Category: Uncategorized

Many years ago I wrote my first book and used a vanity publisher in order to have a physical copy to hold in my hands. I was so proud and thought I could be the next Cussler or Patterson. Then a lady from church told me about a writing group that met at the local library. I decided to attend a meeting with a copy of my very professional-looking book.

Fast forward a few weeks and I realized I didn’t know squat about how to be a writer. Fortunately for me, there were other people in the writing group who had published books and a couple of them were professional journalists. I was smart enough to realize how little I knew, so I used the pros’ knowledge to advance my craft.

I learned enough to write a few more books (and actually sell enough copies to buy a couple tacos from Taco Bell). I became more knowledgeable and comfortable enough to do some editing for other aspiring Hemingways. Eventually, life priorities changed and I could no longer attend meetings, but I kept abreast of the group from a distance.

The grandchildren took more of my time and my writing slowly faded to a trickle. Then Ben decided it would be a good idea for me to come to his school and speak to a couple of his classes about writing stuff. (See previous blog for info about that day). Allie decided to join the writing club at school and she’s already a better writer than me.

A week ago I received an email from one of the professional journalists who had taught me and inspired me many years ago. She was interested in reading some of my books and needed copies. I was shocked that anyone was still interested and would pay real money to purchase a copy. Or in this case copies of nineteen different books.

Today Denise and Rebekah stopped by the house to pick up the books and we caught up on news about the writing group and family. It was a “blast from the past” to borrow a record title from Ringo. Denise plans to read the entire “Emmy” series of twenty-one books, and she wants to meet again in a few months to talk about Emmy and her life.

Even though I wrote the books, I have forgotten many of the details over the years. I almost never re-read a book after it’s been completed. Like many people, I am my own worst critic. I think of other authors who are so much better at creating stories, dialogue and everything else that goes into the creation of a book.

Now I have a good reason to revisit Emmy and her world. Who knows! I might even enjoy a paragraph here and there.

Thank you Denise, Tom, Colleen, Duanne and the other people from back in the day who taught me so much. Maybe one of these days I might gather enough courage to attend a WriteOn Joliet meeting again.

A few months ago, Ben asked if I would be willing to speak to his seventh grade history class. I must have been half-asleep because I agreed. Fast forward several weeks, and he reminded me about the presentation. Later, Ben began reminding me daily about visiting his class and somewhere along the way, the single class presentation turned into two classes. Eventually, I received emails from Ben’s teachers and a date was set.

“Papa, do you know what you’re going to talk about? Are you excited about coming to my school?” Ben asked.

His enthusiasm grew exponentially as the day drew closer. I still doubted if it would really happen until his teachers emailed me again with some helpful suggestions.

“I guess it’s now official.” I showed my wife the emails.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “You haven’t done a book event in ages.”

“I can’t disappoint Ben.”

Allie’s science fair happened to be the day of my book presentation. I could please both grandkids in one day.

I rarely read my books once they were available, but I needed to refresh my memory. I read sections online and formulated a plan. The weekend before the presentation my wife and I flew to Baltimore to visit our daughter and her family. I spotted a copy of “Purple Skies Over Sage Canyon” on an end table so I started reading it.

I finished the book and thought, This is actually better than I remembered. It’s far from a Pulitzer Prize novel, but it was amusing and entertaining. An easy read.

We returned home Monday night, and I needed to get serious. I updated my laptop. I made notes about what I should read and used timelines to find passages that would fit the teachers’ suggestions. I dug out physical copies of several books, blew off the dust and cracked them open. I placed book markers on the correct passages. I was ready, and, finally, Ben’s enthusiasm rubbed off on me.

“I can do this,” I told my wife as we drove to the school.

We made our way to the main office, signed in as visitors to the science fair and waited. We followed one of the teachers to the small gym much like cattle being herded into a barn. I saw Allie and smiled. She has a calming effect on me. We checked out her “experiment” and talked to some of her friends before I returned to the office to await Ben.

“Good luck! Do a good job,” my wife said with a sly grin as she left to run errands.

I shrugged and thought, I’m ready. I know what I want to say.

My computer bag was filled with books, a laptop and all the notes I had painstakingly scribbled in my barely legible handwriting. It weighed more than a small car.

Ben met me at the office. “Follow me, Papa.” He took off like a thirteen-year-old with limitless energy, and I followed as best I could. A buzzer rang and instantaneously the halls were filled with a gazillion students rushing in every direction while holding multiple conversations and texting every friend they had ever known. I was engulfed in a stampede the likes of which I had only seen in westerns where not a soul survived. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Ben ahead as he easily navigated the onrushing torrent of humanity. I followed him down the hallway, around several corners, up and down stairs, back out into another hallway, thru Terminal Six of Heathrow airport, up and over several Rocky Mountain passes and then he finally stopped and pointed.

“This is it,” he said while jostling with his friends.

I entered the room and was greeted by his teacher. She introduced herself and appeared as a welcomed oasis in the middle of the Sahara Desert. She showed me where I could stash my computer bag and informed me she had my website on the screen at the front of the room. She introduced me to the class, and I received a polite reception. It was now the moment of truth. I faced my audience.

I have talked to large gatherings of very important people (authors who thought they were J.K. Rowling) without a second thought. I have raced my bicycle over the Rocky Mountains, played drums in front of thousands of screaming fans, appeared on TV with untold millions (maybe a dozen or so) watching. I raised two kids and have babysat numerous grandchildren and all that entails, but now I confronted the biggest challenge of my adult life. I faced a classroom of seventh graders who didn’t view me as anything other than an old man who wouldn’t know what six-seven meant and somehow I had to hold their attention for an entire period. All my thoroughly prepared notes became as useful as a water bottle in a California forest fire. I looked for Ben, who would be the only face I recognized, but he was hiding at the back of the room.

Miraculously I managed to keep things going for the next eight or nine hours until I heard the teacher say there were five minutes left. I finally took a breath, gathered my books and useless notes, stuffed them back into my computer bag and prepared to move on to the next class. Ben’s teacher thanked me for coming though I couldn’t imagine why.

I followed Ben into the hallway to face another stampede. After trekking several miles through hallways, up and down stairs, in and out of different galaxies and across previously unknown universes, we made it to Ben’s next class.

Again, I was warmly greeted by Ben’s teacher and settled in to begin my presentation.

An eternity later, it was over. The buzzer sounded and the school day ended. I had survived! Now all I had to do was return to the main office to meet Allie. I planted a tracking device on Ben and used my laptop to trail him thru the hallways, over the mountains, across the sea and eventually to the office.

“I’ll be right back, Papa. I need to talk to some friends,” Ben said as he disappeared.

I smiled at the lady behind the desk, sighed and said, “I need to sign out.”

“I got you covered. You’re all good,” she replied while talking to several students, holding phone conversations with multiple parents and writing computer code for the next Windows operating system.

I slumped onto the bench, closed my eyes and waited for Ben and Allie.

Allie sat next to me, grinned and asked, “How did it go, Papa?”

I smiled and answered, “Piece of cake. I could get used to this.”

She tilted her head and looked at me as though I had lost my mind.

Seriously, I want to thank Ms. Niewoehner and Ms. Post for being gracious and helping this grandpa survive. It’s so much easier to write novels and blogs than face a classroom of seventh graders.

“Papa! Papa!” Ben shouted racing into my office. He held out a book and asked, “When did you write this, and how did you come up with the characters? I love reading about cowboys, Indians and outlaws.”

He handed me the book, The Amazing Adventures Of Rex Horn & Clay Ford, which I had written many years ago.

“Are they real people, or did you make them up?” he asked pulling an imaginary gun from his imaginary holster and shooting out the window.

“Put your gun away, sit down and I’ll tell you,” I said pointing toward the old recliner in the corner.

He sat and looked around the room.

“Do you see that picture above the one of Grandpa’s farm?”

“Yeah. Who is it? It looks really old.”

I got out of my chair and pulled the old picture down. I looked at it for a moment before handing it to Ben and sitting in my chair watching some birds fight over the small amount of food left in the feeders.

He stared at the photo for a time before asking, “Is this someone I should know? Or at least know about? He’s carrying a mighty big gun on his hip, and his eyes are kinda different.”

“I think it’s time I told you the story behind the photo and that book you’re a-readin’.” I closed my eyes momentarily to gather my thoughts. “Clay Horn and Rex Ford were real Texas Rangers from a long time ago. I changed their real names because of my publisher, but that’s a story for another time.” I pointed to the photo. “That thar guy was the feller that onced saved Clay and Rex from being filled full o’ lead.” I watched Ben’s eyes focusing on the photo.

“For real? What’s his name, and why are you talking with that accent?” Ben asked. He rolled his eyes. “Duh! That’s how the characters in the book talked, huh?” He carefully set the picture on the table next to the recliner.

I nodded. “That’s the only picture in existence of a Ranger legend in his younger days. His name was Robbin Martin and people said he was the fastest gun who ever wore a badge.”

“Faster than Rex and Clay?”

I shrugged. “No way to ever know for sure, but he was faster than an outlaw named Texas Red.”

Ben sat up straighter.

“Clay and Rex were on the trail of this outlaw, and they finally found him in the small town of Agua Fria, Texas. That means cold water in English. Anyway, Texas Red was holed up in the hotel with some members of his gang. Back in those days they couldn’t exactly called for backup like today.”

“Were they gonna face all those outlaws by themselves? That doesn’t make much sense.”

“Well, they weren’t a-gonna barge right in and start shootin’ up the hotel. They needed a plan. They decided to wait until morning and use the sunrise to their advantage.”

“Like in the movies, huh?”

“Yep,” I answered. “They waited for Texas Red to leave the hotel to get some grub at the cafe. When he came out and made it to the middle of the street, Rex and Clay hollered for him to drop his guns and surrender.”

“Did he?”

I shook my head. “Legend is he laughed and went to draw his gun. Before he even cleared leather a loud shot rang out from behind Rex and Clay. Then faster than you could drop a hot greased potato four more shots boomed and four more outlaws were dead with bullet holes right between their eyes.”

Ben stared at me. “Rex and Clay were walking into an ambush, right?”

“Sho’ ‘nuf.”

“They were saved by this guy in the picture.” Ben leaped out of the recliner. “He saved them from being filled full of lead.”

“Ranger Martin had been tracking Texas Red and his gang too. He arrived in Agua Fria in the nick of time.”

“How did you end up with this picture, Papa?”

“I got it from your grandfather who had it passed down to him. Robbin Martin served as a Texas Ranger for over forty years. He retired and lived to be 102. He lived the last fifty years of his life in Roarin’ Plains, Texas. Does that name ring a bell?”

Ben shrugged, but then quickly answered, “It’s in the book. That’s where you used to live.”

“Ranger Martin’s wife died long before he did, and they never had any kids.”

“So the picture ended up with your grandpa, right?”

“And then I got it.”

Ben turned around and pointed at the two old photos hanging side by side. “Papa, you really need to get these restored before it’s too late.”

“I tried once, but couldn’t find anyone with the expertise to do it. One guy told me to keep them out of direct sunlight and that might help them last longer.”

Ben moved closer and gazed at the pictures. “I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like for them back in the Old West.”

“It wasn’t as easy as today,” I replied.

“I can’t tell which one is your grandpa,” Ben said glancing back and forth at the fading photos.

“He’s the one standing on the left of the chair.”

“That means the man on the other side must be…”

“That’s Clayton Horner.”

“Is the old guy sitting in the chair their father or grandfather? He’s got white hair and a big ol’ white beard. Must be their grandfather.”

I shook my head then smiled. “Nope! Neither one.”

“He kinda looks familiar,” Ben said tapping his chin. “His eyes are really… I don’t know how to describe them.”

“Kinda mesmerizing,” I responded.

Ben nodded. I glanced at the old photo on the table. Ben followed my gaze to the picture. His eyes brightened. I nodded.

“The old guy in the chair must be…”

“The legendary Robbin Martin,” I finished Ben’s sentence. “Holding the gun he always called ‘Big Iron’.”

I was checking YouTube a few days ago for something interesting to watch and came upon a video about the Maroon Bells near Aspen, Colorado. Karl Decker was climbing to the top and then traversing the ridge line between the peaks. I’ve seen many of his videos and am amazed by the ruggedness of some of the mountain summits. I’m used to seeing the peaks from ground level far below. Anyway, the video reminded me of the times I spent in Aspen with my cycling buddies, Bill Hough and Gordie Carrier. One of the “training” routes we would always do was the climb to the parking lot at the base of the bells. Bill and Gordie were much better climbers than me. I could attribute that to the fact they were much shorter and lighter, but they would have out climbed me had we been the same size.

The best example of my deficiency as a climber would be my inability to accomplish the climb to the summit of Independence Pass. If I remember correctly, the summit of the pass was about twenty-five miles from Aspen and a bit shorter from Twin Lakes on the other side. For years I would attempt to follow the guys to the summit without success. I remember a certain ride from the Twin Lakes side. I had fallen behind Bill and Gordie as usual, but then I had a flat. I changed the tire in record speed, which for me was about thirty minutes, and started slowly back up the pass but my heart wasn’t in it. I had resigned myself to another failed attempt. A couple minutes later I spied Bill and Gordie riding toward me. I told them about my flat tire and used that as a reason to abandon the ride. But this time they insisted I continue the climb. They slowed their pace, stayed with me and through sheer determination on my part, and maybe a threat of bodily harm from Gordie, I made it to the top. The weight of the entire mountain was lifted from my back. A few days later, I made it to the top coming from Aspen which was a longer and tougher ride. I would have never ridden to the top without the support of my friends.

The summer trips to Colorado and Montana are highlights in my cycling memory. As I’m writing this, I’m thinking about some of the other rides out west. There were some doozies worthy of their own blog. I can’t imagine attempting to ride up a mountain now. I have a tough time climbing the stairs from the basement.

Sadly, Gordie passed away in 2021. Bill now lives in Florida and is still able to ride his bike. I struggle to stay upright and ride the mile to my son’s house. Maybe if I buy an electric bike, I could challenge Bill to a race. Though with my luck I would probably have a flat tire and he would win anyway.

“Papa! What are you doing?” Ben asked as he and his sister Allie rushed into my office with the energy of a category 5 hurricane.

“Who’s that?” Allie asked pointing at my computer monitor.

Isabella and Noemi quietly walked into the room, said hello and stood behind my chair.

“That photo looks old-fashioned,” Isabella said. “Who are the babies? Do you know?”

“They are dressed the same,” Noemi noticed.

“Are they twins?” everyone asked at once.

“Yes,” I answered. “I know who they are. I’m trying to tell them apart, but I can’t decide.”

“Who are they?” Isabella asked.

I spun around and said, “If you sit in the love seat, I will tell you a story about this photo.”

Ben and Allie jostled for position and Isabella and Noemi joined them after the commotion subsided.

“Can you make it a short story, Papa? I’m supposed to meet my friends to play basketball,” Ben said.

“I have to finish my game online,” Allie said.

Noemi added, “I have one more chapter to read.”

I looked at Isabella.

She smiled and said, “I’m not doing anything …until four o’clock.”

“I will try to make it brief.” I turned my head to look at the photo. “Do you know what day it is?”

“Sure,” Ben shouted. “It’s Thursday.”

“Do you mean the date?” Noemi asked.

I nodded.

“It’s the eighth of February, 2024,” she replied. “And we didn’t have school today because of the snow.”

I watched Ben and Allie fidgeting and knew it wouldn’t be long before she smacked her brother.

“One of the babies in the photo is my father, and the other is my uncle Bob,” I said. “We always called him Uncle Bob, but his name was actually James.”

“What was your dad’s name?” Allie asked.

“Jamie,” I replied.

“Cool! Can I go now?” Ben asked rising from the love seat.

“There’s more to the story,” I said.

Ben either sat or was pulled down by Allie.

“Tell us more,” Noemi said with chin in hand.

“The reason I asked about today’s date is because it is a very special birthday.”

The kids looked at each other.

“Not mine!”

“My birthday’s in September.”

Isabella grinned and pointed at the twins.

I nodded.

Isabella tilted her head for a moment.

I could imagine the gears spinning in her head.

“I think I know the answer,” she said with a hint of a smile.

“Tell us so we can go,” Ben implored.

Ben, Allie and Noemi stared at Isabella.

“I think they were born on this day one hundred years ago. Am I correct?”

I nodded because my voice wasn’t working.

“Okay! Thanks for the story, Papa.”

Ben, Allie and Noemi raced out of the room.

I barely heard someone shout, “Love you, Papa,” over the noise of the stampede.

“I want to hear more of the story,” Isabella said patting my hand.

I told her what I knew about my father’s childhood. She asked a few questions, and I answered to the best of my knowledge.

Thirty minutes later she stood behind my chair as we both looked at the photo.

“So there’s really no way to know who’s who, is there?” Isabella asked.

I shrugged.

“Too bad you don’t have the actual photo. Maybe their names are written on the back.” Isabella patted my shoulder and left the room closing the door behind her.

I waited a few seconds before opening the top left drawer of my desk. I picked up an old-fashioned photo, turned it over and looked at the smudged writing on the back. All I could read were the letters J-A-M.

Several days ago Allie came into my office eating a chocolate chip cookie and asked, “Papa, what’s your favorite thing to do in the whole world? I told Ben it was reading a good book. He said it was playing the drums.”

I was relaxing in my old recliner halfway through a book about geology I knew would bore most people to death, but I found it interesting. I set it down, smiled at her and answered, “Talking to my grandkids and listening to their stories.”

She shook her head and replied, “I know you’re just saying that to tease me.” She picked up my book, checked the cover and made a face. “Boring! Who cares about old rocks?”

“When are you going to write a story for me?” I asked.

“What kind of story?”

“Oh, maybe something about school, but it could be about anything.”

“Soon if I think of something.” She plopped down in my desk chair, swiveled around a couple times, stopped and asked, “Did you really make a record when you were young?”

“Yeah, but it didn’t sell more than a few copies.”

At that moment my computer started showing the photos of my grandkids I use for screensavers. Allie watched the photos scrolling by.

“Papa, you need new photos. We aren’t babies anymore.”

“You’re right. I should update the folder.”

“What is your favorite food?” She finished her cookie, pointed at me and said, “And don’t tell me it’s rutabaga sticks. I want a straight answer. If you were stranded on an island and only had one thing to eat what would you choose?”

“Mashed potatoes and gravy,” I answered quickly.

“Not ice cream?” she asked.

I shook my head.

“Okay, I would choose ice cream, but it’s your decision. What else would you want with the mashed potatoes?”

“Your grandmother makes the best meatloaf I’ve ever had. I could eat that every day if she made it.”

Allie spun around again. “I don’t like gravy, but I like mashed potatoes.”

“I know you like ice cream, but does chocolate syrup on the top make it better?”

“Of course! I would also add lots of the whipping cream that comes in a can. I would add the whole thing if no one was watching.”

“That’s kind of how I feel about gravy. Mashed potatoes are good all by themselves, but good gravy makes the mashed potatoes even better.”

“You can’t eat mashed potatoes for breakfast. What would you do?”

“Actually, my mother used to take leftover mashed potatoes, shape them into pancakes and fry them when I was your age.”

She made a face. “Did you put pancake syrup on them?”

I thought about it for a time. “I don’t remember, but I doubt if we could afford pancake syrup. We might have added butter.” I shrugged. “It was a long time ago.”

“Okay. I will work on a story for you, but right now I’m going to borrow Me-maw’s phone and play games.”

She jumped out of the chair and scampered away.

I picked up my book, opened it with the intention of finishing one more chapter, but I snapped it shut. I thought about food instead of old rocks. I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to return to my childhood when we didn’t have microwaves, frozen food and all the processed junk we eat today. I thought about Sunday dinners at Grandma’s house, and how good her fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy tasted.

Fried chicken goes really good with mashed potatoes and gravy, but Sheila’s homemade meatloaf is pretty tasty. I rolled my tongue over my teeth and noticed the empty spaces. Until I get a few new teeth, I guess I’d choose the meatloaf. It’s much easier for me to eat. Meatloaf, real mashed potatoes and gravy. Just thinking about them makes me hungry.

I got up, walked to the living room where Sheila was watching one of her political podcasts and Allie was playing a game on the phone.

Sheila looked up at me. “Are you getting hungry? Do you have any requests for dinner?”

I smiled, nodded, looked at Allie and said, “Do we have any rutabaga sticks?”

Allie groaned and stuck out her tongue.

“No,” Sheila answered with a laugh. “But I do have some potatoes.”

“Any chance of making some meatloaf and gravy to go along with the potatoes?”

“Okay, but it will cost you,” she answered with a devilish grin.

Several years ago, the summer of ’69 to be exact, one of my music students asked me how I got started playing percussion and who had the biggest influence on my style. I gathered my thoughts and explained.

“My first drum kit was different size coffee cans with plastic lids. I would listen to WLS radio in the afternoon after school, and I would try to replicate the patterns and rhythms I heard.”

My fourteen-year-old student thought I was crazy.

“I couldn’t afford real drums, so I made do with what I had.”

“Who was the the best drummer you ever heard?” he asked. “Please tell me it wasn’t some old jazz player. Was it Ringo?”

I smiled and instantly replied, “Only one way to answer that. Burrell Saltzman.”

My student shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

“Let me tell you about him.”

For the next hour I told him about my biggest influence.

Burrell Saltzman was born in 1915 in Manhattan, New York. The fifth child of Walter Saltzman and Ethel Rosengarden. Throughout his childhood the family lived on the top floor of an apartment building at 1619 Broadway on 49^th street. His father worked for the Brill Brothers, a haberdasher on the first floor of the Alan Lefcourt Building, and his mother earned grocery money as a seamstress. After dinner the family would gather in the living room to play music. His father played the accordion, and his mother tinkered with a battered piano she inherited from her grandmother. Burrell’s older siblings played a variety of brass and wind instruments. The entire family wrote songs to entertain and amuse each other. When Burrell was eight-years-old, he found a discarded drum kit in the alley under a stack of tin pans. He taught himself to play and soon earned the nickname ‘Sticks’ because of his natural ability to accompany his musical family.

He started his first band at the age of fifteen and arranged all the music. In 1931 he played on his first recording in a makeshift studio on the third floor of his apartment building. The following year he joined a band that had an hour long show on WNYC. His reputation grew, and he was soon playing on recording sessions for all the major studios. He replaced his original kit with one purchased from Manny’s Music on West 48^th Street. He became so in demand that he was able to pick and choose his gigs. He eventually married, settled down in the same neighborhood he grew up in and began a family. He still played sessions and taught a few select students, but the music was changing. No longer were clubs booking the large dance bands. Now the emphasis was on smaller combos.

Disaster struck in 1955. His wife and two daughters were killed by a teenager driving a hot rod Ford and racing in the street. He had seen too much in too few years. He gave up living and started dying little by little. He suffered from depression and didn’t touch his kit for an entire year. One day as he was climbing the stairs to his apartment after work, he heard the sound of a guitar and someone singing through the thin walls and paused in the hallway to listen. He didn’t recognize the tune, but began tapping his foot to the beat.

Three days later, Burrell heard the guitar and the singing again and knocked on the door of apartment number nine. He met the young man playing the electric guitar and the singer and asked if they would like to come upstairs to jam. A month later with the addition of another musician the four piece combo played their first gig at Nell’s Supper Club, one of the prime locations in the city. A year later Sticks and his band would tour the entire world and play to sellout crowds nightly. I rattled off a list of recordings the band made in the next few years, and my student’s eyes opened wide with recognition.

“But then the band broke up over a woman,” I said shaking my head.

“That sucks! Did you ever meet him in person?” my student asked.

“I met him once at a small club in Granite City. I was driving in my car and a man came on the radio. After tellin’ me some useless information, he mentioned a show that night in the city. At the time I was playing in a garage band with a bunch of high school buddies. We were doing cover songs hoping to get some girl reaction, but I was on a losing streak. Anyway, I showed up early at the club where Sticks was playing. I helped him load-in his kit and noticed how battered it was. I listened to him for four hours. He kept the band in the groove, but it was like he had four different brains controlling his hands and feet. They finished around three in the morning, and I helped him load-out his kit. He thanked me and handed me a pair of sticks. Two months later Sticks was shot and killed in the parking lot outside a 7-Eleven store. The murderer stole his wallet and has never been caught.”

“That really sucks! Do you still have them? The sticks, I mean.”

I nodded and pulled the sticks from a case normally used for a piccolo. I showed them to him, but didn’t let him hold them.

“Do you ever use them?” he asked.

I shook my head. “They are too priceless to risk breaking. I would have a nervous breakdown if that happened. I get my satisfaction by admiring them.”

Several weeks ago my friends Walter and Ethel Spenser invited me to join them to watch the third round of the John Deere Classic golf tournament. Being an avid golfer myself and having participated in several amateur tournaments in my younger days, I eagerly accepted their offer. The Spensers live outside of Silvis, Il, where the tournament is held. I arrived early Saturday morning, and we drove to the course. After spending some time in the stands on the first tee, we decided to head to the eighteenth green to watch the golfers. I marveled at the ability of these pros to place their shots so accurately. One golfer came with inches of holing a shot from over two hundred yards away. It ended up just short.

Someone once described golf as a good walk spoiled. I agree because of what happened to us. A threesome arrived at the green to finish their round. One of the players held a two stroke lead on the field. He spent five minutes lining up a forty foot putt. The spectators were murmuring in anticipation. Finally, the golfer was ready to putt. The golf marshals held up signs and raised their arms to silence the crowd. The golfer moved into position. We stared at his back. He adjusted his feet just so and took a final look at the path to the hole. Suddenly, he backed away and looked over his shoulder in our direction.

One of the golf marshals moved directly in front of us and pointed to his sign. He asked for quiet, and I nodded. The golfer began his routine again. Once more he backed away, and this time muttered under his breath. The marshal frowned at Walter and Ethel. They stared at him in total silence. Then Ethel asked Walter why the marshal appeared so upset. Walter answered which upset the marshal even more. By now most of the spectators were focusing their attention on us. I heard some snickering from people and saw one of the caddies chuckling.

I’ve told people many times over the years how I thought professional golfers were pampered. Just once I’d love for the spectators at a golf tournament to be allowed to behave as though they were at a hockey game. Hockey fans are the loudest and rowdiest fans in all of sports. Pro golfers can earn millions of dollars and sometimes winning comes down to sinking a crucial putt. I would love to see which golfer can make a ten foot putt with a thousand fans screaming at the top of their lungs at him. Can you imagine going to a football game with 75,000 other people in the stands, and being told to be quiet so Tom Brady can throw a pass to Gronkowski? Ain’t gonna happen. Golfers are athletes. They should be able to shut out the crowd and concentrate on their game. It’s not like eleven other golfers are going to tackle them as soon as they start their swing. If they can make a putt under those circumstances, I’d say they’ve earned their winnings.

But back to the John Deere Classic. The marshal was still upset with Walter and Ethel. The golfer eventually putted and came up fifteen feet short of the hole. He stomped toward his ball and glared at Walter and Ethel. Ethel grinned at Walter and told him she could have made a better approach putt. Walter nodded and replied that he could have made a better putt with his eyes closed. I laughed and shrugged at the marshal who appeared totally bewildered. I guess he didn’t know ASL like the three of us.

My diatribe for today is about the current state of college sports in this country with an emphasis on college football. As background information I grew up in an era without computers, cell phones, indoor plumbing, mega-box stores and television stations that remained on-the-air 24/7. Cable TV did not exist, but I did have a transistor radio. Local AM stations only. My grandchildren play games on their high tech electronics at every opportunity. As a kid, I played games outdoors with bats, balls and gloves. Sometimes with neighborhood kids, but just as often, by myself. I threw a rubber ball against the shed in our backyard, and shot baskets for hours on end. I do remember going inside to eat occasionally.

I ceased caring about how much money pro athletes make years ago. They are paid ridiculous salaries, but more power to them. I am pleased to see college athletes now have ways to make money while still in school. I heard a rumor that some of them actually go to classes and get an education. I was watching a college football game last weekend, but I can’t remember which one. I watched 5 or 6 games Saturday. Anyway, the announcers mentioned one player who was playing in his eighth season. I remember the days when a player had three years of eligibility and transfers were extremely rare. Now players transfer on a yearly basis. Soon it might be monthly. How do the coaches keep track of who is on their team? I suppose they use computers.

One of the first college football games I remember watching on TV was the 1961 Rose Bowl between the Washington Huskies of the Athletic Association of Western Universities and the Minnesota Golden Gophers from the Big Ten. Washington won. In those days college conferences were based on geography to make it easier to travel. The Big Ten conference consisted of universities situated in the middle of the country. Ohio State was the easternmost school, and Iowa was the farthest west. The AAWU consisted mainly of schools on the west coast. It evolved over the years to become the Pac-12. Next year the Big Ten will have 18 members and stretch from coast to coast. The SEC keeps adding universities, and the Atlantic Coast Conference will have two members from California. The last time I looked California was by the Pacific Ocean and nowhere near the Atlantic. The Pac-12 will have two teams left after the wholesale desertion of the other universities. Other conferences are following suite, and I don’t have a clue where it will end. I blame it on the Wright brothers.

At least I can always watch Notre Dame football. Channel 5 usually telecasts the games. Sometimes channel 7. Let me check the schedule… Okay, they are playing Central Michigan this week. Should be a good game. I use ESPN to keep track of start times. Okay, the game starts at 1:30 and it’s on channel… Wait a minute! It’s not on NBC or even ABC. It’s on some channel called Peacock, and it’s some kind of streaming thing. I’ve got a twenty-year-old TV, and I don’t think it does streaming. I’ll have to ask Ben about it. He’s ten-years-old and knows everything about new technology.

Under most circumstances, I remain the most apolitical of persons. However, I must voice my opinion in this case. I wholeheartedly disagree with ex-president Franklin Pierce’s vocal criticism of Abraham Lincoln’s handling of the Civil War. Many scholars would agree, and have made their opinions known, that in the first place Franklin Pierce had few qualifications for being President. I agree with Professor Baker that in a nation fragmenting over slavery, only a bland, congenial political lightweight, such as Pierce, was saporous to the electorate.

In my opinion Lincoln did everything humanly possible to avoid the conflict which would threaten the very foundation of the country. I suggest Pierce isolate himself in his New Hampshire residence where he can consume the entire contents of his liquor cabinet and refrain from inflammatory statements which fuel an already volatile state of affairs.

I firmly believe Pierce’s leadership lacked the strength and tenacity of a Millard Fillmore or what I believe Abraham Lincoln will accomplish. As a result, turbulent events simply overwhelmed him, and he was frequently dominated by forceful politicians like Stephen A. Douglas. I believe most historians will view Pierce as an inept chief executive whose traditional style of leadership failed in the face of massive electoral divisions over slavery and the aggressiveness of Southern politicians. I point to Pierce’s handling of the land acquisitions after the war with Mexico as an example of his ineptitude as the leader of the executive branch of government. He was no match for Secretary of War Jefferson Davis or Senator James Gadsden.

I could write a magnum opus about the ineffectiveness of Pierce as President, however, I won’t waste the ink and paper. I will leave it up to history to judge him on his merits.