cares and troubles. We were placed upon our
own responsibility. However, when we entered this University we gained another
Mother, our Alma Mater, not so tender, so warm, so indulgent as our natural
Mothers, but by the very fact that she is more uncompromising, more
disciplinary, she proves that she is just as concerned, just as solicitous, just
as anxious for our welfare. Here we came into the full use of our reason. We no
longer learned merely by rote, simply for the sake of performing a task
required of us. Here our real pursuit of knowledge began. Here we were educated
to fit the mold of a true Christian, patterned by our present pontiff, Pope
Pius XI, since now we have learned “to think, judge, and act constantly and
consistently in accordance with right reason illumined by the supernatural
light of the example and teaching of Christ”. Our intellects were “given force
steadiness, comprehensiveness, we gained versatility and command over our own
powers”. We learned to reach out towards truth, to grasp it and to understand
it.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"Here at school, away from
the anxieties of the world, we have prepared ourselves for life by performing
daily, in the correct manner, the duties, both moral and educational, allotted
to us. We need not worry for the future if during our college days we have at
all times applied ourselves to the best of our ability to the problems that
college life has been presented to us.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"Moral courage has been the
great lesson taught us at Notre Dame. At such a school as this men attain the
virtue of moral fortitude, which points out the pitfalls of excess and defect,
warns against the perils of rashness which thrusts them into danger opposed to
reason, and reveals to them the weakness of cowardice which makes men shun
dangers to which they can and should expose themselves.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"We shall need courage to
uphold the Christian ideals Notre Dame has implanted in us. Notre Dame
conscientiously fulfills the motive of the Church which, as Newman says, “does
not cherish talent, genius, or knowledge, for their own sake, but for the sake
of her children, with a view to their spiritual welfare and religious influence
and usefulness, with the object of training them to fill their respective posts
in life better, and of making them more intelligent, capable, active members of
society.” All Notre Dame asks is that we be true to the ideals she has inculcated
in us - - true to God, Country and Notre Dame.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"And so, Notre Dame has
alloyed and beaten into shape the pure raw metal furnished her.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"In a short while we shall
pass from the status of undergraduates to that of alumni. Four years ago we
were anxious to see this day come, but as the end draws near deep-felt emotion,
swelling within our hearts, makes us wish we could continue our stay. But time
must go on and we must move forward to take our respective places in life.
Although we may never again meet many of our school friends in person, our
pleasant association with them will often come to our minds and we shall live
again in memory happy hours in the classrooms, the joyful sessions in the
dormitory, the elevating services in the Church and at the Grotto.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"So, we come to the end of
our college career - - to the commencement of life. God prepared us for our
parents, our parents prepared us for Notre Dame, Notre Dame has prepared us for
life. May we now by our life prepare ourselves for God.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<i>"As we say farewell to our
Alma Mater let us pray for courage - - courage of the type shown by our
Mothers, courage of the type taught by Notre Dame, or simply – – courage of the
type that will enable us to live as true Notre Dame men." </i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
What a magnificent and
inspiring work this is! And it's made even more remarkable by virtue of
the fact that it was written by a man in his early twenties. Of course,
with 20/20 hindsight, we realize that less than 10 years hence, many of the men
in that audience would be called to defend their country. Some would
never return. They would have to call upon every ounce of the courage
that Michael John Leding, their Valedictorian, had described on that joyful day
of their graduation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
And I might add that the acorn
does not fall far from the tree. Mike Jr., my friend, has many of the
same gifts that were evident in his father. He has always been a hard
worker. When we were young, Michael had a newspaper business selling
papers from a table set up in front of St. John the Evangelist church on Sunday
mornings. He was out in the weather, winter or summer, in rain, sleet, or
snow, selling those papers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mike Leding --<br />
"Voice of the Spartans"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">
His life, like that evidenced
in his father, has been marked by service to others. He has for many
years been the voice of the University of Tampa Spartans, a
commitment that few would take on. The
UT Website informs us that Michael Leding was inducted into the UT Hall of Fame
in 2016, describing him this way, “<i>Mike Leding has been a Spartan supporter
and directly affiliated with Spartan Athletics since 1984. The long-time donor
has been the primary public address announcer for men's basketball since 1987
and for the women's program since 2003, and has also been the voice of the
Spartans at baseball, soccer and softball games. He has made financial
contributions to both basketball teams and the athletic department since 1984.
He was the men's basketball radio color broadcaster during the early seasons of
the program's rebirth. His support has also manifested itself in letters to the
editor in the local media when he thought their coverage of the success of
Spartan athletics was lacking. In the mid-80's, Mike was the University's Vice
President of Business and Finance, followed by being its Vice President of
Institutional Advancement while also being an adjunct professor in the College
of Business for a period of years. He has never apologized for being a
"homer" and irreverent on occasion, when the circumstances merited
it, to fire up the Spartans while being a p.a. announcer</i>.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; line-height: 125%;"><br />
Mike also served his Holy Cross class for many years as their class
correspondent, publishing a class newsletter to keep his classmates
informed. Knowing Mike, perhaps a better
description would be “informed and entertained.” He has the gift. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; line-height: 125%;">Mike Leding, I feel privileged to have grown up with you and
to have known you all these years. God
bless you and your family, and may we and our friendship endure for many more years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-86022059881992142222020-07-25T08:19:00.000-05:002020-07-25T08:27:24.300-05:00Famous Cousins Department<div style="background-color: white; color: #050505; margin: 0px; overflow-wrap: break-word; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fWXmzu1veXU/XxwwoqjL6aI/AAAAAAAA0Z0/OqPuGeqi4MgRjaUozyIa5t0dUIiNuYINACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Martin%2BVan%2BBuren.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="959" data-original-width="710" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fWXmzu1veXU/XxwwoqjL6aI/AAAAAAAA0Z0/OqPuGeqi4MgRjaUozyIa5t0dUIiNuYINACLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Martin%2BVan%2BBuren.jpg" width="295" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Martin Van Buren, Eighth President of the United States</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have been trying to spend at least a few minutes every evening researching my genealogy. I use Ancestry dot com as a tool, but also Wikitree, a New England genealogical site called "American Ancestors," and some other on-line sources. A few nights ago I ran into the name Van Buren in my direct lineage. I decided to run that rabbit trail as far back as possible and got as far as Johan Van Buren Heer Van Grieth, born in 1495 in Buren, Gelderland, Netherlands.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The thought crossed my mind, “I wonder if I have any connection to Martin Van Buren, the eighth President of our republic.”</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I Googled Martin’s genealogy and started tracing his lineage backwards to see if it would intersect mine. Voila! Martin Van Buren and I are third cousins, four times removed. His second great-grandfather is my sixth great-grandfather, Martin Cornelisson Van Buren, born in 1637 in Houten, Utrecht, Netherlands. I therefore share some DNA with the man credited with founding the Democratic party. I now refer to President Van Buren as "Cuz."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I started this genealogical pursuit when I was in high school. I noticed the other day that I have over 1,300 individuals identified in my Ancestry file. It never gets old. The quest for further knowledge of my “tree” is still exciting. BTW, with the pandemic going on, my hair looks a lot like my cousin’s.</span></span></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-31440879460262157312020-07-07T16:02:00.001-05:002020-07-08T11:17:53.855-05:00Astronaut Robert Springer<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OQFFphLSUYk/XwThS-mN32I/AAAAAAAA0So/DtP7h_VYJj4mryDnA-kuJkQ055Ny00JUACK4BGAsYHg/s692/Robert_Springer%2B1982.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="692" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OQFFphLSUYk/XwThS-mN32I/AAAAAAAA0So/DtP7h_VYJj4mryDnA-kuJkQ055Ny00JUACK4BGAsYHg/w522-h640/Robert_Springer%2B1982.jpg" title="Astronaut Robert Springer in 1982" width="326" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Astronaut Robert Springer in 1982</span></span></td></tr>
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<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In 1982, I was working for the University of Alabama in Huntsville in the Division of Continuing Education (now part of the College of Professional Studies). My boss, Dr. Gary Workman, and I had been doing some research work for NASA. Based on the connections we had made, Gary was asked to chair an annual NASA banquet that honored Huntsville's scientific achievements and major contributors to its technical success. The committee that organized the event had asked NASA to provide a speaker, and they had nominated a newly-minted astronaut, U.S. Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel Robert C. Springer. He would be flying in from Houston to address a gathering of several hundred attendees at the Von Braun Center.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On the night of the banquet, Gary called me just as Margo and I were about to leave the house and advised me that I was probably going to provide the shuttle service to pick up the speaker at the airport (I think Gary was subtly suggesting that I vacuum up any stray dog hair in our car!). It seems that Colonel Springer's plane from Houston to Memphis had run so late that he had missed his connection to Huntsville. He was now scheduled on a later flight that would arrive in Huntsville after the banquet had started but probably still in time to deliver his address about NASA's long term plans for the Space Shuttle and beyond.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The hour for the banquet to begin arrived. Gary explained the situation to the assembled crowd as the Von Braun catering staff began serving the first course. Colonel Springer had said he would call Gary to alert him when his flight from Memphis was about to leave. About midway through the main course, the call came, and Margo and I left for the airport.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We greeted Colonel Springer as he departed his flight and took him immediately to the Civic Center. Most of the crowd had waited, even though the last coffee had been served about an hour before our arrival. Robert Springer delivered his prepared address and was very well received. Then the fun began.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Margo and I had volunteered to take the Colonel to his motel. But he hadn't eaten since lunchtime. It's now after midnight. In Huntsville, Alabama. In 1982. We thought hard about where we might get food. Finally it dawned on us that the Shoney's at the intersection of University and the Memorial Parkway was open all night. We were relieved to see all the lights on as we pulled into the parking lot.</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lj5nx4CiM5Q/XwTh6H-_ZfI/AAAAAAAA0TY/iNWjZbg7Df8DMAmaAnLYE5yeoGhiVH5TACK4BGAsYHg/s3881/Robert_Springer.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3881" data-original-width="3105" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lj5nx4CiM5Q/XwTh6H-_ZfI/AAAAAAAA0TY/iNWjZbg7Df8DMAmaAnLYE5yeoGhiVH5TACK4BGAsYHg/s200/Robert_Springer.jpg" width="160" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Astronaut Springer <br />in 1990 </span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">After we had coffee with Colonel Springer while he enjoyed some pancakes, we delivered him to his hotel and thanked him for his dedicated service (He had flown over 500 combat missions in Viet Nam as a Marine Corps fighter pilot.).</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A few days after this event, Margo and I received a hand written thank you note along with an autographed official NASA astronaut photo. We followed Robert Springer's NASA career, until his dream was realized and he flew on the shuttle on STS-29 in 1989, and STS-38 in 1990, after which he retired from both NASA and the Marine Corps. We felt blessed that our paths had crossed under such unusual circumstances. </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-34743122925606023642020-06-27T12:43:00.002-05:002020-08-07T11:39:00.570-05:00A Unique Elementary School Experience...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XdMUV0-KGUs/XuqSiqwyD1I/AAAAAAAAz9g/y310x-6wb-4WrBTJQpNlpjjNonWlMxXyACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Sr%2BJames%2BEdward.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="619" height="388" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XdMUV0-KGUs/XuqSiqwyD1I/AAAAAAAAz9g/y310x-6wb-4WrBTJQpNlpjjNonWlMxXyACLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h388/Sr%2BJames%2BEdward.jpg" title="Sister James Edward, Sisters of the Holy Names, with friends" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><font size="2">Sister James Edward, Sisters of the Holy Names, with friends, around 1950<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I attended kindergarten at Elmer Avenue Elementary School in Schenectady. It was less than a mile from home and I walked there and back every day at the age of four. It was a different time. When it was time for me to start elementary school in earnest, there was never any doubt that I would follow my older brother and sister to the school associated with our church, St. John the Evangelist, about which I have written many blog entries. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">At the time I started at St. John's, the school was housed in two rather large Victorian residential buildings. First though third grades were held in a building that had at one time served as the residence of Mr. Bert Curley, the first organist and choir director of the church, starting in 1905. It was behind the church, facing Eastern Avenue. By 1945, the building housed a couple of restrooms, some classrooms, and a room upstairs that could be used by a school nurse. There was also a closed solarium or sun porch that was used as a lunch room.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The other building was on the east of the church, facing Union Street. It held fourth through eighth grade classrooms and a solarium that served as the music room. It also was the residence for the nuns who ran and staffed the school, so it included their kitchen, dining room, and sleeping quarters. The nuns were of a French-Canadian order, The Sisters of the Holy Names of Jesus and Mary.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My first grade teacher was a young nun named Rolande Cassidy who had entered the order in 1937. She had taken the name Sister James Edward (at that time, new sisters took the names of saints whom they particularly admired.) We always knew her as Sister James.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We've all heard the stories of nuns who are threatening disciplinarians. My experience with the nuns who taught me through sixth grade certainly doesn't support that myth. Starting with Sister James Edward and subsequently Sister Alice, Frances Ovila, and others, my perception was of a group of selfless, kindly, loving and devoted women in service to their God and church. There were of course moments when I deserved and received discipline at the hands of the good sisters, but I have no recollection of anything damaging to my psyche. These were wonderful years, taking place immediately after the end of World War II.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There were disadvantages to attending a small parochial school at that time. We had no formal physical education program because we had no gymnasium (the "new" school, built in the 1950s that replaced the old buildings included a gymnasium). And there was no formal science education as there were no lab or science classroom facilities.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">On the other hand, we were thoroughly versed in the written and spoken word and certainly in the tenets of our faith. We wrote essays or "papers" starting in the third grade. We were expected to use proper grammar at all times, and the nuns I knew were not shy about correcting our speech. We learned cursive writing from the second grade on, with daily writing drills. And one of my fondest memories was starting each day reciting the Pledge of Allegiance facing the flag with our hands over our hearts, followed by the Lord's Prayer. It was a simpler time, but those skills have served me well. I'm still accused of being part of the Grammar Police.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Even though my parents transferred me to a public school starting in seventh grade, I remained close to many of my old St. John's classmates. In 2003, they reached out to me to invite me to a 50th reunion of our elementary school class! I flew to Albany and rented a car for the appointed weekend. On Friday night, I joined Mike Leding, Noreen Quinn (Now Noreen Bennett, and others at a pizzeria for an informal Friday night gathering. There were wonderful recollections among a group of old comrades.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">On Saturday evening, we were to have a formal banquet at the old Mohawk Club, now called the Stockade Inn in Schenectady's historic Stockade Area. The Guest of Honor was to be none other than Sister James, now constrained to a wheelchair and blind, but still living and eager to attend. I dressed up and arrived at the Inn a few minutes early. I bumped into Maury Lynch in the lounge. We had probably not seen each other for 45 years. Soon we heard a commotion coming from the ballroom and meandered that way.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">As we entered the ballroom with its tables arranged beautifully with fresh-cut flowers and elegant place settings, I spotted someone in a wheelchair at the opposite end of the setup. "Where's that old nun?" I called out, echoing a greeting often used by our old pastor, Father Arnold J. English, when he was being somewhat mischievous. Without hesitation, I heard back, "I can't see you, but it's either Michael Leding or Bobby Mead!" I knew I was in the right place.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We had a fabulous banquet. Mike acted as Master of Ceremonies, his natural calling. My favorite line of the night, as Mike was asking Sister James to say a few words, "Sister, you're the only woman in the crowd who doesn't color her hair," We basked in a sea of memories and stories and recollections until late in the evening.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It was not long after that wonderful evening that I received the news that Sister James had passed on. I like to think that God allowed her that last party as a favor to us before He called her home.</div></font></td></tr>
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<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-74833999767817021712020-06-01T11:54:00.003-05:002020-06-01T13:02:36.616-05:00Images of St. John's...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QOdrOWTZSfs/XtUytrIhc2I/AAAAAAAAzxg/44vPApwzTUkf2YLmIJZbHutBi3aHxbTuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/St._John_Evangelist_Schenectady.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QOdrOWTZSfs/XtUytrIhc2I/AAAAAAAAzxg/44vPApwzTUkf2YLmIJZbHutBi3aHxbTuwCLcBGAsYHQ/s320/St._John_Evangelist_Schenectady.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
I've posted here several times that the church I grew up in was St. John the Evangelist parish in Schenectady, New York. I recently had the opportunity to scan a photo album that was issued at time of the church's dedication in 1905. Thanks to my old friend, classmate, and fellow codger, Mike Leding, for loaning me this precious album. Enjoy. Be patient -- The file may take a while to load.<br />
<a href="https://drive.google.com/file/d/1k-7DHdnDA2FzPD7Qloh7afSZU6_5Fuje/view?ths=true">https://drive.google.com/file/d/1k-7DHdnDA2FzPD7Qloh7afSZU6_5Fuje/view?ths=true</a><br />
<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-39249884102447362672020-04-19T13:58:00.000-05:002020-07-29T11:10:30.945-05:00Reminder of the Past...<div style="text-align: center;">
<img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/ntH7PDnp4-KVgO-w086GmZR316KDiVVzaHtrYW60RXcVtNwQ-4su1JtBXWgaDTPQ00k8BN96PkskyQe4j-3kd63to-Ms0HcHiCfSPdnu8aL1ZjPDweJj87Kr-IdWQrCxHI-Cu_MdjBvB0Yzg_UWgLbBZ9BjULP-ats4MOIC6wSSlqgha0FaURJKhDDjDp4K8yK-hQfv1izy29S1CgWFtTcfZCIZKoeD4UCe-v1MNd2L6WN8QgsGySeCS32rAp27FHdY7rYRZvRBnn_qOI_m2aiXH2PWUXf7BBfDm2M1wX6lsRx_4uMhx3xOKQfNJRzXD5vuC28qLsmnJAv9er9an903KS5goC1L6im_wVybHhJefYBK19DUMElVoWM0gW45VJuf422lZyC8S8SKFYgsN4HwLP389b-U1old8ya-Kn2yKhtOO-8SqN0EYQLeXs1mfV6NL92mUVoNR9IukTUwRuWalo2rv3X18cqVfZXODPhMeVRLHZ4Pi5M_VOwmBsL3JrDTLRyqGZRxPUxLEBkyd6pp_YfBlEzqVaOYKMh3dH4xMFnmTtlPFVeWuHe80lN6N4PLgQSETqQAXM_J87Ygt_YgB_GKHa2V069kjCgCr_M0RUgYW7kNk3GEN026IhqeSVqi8yJdGEh3bHNQAN8bGgURftdVw3Qu5j0ca7D-aGYz6bpo0JmwUVFZdKx3oXiY=w567-h756-no" width="240" /></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The other day, I opened a medicine cabinet that we seldom use. I spotted a prescription bottle and picked it up. It was dated September 3, 1983. That was the day I was discharged from a 28-day treatment program for alcoholism and drug addiction. The pills, a few of which are left, are a drug called Anatabuse. <span style="background-color: white;">Antabuse is the brand name of the prescription drug disulfiram, which is used to treat chronic</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><a data-source="dictionary" href="https://www.everydayhealth.com/alcoholism/guide/" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #005cb7; text-decoration-line: none;">alcoholism</a><span style="background-color: white;">.</span></span><br />
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0.75em; padding-top: 0.75em;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The medicine blocks an enzyme that's involved in metabolizing alcohol. When Antabuse is combined with alcohol, it may cause symptoms such as:</span></div>
<ul>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Headache</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Nausea or vomiting</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Flushing of the face</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Chest pain</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Weakness</span></li>
<li><a data-source="dictionary" href="https://www.everydayhealth.com/anxiety/guide/" style="box-sizing: border-box; color: #005cb7; text-decoration-line: none;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Anxiety</span></a></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Blurred vision</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Confusion</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Sweating</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Difficulty breathing, or choking</span></li>
<li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In extreme cases, death</span></li>
</ul>
<div style="background-color: white; box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 0.75em; padding-top: 0.75em;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Antabuse isn't a cure for alcoholism, but it may effectively discourage some people from drinking. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">As I was approaching the end of my 28-day treatment program, I was terrified that I might compulsively drink again and that the next time would prove fatal for me. Alcoholics do things like that. I was willing to do anything that was recommended by the "experts," Dr. Bill Goodson and Dr. Bob Wise. They recommended two things that this little bottle of pills reminded me of.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Dr. Goodson is a psychiatrist. He recommended the use of Antabuse. His theory was that if you knew that drinking while taking the drug might kill you, or at the very least make you so sick you'd wish you were dead, it might just work as a deterrent to compulsive binge drinking. In my case, he was certainly correct.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Bob Wise, a clinical psychologist with an exceptional understanding of addiction, suggested a legal contract between me and Margo. If I were to drink alcohol again, in any amount, I would have to move out of the house for thirty days, to be allowed to return only when and if she agreed to it. A second offense would result in a permanent eviction, only to be ended after an intervention by professionals including a divorce attorney. I agreed, and we signed a formal contract with witnesses. This was very serious stuff. I was desperate to stay sober and clean.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Now, over 36 years later, years of freedom and happiness free of booze, this discovery served as a gentle reminder of my continuing vulnerability. Thank God for these little nuggets of wisdom that seem to pop up in the most unexpected places.</span></div>
Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-27002187977658831262020-03-24T15:21:00.002-05:002020-03-24T15:25:31.338-05:00The Story of Our Lives in the Springtime...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QlT5Fga0nDU/XnpspVP_HGI/AAAAAAAAywQ/j0SU7bft09skqv3p14fvbfuR3-wVIUjPQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/warning.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="890" height="416" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QlT5Fga0nDU/XnpspVP_HGI/AAAAAAAAywQ/j0SU7bft09skqv3p14fvbfuR3-wVIUjPQCLcBGAsYHQ/s640/warning.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-26123553542855660012020-03-23T20:21:00.001-05:002020-03-23T20:21:22.143-05:00What Goes Around Comes Around...<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8nMDshC9VtI/XnlfgXmqL0I/AAAAAAAAyvs/oaf6dzOou8A8o27RDstl6MTRZdkVLQOIQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/samples.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="524" data-original-width="1200" height="173" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8nMDshC9VtI/XnlfgXmqL0I/AAAAAAAAyvs/oaf6dzOou8A8o27RDstl6MTRZdkVLQOIQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/samples.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In 2011, I was part of a group of Camber Corporation
employees who went to Texas A&M University’s College Station campus in
response to a request by a former Camber client.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This gentleman, a retired Marine Corps
Colonel, was working for the Texas A&M System, involved in managing
proposals to obtain large Government contracts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">At the time he contacted Camber, he was involved in responding to a
request for proposal (RFP) issued by the Department of Health and Human
Services’ Biomedical Advanced Research and Development Agency (BARDA).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was BARDA’s intent to have one or more Centers
for Innovation in Advanced Development and Manufacturing (CIADM) set up by the
successful bidder(s) responding to this RFP.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The centers were in direct response to a report published in August 2010
entitled “Report to the President on Reengineering the Influenza Vaccine
Production Enterprise to Meet the Challenges of Pandemic Influenza,”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">These centers would involve the construction
of large and complex laboratories and production facilities capable of
developing and producing massive quantities of a vaccine in response to a
deadly influenza pandemic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(I seem to
recall that the goal was 120 million doses of vaccine within six months of the
adoption of a specific product).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you see why I have been reflecting on this
recently?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We assembled in a conference room at an appointed time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In came the Colonel, neatly dressed in a dark
business suit, looking very professional.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I don’t have much time,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“I’m trying to get thirty faculty members to respond to seventy
questions from the Government.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They want
the answers by tomorrow night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have you
ever herded cats?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He explained that the
reason he had called us to meet with him was that in his prior position, while
on active duty, our company, Camber Corporation, had provided exceptional
support services that helped him excel in his job performance. He then asked if
we could introduce ourselves and describe briefly how we might help him in his
proposal-developing effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was in a
hurry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The operative word was “briefly.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Unfortunately, some of my colleagues missed the
message.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They rambled on about their
impressive resumes and broad professional experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some droned on for several minutes. Finally,
it was my turn to speak as the last in line. I took less than thirty seconds
for my response, ending with, “Colonel, I’d love the opportunity to support you
on this proposal.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He contacted us when
we returned to Huntsville.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was the
only one he wanted to hire to come back to College Station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m convinced to this day that my brevity and
consideration of his request was the main reason I was called back.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">One of the skills I had mentioned in my brief oral portfolio
was planning and scheduling large, complex programs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I had arrived back in College Station
and presented myself to our new client, he made my job clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I need for you to develop a detailed
schedule of the way we will execute this job from beginning to end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have write-ups from the researchers and the
medical experts and the construction firms that are going to build the facilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I need you to read all their narratives and
put it all together in a cohesive schedule.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The proposal was due in about three weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told him I’d give it my best shot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Soon, I was poring over a pile of inputs from team
members.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were multiple large
construction firms that had joined the team.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Part of the job involved constructing a large office complex, a
state-of-the-art biological laboratory facility with the highest possible
biological safety level as defined by the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) and
NIH, and of course, the vaccine production facility, which would look like a
moderately-sized factory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each of these
construction firms had taken a different approach toward their portion of the schedule.
Where one went to exquisite detail in describing their approach, another was
described in vague, summary detail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Integrating them would be a challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Regarding the laboratory facility, someone had laid out a
precise roadmap that included the sequence with which equipment had to be
installed and tested.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would need to
determine the lead time for acquiring much of the laboratory gear in order to
illustrate the ordering process in detail that would enable the orderly integration
of the lab.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I began to construct the
overall framework of an integrated schedule, making dozens of phone calls to
clarify how the pieces would come together to create this massive pandemic
response complex.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Three weeks later, just in time to be included with the
massive proposal, my job was successfully completed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I presented the proposal team with a schedule
of nearly 1,500 tasks, all logically integrated, with data on who was assigned
to perform the task, where it would be performed, start and end dates,
accounting codes, and references to the Statement of Work sections that had
required the task.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By employing the
database functions contained in the scheduling software, a user could reorient
the display to satisfy many different stakeholders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The A&M Team was extremely pleased with the product I
contributed to their proposal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>More
importantly, they went on to win one of the awards. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Initial funding was around $176 Million, with
future growth potential of well over $1B.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eum7lFzXmIQ/XnlgSQTPQfI/AAAAAAAAyv0/cF3LxRVAAC4X-iNqOj34_YaaDkbsV7fBACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Brett%2BGiroir%2B2015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="360" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eum7lFzXmIQ/XnlgSQTPQfI/AAAAAAAAyv0/cF3LxRVAAC4X-iNqOj34_YaaDkbsV7fBACLcBGAsYHQ/s200/Brett%2BGiroir%2B2015.jpg" width="151" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dr. Brett Giroir</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I worked on this proposal seven days a week while I was in
College Station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the proposal
team members with whom I worked (literally side-by-side, as our offices were in
adjacent spaces) was Dr, Brett Giroir, who was at that time Vice Chancellor for
the Texas A&M University System, and had come to the A&M System having
served as Director of DARPA's Defense Science Office from 2004 to 2008.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a few days ago. I was watching the
Corona Virus Task Force daily briefing when I saw none other than Dr. Giroir
step to the podium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is now a
four-star admiral in the U.S. Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, who
currently serves as the Assistant Secretary for Health under the Trump
administration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Among his collateral
duties, he concurrently serves as the director of the U.S. coronavirus
diagnostic testing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about a small
world!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-45158559682026532902019-12-31T11:16:00.001-06:002019-12-31T11:16:24.026-06:00The Ave Maria Religious Gift Shop<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B26m4nb6tyI/XguAokZDrxI/AAAAAAAAx58/3X7QwA-CpagfgCaMt0_G2Y8dPWxycK7vQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/home-11-523x174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="174" data-original-width="523" height="132" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-B26m4nb6tyI/XguAokZDrxI/AAAAAAAAx58/3X7QwA-CpagfgCaMt0_G2Y8dPWxycK7vQCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/home-11-523x174.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I was attending Mont Pleasant High School in 1957. One of my best friends was Raymond Jankowski. He loved not far from the school and we'd often go to his house after school to "Hang out." I learned that Ray's mother had an affinity for horse racing. She also enjoyed an occasional wager on the horses. She would say she was going over to Crane Street to place a bet. It never occurred to me at the time </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">that</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">this was both illegal and remarkably convenient (as Crane Street was very close to the Jankowski's home on Willett Street. Legal off-track betting was something unheard of at the time. This was strictly a local activity (service?) of organized crime.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Fast forward to the summer of 1959. Now I'm attending the University of Rochester and I'm home for Summer vacation. My friend Hal Johnson is working for the city Department of Parks and Recreation as a Park Recreation Director. And his park is not for from Ray Jankowski's house. So sometimes the three of us are seen hanging out. By now, Hal and I have developed an interest in betting on the horse races taking place not far away at Saratoga Race Track. I'm sure this interest was enhanced by our frequent evening visits to BL's Tavern which I've written about in an <a href="https://robertmead.blogspot.com/2011/01/benny-and-theresas.html" target="_blank">earlier blog entry</a>. The proprietor of BL's, Benny Lenciewicz was an avid horse racing fan and engaged daily in wagering on the horses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">So one day, Hal and I decide to bet on the Daily Double at Saratoga. We ask Raymond J. where his mother used to place her bets. He informs us that it was the Ave Maria Religious Gift Shop on Crane Street. That's all Hal and I needed as we headed over to Crane Street during Hal's lunch hour to place what I recall to be a $5.00 bet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Ave Maria Religious Gift Shop was not much to look at. As we walked in, we saw a couple of sparsely populated racks of religious greeting cards and a shelving unit with a few statues, crucifixes, rosaries and votive candles. In the back of the store was a counter behind which sat a balding gentleman who reminds me today of Danny DeVito. "How may I help you gentleman?" We explained that we wanted to put $5.00 on the Daily Double at Saratoga for that afternoon's races. He was shocked at our request!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">"That sounds like somethin' to do wit' gamblin'," he pronounced. "I don't know nuttin' about no gamblin'. It ain't even legal. Now get the hell outta here!" Needless to say, we left. We proceeded back to Ray's house, sure that he'd given us some bad information. When we got there, Mrs. Jankowski, Ray's mother, was home and invited us in.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">We shared our story. She laughed hysterically. She explained, "You were in the right place, but you should have had me take you in to introduce you. Nobody is going to accept bets from a complete stranger. You have to be "connected." We gave Mrs. J. our $5.00. She placed our bet, which yielded exactly nothing. That ended Hal's and my joint gambling careers.</span>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-66831286031734810472019-09-12T09:08:00.002-05:002019-10-22T11:14:03.465-05:00The Meads and a Football "Giant"...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OiH5tK1BWYw/XXpQmXesxDI/AAAAAAAAwto/jO4nUEFlMGo2_b2G3pvZ0IUDuEQOuJaYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Mel%2BHein.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="464" data-original-width="824" height="225" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OiH5tK1BWYw/XXpQmXesxDI/AAAAAAAAwto/jO4nUEFlMGo2_b2G3pvZ0IUDuEQOuJaYgCLcBGAsYHQ/s400/Mel%2BHein.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Mel Hein as New York Giants Center</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I've written more than once about my parents' closeness to the family of Carroll and Eleanor Gardner. The relationship started when my father and Carroll (whom I always knew as "Uncle Pink) grew up as next-door neighbors on Eagle Street in Schenectady. Almost as interesting as the Gardners were some of the people whom my folks got to know through their friendship. One of these secondary friendships was a gentleman named Mel Hein and his family. And Mel, whom I called "Uncle Mel" turned out to be a genuine football giant.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Carroll ("Pinky") Gardner had a sister, Marge, who married J. Harold "Hal" Wittner. Hal was the Athletic Director at Union College, the campus of which was only a block from our house. He was another of those non-blood-relatives whom the Mead children addressed as "Uncle" Hal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hal Wittner had attended Union College in the late teens and early twenties and had been a stellar athlete. He was Captain of the Union Garnet baseball team both his junior and senior years as an undergraduate. He had become Union's Director of Athletics in 1938. When World War II broke out in late 1941, the Navy established an officers' training program called V-12. Many prominent athletes volunteered to assist the host universities with the physical training aspects of the program. That is how Mel Hein ended up at Union College in Uncle Hal's department. He served as Union College's football head coach from 1943 until 1946, when the family left for California.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nxFwlQ4AMGA/XXpQmmI0lZI/AAAAAAAAwtw/fLpKke0OBF8FX3BcBvbDJbLHGlN4Y4ZiACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/Mel%2BHein2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nxFwlQ4AMGA/XXpQmmI0lZI/AAAAAAAAwtw/fLpKke0OBF8FX3BcBvbDJbLHGlN4Y4ZiACLcBGAsYHQ/s320/Mel%2BHein2.jpg" width="213" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Hein family lived on University Place, just about a half-block distance from our house. They had a son, Mel Jr., whom they called "Cappy." Cappy was my age and we became fast friends. Little did I know that my friend's father, "Uncle" Mel Hein, was a true football "Giant."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">According to Wikipedia: "Melvin Jack Hein (August 22, 1909 – January 31, 1992), sometimes known as "Old Indestructible",[1][2] was an American football player and coach. In the era of one-platoon football, he played as a center (then a position on both offense and defense) and was inducted into the College Football Hall of Fame in 1954 and the Pro Football Hall of Fame in 1963 as part of the first class of inductees. He was also named to the National Football League (NFL) 50th and 75th Anniversary All-Time Teams.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hein played college football as a center for the Washington State Cougars football team from 1928 to 1930. He led the 1930 Washington State team to an undefeated record in the regular season and received first-team All-Pacific Coast and All-American honors.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hNTkq7QBN3M/XXpQmT6fDTI/AAAAAAAAwt0/dZh7MYUE3V8ks4WhjVw7CFHjEvKuLM0XQCEwYBhgL/s1600/Mel%2BHein3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="252" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hNTkq7QBN3M/XXpQmT6fDTI/AAAAAAAAwt0/dZh7MYUE3V8ks4WhjVw7CFHjEvKuLM0XQCEwYBhgL/s320/Mel%2BHein3.jpg" width="229" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hein next played 15 seasons in the NFL as a center for the New York Giants from 1931 to 1945. He was selected as a first-team All-Pro for eight consecutive years from 1933 to 1940 and won the Joe F. Carr Trophy as the NFL's Most Valuable Player in 1938. He was the starting center on NFL championship teams in 1934 and 1938 and played in seven NFL championship games (1933–1935, 1938–1939, 1941, and 1944).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Hein also served as the head football coach at Union College from 1943 to 1946 and as an assistant coach for the Los Angeles Dons of the All-America Football Conference (AAFC) from 1947 to 1948, the New York Yankees of the AAFC in 1949, the Los Angeles Rams in 1950, and the USC Trojans from 1951 to 1965. He was also the supervisor of officials for the American Football League from 1966 to 1969 and for the American Football Conference from 1970 to 1974."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">How many people do you know that have their own bubble gum card?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On February 2, 1992, Uncle Mel's obituary appeared in the New York Times:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Mel Hein, 82, the Durable Center of the New York Football Giants</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">By Robert Mcg. Thomas Jr.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Credit: The New York Times Archives</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Mel Hein, the great center-linebacker who was the iron man and captain of the Giants teams that won seven division titles and two league championships in the 1930's and 1940's, died Friday night at his home in San Clemente, Calif.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He was 82 years old and died of stomach cancer, his family said.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">From the time the big all-American from Washington State stepped onto the field in a Giants uniform for the first time in 1931 until he retired at the end of the 1945 season, he was a legend to Giants players, coaches, fans and opponents. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Called the Greatest Center</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Virtually impossible to get past on offense and all but unblockable on defense, he was widely described as the greatest center ever to play the game.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The Giants owner, Wellington Mara, who grew up awed by the great 1930's teams of his youth, once called him the No. 1 player of the team's first 50 years, and if there has been his equal since, it is the linebacker Lawrence Taylor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Al Davis, the Raiders owner and former coach who worked alongside Mr. Hein when both were assistants at the University of Southern California in the 1950's and who later hired him as supervisor of officials for the old American Football League, was even more outspoken when he was asked about Mr. Hein last week.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">"He was truly a football legend and a giant among men," said Mr. Davis. "Mel was one of the greatest football players who ever lived."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For much of his career, in the days when players were expected to play both offense and defense, the 6-foot-3-inch, 230-pound Mr. Hein was considered indestructible.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After playing virtually all of every game at Washington State for his full four years and then leading the team to the Rose Bowl (a loss to Alabama in 1931), Mr. Hein continued the pattern with the Giants.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The first, and only, sign that he, too, might be subject to human frailties occurred in the championship game against the Packers in 1938. He was knocked out briefly in the first half and had to be carried off the field but returned a few minutes later (despite a broken nose) to help the Giants nail down their second N.F.L. championship. It was the only time in his career that he occasioned a timeout.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Mr. Hein then won the league's most valuable player award for the season, the first time the award was given. No interior offensive lineman has won it since.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">For all the glory of his career with the Giants, it happened largely by accident and through a violation of sacred postal regulations.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">In 1931 Mr. Hein wrote to several N.F.L. teams, including the Giants and the Providence Steamrollers, offering his services. When the Providence team was the first to respond, offering him a $125-a-game contract, Mr. Hein signed it and mailed it back.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The next day a Giants contract, offering $150 a game, arrived, and Mr. Hein sent a wire begging the postmaster in Providence to intercept the other contract and return it. The official obliged, and the rest is Giants history, A Coach and an Official</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">After leaving the Giants, Mr. Hein, whose $5,000 salary in 1945 made him the highest-paid lineman in the N.F.L., served as line coach for several pro teams, including the Yankees and the Rams, and then spent 15 seasons at U.S.C. before accepting Davis's offer in 1965 to direct the A.F.L. officials. After the merger of the A.F.L. into the N.F.L., he remained as supervisor of officials for the American Football Conference until his retirement in 1974.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He was elected to the College Football Hall of Fame in 1954 and was a charter member of the Pro Football Hall of Fame when it was organized in 1963.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">He is survived by his wife, Florence; a son, Mel Jr.; a daughter, Sharon Wood, and four grandchildren.</span>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-53052318724222274562019-08-31T08:34:00.000-05:002019-10-22T11:16:07.973-05:00Only a Minor Miracle...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have seen on a number of occasions the hand of God working in my life. Sometimes, these "demonstrations" of His personal concern and love for me are absolutely amazing. One such event took place in June or July of 1983, only a few weeks before I became sober for the last and hopefully final time (I recently celebrated 36 years of continuous sobriety.).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was working at the time for the University of Alabama in Huntsville Division of Continuing Education. My job was to develop and deliver advanced training courses to the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Before I had arrived in this job, my predecessor, Bob King, had put together a course in "Environmental Laws and Regulations." It was taught by two nationally-recognized Attorneys. One was an environmentalist who was a faculty member at Rice University in Houston, Texas, a gentleman named Jim Blackburn. He was generally a laid-back Texan, usually attired in jeans and boots. The other instructor was a member of a prominent environmental law firm in Washington, DC, Morgan, Lewis & Bockius. His name was Kenneth Rubin. Mr. Rubin was a graduate of Cornell University with a degree in environmental engineering supplemented by a doctorate in law from Cornell's College of Law. He had previously served as an EPA attorney and had also spent some time at the Department of Justice. Ken was a far more formal individual, and was a 3-piece suit kind of lawyer. These two attorneys were a uniquely different pair.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Mr. Blackburn and Mr. Rubin had a wealth of knowledge and didn't always see eye-to-eye on every environmental issue. It was this difference in viewpoint that made the course so successful. The members of the class got drawn into the myriad debates over environmental policy and regulatory issues. Because of the course's relevancy to Corps of Engineers issues, the Army wanted the course delivered more frequently than we could possibly deliver, as we were limited by the availability of these two incredible teachers.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In 1983, we were asked if we could deliver the class in Anchorage, Alaska, at Elmendorf Air Force Base. It would be a large class of about thirty students. Some were from the region's Corps of Engineers, but we also had class members from other state and federal agencies -- Forestry, Interior, Transportation and others. We scheduled the class, got both instructors on contract, and I began preparation. There were three separate textbooks in the class and we always purchased the most recent editions. I ordered them and within a few days I had large cartons of heavy "law books" in my office. I called the local post office and was informed that it would take no longer than 5 weeks for the cartons of books to reach Anchorage. I alerted the mail clerks at Elmendorf to be on the lookout for six boxes addressed to me at their facility and they agreed to hold them for my arrival. To be extra certain of the books' safe arrival, I allowed two extra weeks for shipping.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My wife Margo decided to join me on the last couple of days of the class. We thought this represented a great opportunity for a vacation in Alaska. I would simply extend my rental car for an additional week. We'd visit Denali Park to witness Mt. McKinley, drive to Paxson to see the Alyeska pipeline, then down to Valdez, where we might get to see the salmon spawning. We'd take a ferry boat past Glacier Bay to Whittier, than be carried on a railroad flatcar through a series of tunnels to the western side of the Kenai peninsula. From there, we planned to drive southwest to Homer and Soldatna, after which we'd return to Anchorage to fly home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A week before the class was to begin, I called the Elmendorf postal facility only to learn that the textbooks had not yet arrived. I spoke with Ken Rubin and Jim Blackburn and they advised me not to panic. As a worst-case possibility that the books didn't arrive in time, they said they could wing it. They had enough case studies memorized that they could teach without the books.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I flew to Anchorage on a Thursday so I could search for the books on Friday in the event they'd been delivered to the wrong destination. They were nowhere to be found; We would be winging it. Jim and Ken arrived Friday afternoon and we drove out to Elmendorf to check out the classroom and rearrange it to their liking.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Captain Cook Hotel in Anchorage<br />
Site of the Coincidence</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">At the time all this was taking place, I was in the final throes of chronic, acute alcoholism. I was functioning, but my emotional and spiritual state was desperate. I had not yet admitted that my life was unmanageable, but it certainly was. Alcohol was not only available in the Captain Cook Hotel, our residence for the week, it was actually free. All the political parties in the state were having their conventions in Anchorage that week, and they were all resident in my hotel. And they all had hospitality rooms with free booze! I could wlk down a hotel corridor and be a liberal Democrat for a while, enjoying a few liberal drinks. Then, by simply turning a corner, I could become a conservative Republican and imbibe some of their spirits -- all free of charge. Every lobbying agency was also represented, so there was no shortage of free liquor. It was the perfect setting for a raving alcoholic. I drank heavily all weekend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On Monday, shaky as I was, I arose, had breakfast, and proceeded with Ken and Jim out to the classroom building at Elmendorf. I remained most of the day, then returned to the hotel, desperate for my next drink. I was showing some symptoms of withdrawal and sensed that I was in trouble. After a couple drinks had settled my nerves, I got on my knees in my hotel room and asked God to give me relief from my dependence on alcohol. I wanted to wake up with no desire for another drink. He had other plans.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I drank a few drinks Monday evening while dining with Ken and Jim, being cautious not to make a fool of myself. On Tuesday, I prayed again that I could be sober completely by the time Margo would be arriving on Thursday. I drank only a couple drinks that evening, again using the excuse that I needed to "calm my nerves."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On Wednesday evening, Ken and Jim had plans to dine with some members of the class. I decided to dine by myself and went down to one of the five restaurants in this gigantic hotel complex. The line was long because of the hour and the fact that the hotel was completely full. After about twenty minutes, I was seated at a table that could accommodate four people. It was adjacent to another four-person table occupied by a single individual. I did something I had never done before and have never done since -- I spoke to that individual. "Pardon me, but in light of the long line of people waiting for a table, would you mind if I joined you for dinner?" He most graciosly accepted my offer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The gentleman, whose name I can't recall (if I ever even knew it) was in town on business. We made small talk throughout dinner. I'm sure my dinner was accompanied by one or more alcoholic beverages. As we neared the end of our meal, God's plan began to become more evident.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">My new-found friend said, "I hate to be rude, but I need to leave to get to a meeting. I'm fortunate enough to be part of an organization that has meetings just about everywhere that I go." I immediately thought that he wasn't talking about Kiwanis or Rotary. I asked, "Are you by any chance talking about Alcoholics Anonymous?" He said that he was indeed talking about AA. I asked if he would take me with him. I informed him that I was in desperate need of help.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I don't recall much about the meeting. I think it was at a Unitarian church. It was in a large meeting room to accommodate the crowd. There were a substantial number of native Americans -- Eskimo and Aleut -- who held their own meeting while the Anglos had theirs. It was a spiritually charged gathering. I had begun to sense that this was way more than a coincidence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">On Thursday, Margo arrived and I was completely dry. Shaky, but dry. We went to the class on Friday where sahe got to witness the Moot Court that was the highlight of the Rubin-Blackburn Show. They had prepared a fictitious case in which an older female member of the case was cast as a villainous gold miner, living on the banks of a pristine Alaskan river, and discharging mercury from her mining operation into the river. They had chosen the most lovable member of the class to play the villain. Class members were chosen as jury members and as trial and defense attorneys. It was a great teaching tool. The books had never arrived.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EZzCUi4YZSM/XWp2txU8d1I/AAAAAAAAwm4/d6qGCuHApeM27W2m4xRTBm5cDKwdyRZ4gCLcBGAs/s1600/denali-alaska-mckinley-09142015-8%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-EZzCUi4YZSM/XWp2txU8d1I/AAAAAAAAwm4/d6qGCuHApeM27W2m4xRTBm5cDKwdyRZ4gCLcBGAs/s200/denali-alaska-mckinley-09142015-8%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Denali in Sunshine</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Shortly after class had been dismissed, an individual from the postal facility showed up as we were cleaning up the room. One of our cartons had arrived. We decided that Margo and I would come back to Anchorage a day earlier than planned, hoping that all the books would have arrived. We would repackage the books to ship to the twenty or so locations at which the attendees resided.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Margo and I went on our whirlwind vacation, got to see Denali's peak on a rare sunny day, saw moose and bear in the wild, witnessed salmon spawning in Valdez, saw glaciers calving, and got as far as Homer before returning to Anchorage. We found that all the cartons had arrived and shipped sets of texts to all the members of this special class.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I still had a few more weeks of addiction to survive, but my life had already begun a transformation. The guy at the next table, that fellow whose name I do not know, had planted a spiritual seed that continues to grow, thirty-six years later. We have a saying in AA that I think applies. "A coincidence is a miracle in which God chooses to remain anonymous."</span>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-23328792911174532862019-07-21T11:48:00.004-05:002019-07-21T11:48:47.621-05:00Remembering George Martin...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">I worked for the University of Alabama in Huntsville (UAH) from 1980 through early 1984. My title was Associate Director of Technical Studies in the Division of Continuing Education. The job was fairly straightforward -- Develop and administer graduate-level training courses for the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />The office next to mine was occupied by another gentleman with the same title. His name was George Martin, and his job was to develop and administer technical training courses for NASA's Marshall Space Flight Center. George had retired more than once and worked because he loved technology and enjoyed interacting with people.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There are a few wonderful vignettes about this friend that I was thinking of the other day and that are worth relating here. They have to do with the National Air Races, John DeLorean, and the Apollo</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"> program, in that order.<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>National Air Races</b> -- There was a picture in George's office of a plane in a steep bank rounding one of the pylons at an air race. On the ground was a Ford sedan of about 1947 or '48 vintage and two gentlemen looking up at the plane. I asked George about that picture. He informed me that shortly after he had earned his engineering degree in the late forties, he taught aeronautics at a technical college in Detroit. One of his senior classes in aerodynamics decided they'd like to build a plane as part of their practical lab. George had gotten permission from the administration of the school and guided the students in their project. The plane, which had twin booms and a wide tail was successful enough that they entered it in the National Air Races, held in the late '40s in Cleveland, which is where the picture was taken. George brought in some of the design documentation from that class in neat, 3-ring binders (so typical of how George did things).</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">A few days after we had our conversation about the plane, George informed me that he had called the FAA to inquire about the ultimate fate of the plane. It turned out the the college where he had overseen its design and construction had sold the plane to an individual in the mid-1950s. That person had flown it for a few years before they had damaged it in some unpleasant incident. They had sold the wreckage to someone in Mississippi who currently was its registered owner. It was being restored!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />George promptly contacted the then-current owner and explained his connection to their airplane. Not long after that George made a weekend excursion to Mississippi, where he presented the owner with his cartons filled with drawings, photographs, correspondence, notes and calculations detailing the birth of their prized possession. He asked for no payment because that's the kind of guy George was.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>John DeLorean </b>-- One day while George and I were working together, there was something in the news about John DeLorean. He had been charged by the US government with trafficking cocaine following a videotaped sting operation in which he was recorded by undercover federal agents agreeing to bankroll a cocaine smuggling operation. George surprised me by informing me that he had taught De Lorean's brother while teaching at the same Detroit engineering school where he had built the air racer. George went on to inform me that he was not at all surprised.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He explained that while he was teaching John's brother, John had gotten in trouble with the law over a "Yellow Pages" scam, in which John was allegedly selling advertising in a non-existent yellow pages listing service and collecting payment from duped merchants. According to George, DeLorean avoided jail time by making financial restitution to the victims. Small world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><b>The Apollo Connection</b> -- George had informed me that while he was a Chrysler employee he had worked on the design of the Saturn V rocket that was the backbone of the Apollo program. One day we were talking about his contribution and I learned that he was responsible for the stress analysis on the fins that surround the bottom skirt of the Saturn V. The kind of analysis used to calculate stress is referred to as "finite element analysis," and it typically involves hundreds or thousands of interrelated calculations. Before the use of computers, it was a tedious repetitive arduous process.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The day after we first broached the subject, George asked me to come into his office. There on the desk was a stack of three-ring binders about a foot tall. "There are the stress calculations for one of the Saturn V fins," he informed me. I looked at page after page of orderly calculations, all meticulously recorded in George's distinctive precise printing. "I did every calculation and then it had to be verified by two other guys. This represents about 18 month's work." You couldn't help but appreciate what a monumental effort the Apollo program had been.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">George passed on a few years later. A lifelong avid fisherman, he was buried with his favorite rod, reel and tackle box. I've often wondered whatever became of those precious notebooks that represented so much of a man's life.</span>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-4473137711140891092019-07-20T16:17:00.002-05:002019-07-21T07:01:15.538-05:00The Day the Eagle Landed...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Apollo 11 Astronauts -- Neal Armstrong, Michael Collons, and Buzz Aldrin</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">There aren't too many days on which I can tell you precisely what I was doing 50 years ago. Today, on the 50th anniversary of the first moon landing of the Apollo program, I can.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />In 1969, I was living with Forrest Frueh and Jim Mouser at 1212 Woodland Drive in Norman, Oklahoma. I had returned to school to earn an engineering degree and was beginning my senior year. Forrest and Jim constituted the entire department of business law in the College of Business at the University of Oklahoma. We had been living under the same roof for a couple of years.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The latest in technology!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The moon landing began to unfold on a Saturday. The mission had launched a few days earlier on July 16, 1969. We had watched the launch on a brand new 21" (!) RCA color television that Forrest had purchased for this very special occasion. We had a TV room with plenty of comfortable seating in what had originally been the master bedroom in the house.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />As I recall, we started watching the landing coverage with Walter Cronkite on CBS at around noon on Saturday. To fully comprehend how slowly things would unfold, you have to recall the complexity of the mission, its equipment, and its procedures. There was a three-stage Saturn V rocket that launched the whole operation. Only the third stage made the trip to the moon. Upon this stage were mounted a command module (CM) with a cabin for the three astronauts, and the only part that returned to Earth; a service module (SM), which supported the command module with propulsion, electrical power, oxygen, and water; and a lunar module (LM) that had two stages – a descent stage for landing on the Moon, and an ascent stage to place the astronauts back into lunar orbit.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The procedure that the astronauts followed on that day is well described on the Space.com Website (I've corrected all times to Central Daylight Time): "Lunar landing operations for the Apollo 11 crew officially began around 8:27 a.m. July 20, when lunar module pilot Buzz Aldrin crawled through a tunnel separating the command module Columbia from the lunar module, Eagle, to power on the lander. Four hours later, Buzz Aldrin and his commander, Neil Armstrong, stood in Eagle while it separated from Columbia. At the controls of Columbia, command module pilot Michael Collins turned on the ship's engines and moved it away. He watched as Armstrong and Aldrin fired Eagle's engines for the lunar descent. "Everything's going just swimmingly. Beautiful!" Collins said over radio to Mission Control.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">But not everything went to plan after that. Eagle's computer experienced several task overloads that tripped program alarms in the spacecraft. Just after 3 p.m., Armstrong looked outside the window and saw the automatic landing system was taking Eagle to a rocky field. He took control of the spacecraft, steering it down to the surface with just seconds of fuel to spare. Apollo 11 was on the moon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">"Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed," he radioed Mission Control at 3:18 p.m.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />The main event, the moonwalk, began at 9:39 p.m. when Armstrong opened the hatch of Eagle and backed outside, watched by Aldrin. He carefully moved down the ladder, turning on the TV camera on the way. His first step took place at 9:56 p.m. "That's one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind," he radioed Earth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />Armstrong quickly moved to take samples from nearby Eagle, and Aldrin followed him on to the surface. The moonwalk lasted 2.5 hours, in which time the men picked up several rock samples, deployed science experiments, erected a flag and took a phone call from U.S. President Richard Nixon. Eagle's hatch was closed, astronauts inside, at 12:11 a.m. the next morning."</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Buzz Aldrin with U.S. Flag on Moon</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />The astronauts Armstrong and Aldrin actually slept for several hours after the lunar walk and before the lift off of the ascent module. I recall that it was some time around noon on Sunday before they left the moon's surface. And all this time, the newscasters had to find subjects to fill their coverage programs. There were interviews and discussions of the hardware, reviews of the history of the space program -- unending diversions to fill the time until the module would ascend to rejoin Michael Collins in the Command Module for the return to earth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The astronauts used Eagle's ascent stage to lift off from the lunar surface and rejoin Collins in the command module. There was some concern that the ascent engine might not ignite correctly because Aldrin had bumped a circuit breaker and damaged it earlier, but the ascent engine started as planned. They jettisoned Eagle before they performed the maneuvers that propelled the ship out of the last of its 30 lunar orbits on a trajectory back to Earth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The whole world breathed a sigh of relief that they were on their way back home.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />It was a unique moment in which the entire nation was united in an immense sense of pride and accomplishment. A visionary president had laid down a challenge ten years before and we as a nation had accepted and run with it. There aren't a lot of times in U.S. history that are as unifying. And this one unified us in a joyous way rather than a shared tragedy. It was as if every American had a kid on the winning team in a national championship. What a very special moment it was.</span>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-56081286589270647002019-07-16T06:52:00.001-05:002019-07-16T14:46:03.623-05:00The Rewards of Genealogical Research...<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">In late February of this year, I posted an article called <a href="https://robertmead.blogspot.com/2019/02/interesting-genealogical-findings.html" target="_blank">"Interesting Genealogical Findings..."</a> In that entry, it was clear that I had learned a fair amount about my great-grandmother, Mary Jane Duffy, who married James L. McLaughlin, my mother's paternal grandfather. I expressed my frustration at the constantly-changing names that Ms. Duffy used over a period of years as evidenced in this list of references I had compiled:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The main problem I had in February was that I hadn't established her parentage. My grandmother McLaughlin had informed that her mother-in-law had "come from Malone, N.Y." Several years ago I had written to the Catholic Church in Malone hoping to locate a baptismal record for Mary Jane Duffy, who probably would have been born around 1850. That search turned up nothing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />Last weekend I decided to continue looking for some original source material regarding Ms. Duffy. I turned to a Website called Fulton History, where you can "Search over 47,059,000 Old Newspaper pages from US & Canada." I don't recall the exact combination of search criteria I entered but I discovered an article in the social column of a Malone, New York, newspaper from 1922, the year Mary Jane Duffy died. The text gave me shivers: "Mr. and Mrs. Phillip Duffy, of Elm Street, and Mr. and Mrs. Wm. Duffy, of West Street, and Daughter Gertrude, returned home from Schenectady last night, after attending the funeral of their sister, Mrs James McLaughlin, who died in that city last Saturday. Mrs. McLaughlin was formerly Miss Jennie Duffy of Malone, The funeral was held at Whitehall on Monday morning."</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">The reason I was so excited was that I now had other family members for whom I might search to determine Mary Jane's parents. I need not go into the gory details, but I'll let this picture tell the story:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">By the way, those little green leaves you see on certain boxes are indicators that Ancestry.com has located some possible source material that might help find even more connections. What fun this is when you break through a brick wall!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">And with this breakthrough, I have now identified all my ancestors back 4 generations. I now know all my great-grandparents and great-great grandparents. It's interesting that I have an English surname while the majority of my ancestors appear to be Irish and French.</span><br />
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-22574802048205205202019-07-13T17:49:00.000-05:002019-07-13T17:49:19.295-05:00The Price You Pay for Shade Trees...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have lived in the same house for the last 35 years. It's not just that I don't like moving. I like the place. One reason is the abundance of shade trees. Our 2 acres of God's green earth is covered with dozens of oak, maple, hickory, dogwood, poplar, cottonwood and sweet gum trees. We are blessed. Until they drop stuff or fall over. Then they are a huge pain in the rear.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br />Every autumn, as I rake and blow the detritus of another season, I seriously entertain thought of stripping the place and putting up plastic props. Then spring arrives with the emerging signs of life and I love my trees again.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A couple of weeks ago, another Elder Statesman bit the dust. I'd been watching him for several years, concerned that he might succumb to a swift breeze and fall on my shop. I even had a tree man out to give me price to cut it down and he assured me it was not going to fall toward my shop.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When it did blow over, it missed the shop by a scant few feet. I contacted a fellow who was recommended by an acquaintance, but he had trouble showing up to do the job. After concluding that he wasn't going to work out, I contacted a neighbor whom I recently learned was a tree removal contractor. I called him on Thursday. He came that evening and gave me a price. It was fair. The tree is now gone.</span>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-55707611000913082132019-07-13T17:18:00.001-05:002019-07-13T22:00:21.598-05:00The Buick Banjo is Finished!<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Today, I finished the banjo that I started to design and build in November 2012 -- nearly 7 years ago. Better late than never!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">What took so long? Largely, it was distraction with other projects. And then, there were those pesky navy spoons. Somewhere, I got the goofy idea of using old navy spoons to make the clamps that put tension on the drum head that produces sound in the banjo. Normally, these brackets are rather simple:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I had decided to do something a little more fancy that would pay tribute to the years I spent in the U.S. Navy:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I searched eBay for weeks to find my first batch. They had to be teaspoons, I learned. Tablespoon handles were much larger. I learned that there were several patterns of navy silverware. Then I learned how easily these spoons break when you try to form the hook that goes over the edge of the tension hoop. Then I miscounted the number of replacement spoons I needed to replace the ones I broke. Finally, I had to ask my friend Dan Shady to do all the tedious silver soldering that attaches a square nut at exactly the right angle to the back of the spoon. All this takes time, but mostly, I kept getting distracted by changing priorities.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I bought a tailpiece a few weeks ago that turned out to be junk and wouldn't work on my <a href="http://banjo-boys.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">"Buick" banjo</a>. Then I ordered a replacement that arrived yesterday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I already had acquired a bridge and a set of d'Addario strings. So today, I was ready to perform the final assembly and set-up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I installed the tailpiece and made the needed adjustments to get it in exactly the right position. Then, I installed the third (center) string. This gave me some tension to hold the bridge in place. I then had to determine the exact location for the bridge so I would get a perfect octave note when I pressed the string down at the twelfth fret. Then, I slowly added the other strings. With each string installation I filed the v-shaped groove in the nut (the bridge near the tuners) until the string clears the first fret by a few thousandths of an inch. The objective is to have a "low" action for ease of playing without producing a "buzz" when the string is plucked. After a couple of hours of careful filing and testing on each string, I think I've got it about right.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">I'm very happy with the results. Now, I need to practice in preparation for my trip to West Virginia in October to take <a href="https://augustaheritagecenter.org/october-old-time/" target="_blank">Old-time Clawhammer Banjo</a> classes at the Augusta Heritage Center.</span></div>
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Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6442696664825956440.post-27550042208585998582019-06-06T07:15:00.000-05:002019-07-21T07:16:07.443-05:00A D-Day Connection...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">USS Maloy (DE-791)</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: georgia, "times new roman", serif;">D-Day, the beginning of Operation Overlord, the invasion of the Normandy coast by some 150,000 allied troops*, took place 75 years ago. I was 4 years old and don't remember the event. I'm sure that at the time I had no conception of its importance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Fast forward to April, 1964, almost twenty years later. That month, I reported aboard the USS Maloy (DE-791), as its new Engineer Officer. The Maloy, I was soon to learn, had played an important role in the invasion, acting as a flagship for a PT Boat squadron. The squadron commander, </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Commodore Campbell D. Edgar, USN, of Cazenovia, New York, was aboard Maloy for the major portion of the assault on Omaha Beach. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">According to a letter written by Maloy sailor Kenneth Surprise to his parents in Lowell, Indiana,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">"We got off to a good start on D Day by knocking down a JU88 with our guns, and since then we've seen plenty of action!" </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: "georgia" , serif;">While on patrol off the Nazi-held Channel Islands, the Maloy came under the fire of heavy shore guns. Although the German gunners fired 38 rounds at the vessel, she maneuvered too quickly and the heavy shells splashed harmlessly in the sea nearby. On another action, Surprise said, his ship went in close to one of the islands and again the shore emplacements opened up on her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">"Their first salvo straddled us, showering shrapnel along our starboard side and hitting some depth charges," he related. "It was close enough for me!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">Later the Maloy stood off St. Malo, France, within sight of the bombing and subsequent surrender of Cezambre, a fortified island which held out long after German forces on the mainland gave up.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">"That was some show!" Surprise declared. </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">It must have been "some show" indeed. I can't even imagine the sea between England and the Normandy coast covered with over 5,000 vessels!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">I became aware of Maloy's involvement because t</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif;">here was a plaque in the passageway aft of the officers mess recognizing Maloy for her D-Day service. Whenever I walked by that plaque, I reflected on the sacrifices made by thousands of allied citizens during the Normandy invasion. To this day, I feel an incredible sense of gratitude for their collective courage and devotion. God bless them all, the living and the deceased.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">* <span style="font-size: x-small;">According to Wikipedia, "<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">The total number of troops landed on D-Day was around 130,000</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; white-space: nowrap;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;">–156,000</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; white-space: nowrap;">,</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222;"> roughly half American and the other half from the Commonwealth Realms."</span></span></span>Bobhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10521304556582800427noreply@blogger.com0