tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61153807070102148352024-03-18T20:49:57.325-07:00Tell Them Willie Boy is HereReflections from Seattle by a sixty-four year old husband, dad, brother, coach, runner, movie and book buff, Marine Corps/Vietnam veteran, conservative and amateur hack writer.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-22234422074604858342011-06-25T16:06:00.000-07:002012-01-11T16:11:46.293-08:00From my Grandfather Wee Coyle's Collection<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In 1940, Gil Dobie the
University of Washington football coach from 1908-1916 with a record of 59-0-3
met with a group of his former Washington players at the Washington Athletic
Club in Seattle. Making the long trip by train from Chestnut Hill,
Massachusetts the event, which was organized by his players, was led by my
grandfather, legendary Washington quarterback Wee Coyle (1908-1911).</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The event was
well-covered by both Seattle newspapers, <i>The Seattle Times </i>and <i>The
Seattle Post-Intelligencer (</i>namely by sportswriter Royal Brougham<i> </i>at
the <i>P-I). </i>During his Seattle visit<i>, </i>Dobie met with UW head coach
Jim Phelan and toured the campus, as well as Husky Stadium. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Recently while going
through boxes of my grandfather’s memorabilia I found the original thank-you
letter written by Dobie to my grandfather and an old photo taken at the reunion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">If you are looking for
something that shows the affection the 'old gang' had for their coach and he
for them, this is it. He (Dobie) takes a train clear across the country to see
his 'boys,' and those same 'boys' have organized a reunion for their coach some
twenty years after they played for him. Why? Because on those dark and stormy
nights as he drove them to exhaustion on the practice field, every one of them
thought about quitting, for they didn't think they could live up to his severe
demands. But they didn't quit (including the ones who didn't even letter), and
eventually, they found themselves, ordinary guys from various backwater cities
in the northwest, with the best records of any of the teams that ever played
college football. That's what instills character in a man; the point being that
when you are ready to quit, for some reason there is one last thread that is
holding your will together and you just won't let it break. And once you have
fought off those of moments of doubt, you will fight to win, especially when
you have a man like Gil Dobie driving you towards excellence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Also, see the <a href="http://4malamute.com/weecoyle1.html"><span style="color: blue;">adventures
of Wee Coyle</span></a>) from Rich Linde’s website 4malamute.com<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Will Lomen</span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" id="_x0000_t75" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"><v:stroke joinstyle="miter"><v:formulas><v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"><v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"><v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"><v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> </v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:formulas></v:stroke></v:shapetype></span></div>
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<a href="http://4malamute.com/images/dobie%20to%20coyle1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="288" src="http://4malamute.com/images/dobie%20to%20coyle1.jpg" style="cursor: move;" unselectable="on" width="640" /></a><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;"><v:shapetype coordsize="21600,21600" filled="f" o:preferrelative="t" o:spt="75" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" stroked="f"><v:stroke joinstyle="miter"><v:formulas><v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"><v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"><v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"><v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"><v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"><v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:f></v:formulas></v:stroke></v:shapetype></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-no-proof: yes;"><img border="0" height="411" src="http://4malamute.com/images/dobie%20to%20coyle.jpg" width="640" /></span><img border="0" height="563" src="http://4malamute.com/images/dobie%20coyle2.jpg" width="733" /></span></div>
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<b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Left to right: Maxwell
Eakins, Gilmour Dobie, Wee Coyle</span></b><span style="color: black; font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<img height="42" src="http://4malamute.com/images/dobie%20to%20coyle1.jpg" style="filter: alpha(opacity=30); left: 234px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 1272px;" width="96" />Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-77447472496619390932011-03-28T17:38:00.000-07:002012-01-11T10:05:10.755-08:00The Adventures of Wee Coyle - Chapter I<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">I have been
asked by Rich Linde, the author of the (mostly) football Husky website
<a href="http://4malamute.com/">4malamute.com</a>, to write a memoir about by grandfather William Jennings
"Wee" Coyle who quarterbacked the University of Washington football
team from 1908 to 1911. During those years, coached by the legendary Gil Dobie,
the football team's record was 26 - 0 - 1 with their only blemish a 6 - 6 tie
against their in-state rival the Washington State Cougars in 1908. Also, Wee
Coyle may have been the only starting quarterback in college football history
to go undefeated for four years.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 11pt;"><o:p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Inducted
into the University of Washington's Husky Hall of Fame in 1980, he was honored
for earning eight letters (four in football, three in baseball and one in track
and field) which is more than any other athlete in the school's history. During
World War I he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for
"extraordinary heroism" in action on July 9, 1918 near Cheppy, France.
Also, he served as Lieutenant Governor of Washington State from 1921-1925 and
then managed the Seattle Civic Auditorium for 25 years. In 2009 he was
posthumously inducted into the State of Washington Sports Hall of Fame.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;">The
recollections I have of the stories my grandfather told my brother Terry and me
are the basis for this family memoir. I don't know how long it will last but
this is a start. I hope you enjoy reading about it as much as I enjoyed hearing
about it.</span><br />
<br />
<b><u><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 18pt;">The
Adventures of Wee Coyle: Chapter I</span></u></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">by Will Lomen</span><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Growing up
in Seattle</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">On April 25
1889, William John Coyle and his wife Mary Kate Jennings Coyle arrived in
Seattle, Washington from Sutter Creek, California, with their two sons Frank,
age three, and my grandfather, William Jennings ("Wee") Coyle, who
was just fifteen weeks old. They settled into a house on Broadway and Terrace
on Seattle’s First Hill. Six weeks later on June 6, 1889, a fire ignited in a
cabinet-making shop near Front Street (now 1<sup>st</sup> Avenue) and Madison
Street. The Coyle’s had a “ringside seat” as they ate lunch and watched the
Great Fire destroy thirty blocks of downtown Seattle.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">My grandfather
always told my brother Terry and me that he watched the fire from “Profanity
Hill”, so-called because of the language lawyers would use as they made the
long hike up the hill from their downtown legal offices to the King County
Courthouse on 7<sup>th</sup> Ave, between Terrace and Alder Streets. Then he
would smile and say, “Actually I don’t remember it because I was too young but
my brother Frank remembers it.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Midst a setting
of boom town energy, William Coyle set up shop as a mining-equipment machinist,
and helped rebuild the city. Meanwhile young Frank and his little brother
Willie ran the streets of “Profanity Hill” while attending Pacific School on 12<sup>th</sup>
and Jefferson, the current site of the Seattle University Women’s softball
team.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">As little
Willie honed his speed, which would serve him well in his future athletic
endeavors at Seattle High School and the University of Washington, the
neighborhood bully, a girl named Maureen, gave him a nickname that he would
carry, in abbreviated form, for the rest of his life. As with most bullies,
their first prey is the neighborhood’s smallest -- but, in Willie’s case, he
was also the fastest. As the days passed and little Willie ran rings around the
very large but very slow Maureen, she became increasingly mad and frustrated.
This left her with only one way to save face, another weapon in a bully’s
arsenal: name-calling. One day Maureen screamed at the elusive Willie, “You’re
a little wee wee! You’re a little wee wee!” I don’t know whether my grandfather
had a clever retort but the name stuck, and he carried the shortened version
“Wee,” with pride, for the next eighty-plus years. As he grew in stature (to
5’10” and 150 pounds), he kept his speed and translated his elusiveness into
skills that were ideal for a running quarterback, a ground-covering
centerfielder, a swift track runner and a quick and crafty basketball guard.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">One day as Wee
and his brother Frank left a confectionary shop on Madison Street, they were
suddenly confronted by Maureen. She was flanked by two shorter boys, one
wearing overalls and the other with a large nose and a bulging Adams apple.
They sensed blood. Maureen smiled devilishly, thinking she had Wee trapped.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Immediately he
extended his paper bag of sweets. “Hi, Maureen, want some candy?” her
quick-thinking nemesis said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Being no
different than any other kid, she peered down at Wee and his brown bag,
probably thinking she could pound him into the ground after she took his candy.
“What do you have in there?” she asked.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">“Peppermint
sticks,” said Wee, “help yourself.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Maureen reached
into Wee’s bag and took out a white peppermint stick colored in a red spiral
design. She stuck it in her mouth and licked it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">“Good, huh,”
said Wee as he inspected his large adversary.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">“Mmm,” she
uttered, sizing him up carefully.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">He noted her
large floral dress and the single yellow ribbon tied in a bow just above her
forehead. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">“You look real nice today,” said young Willie. “That’s a pretty
ribbon.” Next to him Frank shifted uneasily, most likely staring at him in
disbelief.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Maureen’s eyes
narrowed, then her demeanor relaxed as Wee continued staring at her earnestly.
“My mother told me it would look pretty,” she said.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Young Willie
nodded. “Your mother was right,” he said amicably.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Her two
partners hadn’t considered that anything could make their large leader look
pretty but they knew better than to contradict whatever mush Wee Coyle was
serving. As if they were going to say, “<i>He’s lying Maureen, the ribbon makes
you look ridiculous!”</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Maureen dipped
her head demurely, never before having received a compliment on her appearance
from those not close around her, like family members and the like.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Realizing that
his younger brother’s line of baloney would be short-lived, Frank took Wee’s
elbow and moved around the threesome. “Yah, you look great Maureen,” he said.
“But we’ve got to get home in a hurry or we’ll get in trouble. Nice seeing
you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Still paralyzed
from Wee’s compliments, Maureen and her pals let the Coyle brothers pass by.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">
Immediately, they began to sprint up Madison Street. “Thanks for the candy,”
Maureen yelled after them.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Wee raised the
brown bag over his head and called back. “You’re welcome, Maureen, see you
later.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">In 1897
Seattle’s population had grown to 65,000, including movers and shakers like
Joshua Green (Mosquito Fleet); bank owner, Jacob Furth, president of Seattle
National Bank; James Lowman, the owner of the city’s leading stationery store;
Eugene Semple, former territorial governor; and John McDougall of the
department store McDougall and Southwick, all building large, homes on First
Hill.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">However,
unaware of their neighbors' financial standing, Wee and Frank would run past
the impressive mansions each day with barely a blink. With nickels clutched in
their fists, earned from a day of doing chores for their neighbor Mrs. Hamill
or weeding Mrs. Langdon’s garden or running errands for Mrs. Ullman, the boys
headed for a streetcar that would take them to the adventurous parts of the
city. Taking the cable car down James Street, they could transfer to the First
Avenue Line for a trip to the end of Pike Street where vendors gathered daily,
forming the basis for the future Public Market. Here vendors sold exotic toys
and knick knacks, and the boys could have lunch for 2 Cents at the fish
monger’s shop. If they felt like taking a longer trip, they could continue part
way up Queen Anne Hill and climb trees in Kinnear Park.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">On other days
they took The Broadway Line that went north from Mill Street (Yesler St.) and
meandered through Capitol Hill to the west side of City Park (to be named
Volunteer Park) and Lake View Cemetery. Sneaking under the fence and looking at
all the tombstones could be as spooky as either of the boys wanted to play it.
One day Frank snuck behind a large stone tombstone that read: MAYNARD and said
in a long drawn out moan, “Willie, I think this place is haunted; I sure hope
we don’t get stuck in here tonight.” Crouching low he continued crawling across
the freshly cut grass. Glancing around the cemetery in the fading sun light,
Willie suddenly realized his brother was nowhere around and, in spite of
himself, he felt a shiver run down his back, his eyes widening. “Frank, stop
it,” he said. “I know you’re around here. Come on, stop hiding.” Then gradually
the moaning increased into a howl and Willie called, “Frank stop it; you’re
scaring me!” Knowing it was time to end the charade, Frank popped up from
behind another tombstone which read; HORTON and exclaimed. “Boo!” Willie jumped
a foot, then stared at his older brother in relief. Smiling, he exclaimed, “You
rat, I’m going to get you!” Frank laughed then took off running for the opening
in the fence. Willie followed in hot pursuit but couldn’t catch him, for his
brother was also swift afoot.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">On special days
the Coyle family would dress up and take the Yesler Line to Leschi Park, where
they would listen to the band or look at the animals at the small menagerie
that the cable car company had developed. Frank and Willie looked at the
enormous Taylor sawmill to the south and told their father it looked like a fun
place to work. William Coyle took a long look at the ramshackle structure then
turned to his sons. “You don’t want to work there boys. I know a man who worked
there and got his hand cut off.” The two brothers stared at each other and
grimaced, immediately revising their career desires and expectant
opportunities.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><br />
One day after school, when Wee was ten years old, he took the East Madison Line
cable car to Madison Park and Lake Washington with his Pacific Elementary
School mate Ralph “Penny” Westover. Frank was off playing with his older
friends, and Wee and Penny looked forward to exploring the Amusement Park and
the surrounding woods, without a lot of the grownups around who visited on the
weekends. A mile from Madison Park the cable car reached the bottom of Madison
Street, and the boys leaned out of the street car anticipating the thrill of
passing over the trestle that spanned Madison Valley and the salmon stream down
below. On both sides of the tracks were thick forests that stretched north to
Union Bay and south and over the top of Madrona Hill.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">“I wonder if we
could shoot a bear down there,” Penny called over the clickety-clack of the
street car wheels.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Wee hustled
over to the open window and stared into the thick, green woods. “Yah,” he said
with a smile, “Or maybe we could track down some wolves.” As they crossed the
wooden bridge, Wee pointed down at the river that flowed towards Union Bay. “My
father caught a fish down there once and we ate it for dinner.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Penny stared
down at the flowing river, then looked at his pal. “You never told me about
that. What kind of fish?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">“It was a
salmon,” said Wee. “And my mother cleaned it and she cooked it in her oven at
home.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Finally, </span><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Penny knitted
his brow and pursed his lips. “Hey, the next time your father goes fishing we
should go with him.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Wee nodded
immediately and said, “OK and maybe we could camp out too.”</span><span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p><span style="font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"></span></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">The boys
reached the end of the line at Judge J.J. McGilvra’s 21-acre site, which was
bisected into north and south sections by Madison Street all the way to Lake
Washington. On the north side was a football field and the “Madison Street Ball
Park”, Seattle’s first baseball field, a crude diamond built in 1890.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Willie glanced
over his shoulder and could see a group of boys playing football on the crisp
fall day. However, Penny and he were headed for the south side and the
“Amusement Park” where a large Victorian structure on the Lake, known as the
Madison Street Park Pavilion, was located. Also occupying the site was an
ornate boathouse, piers jutting out into the lake, a lake side wooden
promenade, a beer hall and twin bandstands with seating for a thousand people .
The boys each purchased a bottle of sarsaparilla and wandered south toward the
woods surrounding Judge McGilvra’s mansion at Laurel Shade.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Hustling back
to the cable car an hour later, the two pals could see that the boys were still
playing football. Wee and Penny noted that the boys were bigger than them but
it didn’t stop Wee from calling out. “Can we play football with you?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">The older boys
stopped their scrimmaging for a moment and looked at the short ten-year old
with his dungarees flapping around his ankles. “Come back when you get bigger
“short pants,” one of them said with a laugh.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Wee and Penny
stared at the older boys for a moment then trudged away toward the street car
stop. After a few moments, Wee stopped and turned back toward the field and
yelled. “My name’s not short pants; it’s Wee Coyle!” Penny stared at his friend
briefly then followed up with, “And my name’s Penny Westover!”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">The bigger boys
continued playing, not having heard the boys or even caring.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">The two friends
fell in next to each other with a little more spring in their step. “Wee sounds
better than shorty anyway,” said Penny.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Wee put his arm
around his friend’s shoulder and grinned. Then his eyes narrowed and he said,
“Someday I’m going to play football on that field.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Century","serif"; font-size: 11pt;">Eight years
later, on January 1, 1907, junior quarterback William Jennings "Wee"
Coyle stepped confidently into the huddle on that same muddy Madison Park
field, grinned slightly and stared at his Seattle High School teammates. “This
is it boys. There’s less than a minute left and we’re not going to get any
second chances. Those fellows from Chicago think they’ve won the National
Championship but I know they haven’t. Are you ready?” His focused gaze took in
each of his teammates and unanimously they muttered and grumbled with agreement
and belief at what their captain had just said. “All right,” he said with
conviction, “thirty-four cross buck on two.” As the Seattle eleven broke the
huddle eight thousand hometown fans, who surrounded the field and packed into
the overflowing stands, rose as one and let out a booming roar for their local
boys. Wee slapped his fullback Penny Westover on the shoulder and the Seattle
High School eleven marched resolutely toward the scrimmage line, dug in and
prepared their march for the North Division Wolves’ goal line seventy-four
yards away.<o:p></o:p></span>Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-11459784327982785022011-02-11T09:59:00.000-08:002011-03-07T17:20:12.806-08:00REVIEW - Gilmour Dobie: Pursuit of PerfectionIn a post I wrote on November 21, 2010 I mentioned a book I had read about in <strong>The Seattle Times</strong> titled, <u>Gilmour Dobie: Pursuit of Perfection.</u> The book had caught my eye because Gil Dobie was my grandfather William J. "Wee" Coyle's football coach at the University of Washington for four years from 1908 to 1911. During that time and until the end of the 1916 season Dobie's teams were undefeated until he was forced out after a Machiavellian conflict with the school's president Henry Suzzallo. The book promised not only individual and sports drama but also political intrigue; a promising combination of themes.<br />
<br />
After purchasing several of the books for Christmas presents I read it myself and posted the following review on Amazon.com.<br />
<br />
<u>LYNN BORLAND STEPS UP </u><u><br />
</u><br />
The University of Washington football team’s record one hundred years ago is similar to that age old question: If a tree falls in a forest and there is no one there to hear it, does it make a sound? Since very few people know that the U of W was undefeated for nine straight years, a long time ago, does that mean it didn’t happen? The answer is an emphatic NO because the answer to that age old rhetorical question has now been provided by Lynn Borland in his heavily researched, historic, psychological book titled, <u>Gilmour Dobie: Pursuit of Perfection. </u><br />
<br />
Borland’s writing covers every game that Dobie coached at Washington from 1908 to 1916 which resulted in a national collegiate record of 59-0-3 that has never been broken! Borland has a unique way of making each game an individual example of Dobie’s genius. It’s one thing to be a coach but it is another thing to be a master tactician and motivator of single minded young men in game after game, season after season. In his final years at Washington there were people in high places who took Dobie’s record for granted and his leaving in 1916 could have been taken from today’s headlines. <br />
<br />
Dobie’s teams didn’t dazzle their opponents with a myriad of fancy plays and trickery. His style, honed in his closed practices where he would drill his team mercilessly with endless repetition, was to use a minimum of plays that were executed to perfection. From the first snap on game day his team would begin the process of grinding the other team down with either perfectly performed off-tackle runs or the relentless pursuit and submission of any foe carrying a football. By the fourth quarter Dobie’s well-conditioned lads had the other team frustrated and exhausted as the Huskies continued their march down the field.<br />
<br />
Even though "Gloomy Gil" predicted disaster to his players prior to every game, Borland has found a way to make the coach’s latest psychological ploy seem different than the one he used on the team the week before. Dobie’s greatest fear was of his players overconfidence or thinking of themselves instead of the team and he was an expert at humbling a cocky young man whom he would demote to the second team but would reassign to the varsity on game day.<br />
<br />
Instead of reprinting individual articles from Seattle papers that promoted Dobie’s coaching genius, followed by rebuttals from the East negating Dobie's skills while at the same time promoting their legends; Stagg, Rockne, Warner etc., Borland has combined the individual game accounts into one coherent and linear text. This total narrative puts Dobie’s career in the proper context which provides evidence that the man deserved to be included with the greatest coaches ever. This also gives credence to the U of W's claims of having teams that could compete with any of the highly publicized teams of the East. In 1941 Dobie chose his 1909 team, quarterbacked by my grandfather William J. “Wee” Coyle, as his “all-time greatest” and this included two national championship teams he coached at Cornell. Borland documents Dobie’s continued success from 1917 to 1938 at Navy, Cornell and Boston College and continues to delve into the unique occurrences that shaped a unique man.<br />
<br />
One feeling that is consistent throughout the book is the obvious respect and love the young men had for their coach who was a father figure and a man for whom they would reach deep inside themselves on a muddy field, in the fourth quarter and the undefeated streak on the line. Obviously the young men of Washington were positively influenced by Gil Dobie and they held that memory in a special part of their heart for the rest of their lives. I know my grandfather did as, with a peaceful smile, he told his grandsons about a special time in his life. <br />
<br />
<u><br />
</u><br />
<u><br />
</u>Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-19921193779219684602011-01-25T12:31:00.000-08:002011-02-07T09:52:07.677-08:00McCrohan/Lomen TimelineEverybody talks about writing a family history and everybody has boxes of family documents, photographs, letters and scrapbooks that are in no particular order. The boxes are sitting in the garage, basement or attic getting mustier every year as all the good intentions are talked and thought about but on which are rarely acted. During the holidays and family get-togethers we all talk about getting all of that family stuff organized before next year but suddenly it is a year later and the boxes haven't moved.<br />
<br />
In 1990 Gwynne called me at work and told me a lady named Dawn Arrowsmith had just called and identified herself as my half-sister and that she was a twin to a sister named Dianne. Gwynne was giving me a "heads up" and wanted to know if I wanted to call the lady back. I thought back to 1987 when my cousin Margot Hill had arranged a meeting between my half-brother Chris Lomen and me. Born in 1960 Chris and I shared the same father (Jerry Lomen) but it was from a marriage of which I wasn't aware since my mother and father had divorced in 1953. My mother gained custody of my brother Terry and me and I hadn't laid eyes on my father since. My father had had a reputation of a guy who "got around", had a wicked smile and a way with the ladies. Chris is a good guy and we hit it off. It was interesting to hear things about my father although there wasn't anything that made me fell like I had missed much my not having him around as my brother and I grew up. <br />
<br />
Our mother Rosanne took us to our first Little League baseball and football practices, encouraged us to go to camp, read to us at night, took us to church, volunteered for the P.T.A., helped us with our homework, played catch with us, swatted us on the butt now and then, taught us how to drive a stick-shift 1951 four-door Studebaker and didn't encourage any guys to be hanging around the house checking out her good looks and direct charm. In other words Terry and I didn't much miss not having a dad around. True, mom "threw like a girl", we couldn't tackle her and I don't ever remember her giving me the "birds and the bees" talk but she was there for all of the important stuff. She never missed a football or baseball game or a cross country or track and field meet from when we were in grade school to seniors at Garfield High School. One summer I remember her being nailed at least three times by foul balls and wild pitches and she had the black and blue bruises to prove it. It was comforting being on a field or a track and looking up into the stands and seeing her there lending support for our next play or before the start of a race.<br />
<br />
Knowing my father's reputation I wasn't surprised that I might have other siblings and I automatically believed that Dawn and Dianne were my sisters. Finding out I had two sisters was exciting and the conversation I had with Dawn a few minutes later started out with her answering the phone and me saying, "Hey sis' it's your little brother Will. Where have you been all these years?" She told me about a relationship my father and her mother Irene May had had in Alaska that resulted in the birth of she and her sister Dianne on July 23, 1941. Dawn and I had a nice chat and shortly after, she and Dianne visited Gwynne, Caitlin, Charlotte and I at our house in Seattle along with Chris and his wife Vicky and we had a good time sharing stories and getting to know each other. Over the years we have traded birthday and Christmas cards, organized a family reunion at Hood Canal and just generally kept in touch talking about our families and other normal brother and sister stuff. Dawn is married to a great fellow named Roland Reiss, they live in Los Angeles and have grown children and grandchildren and Dianne lives in Vancouver, Wa. with another great husband Rod Keely and they also have children and grand kids. Another person at that Hood Canal reunion <span style="background-color: white;">was Geri (Gerene) Shafer another half-sister who tracked me down in 2000 and guess what, she's married to a terrific guy named Roger, they live in Dubuque, Iowa and they also have kids and grand kids. Geri's mother Muriel and my father Jerry married May 12, 1943 in Fairbanks, Alaska and Geri was born October 10, 1944 and were diviorced a few years later. So in the space of ten years I gained one younger brother and three older sisters and a whole bunch of extra in-laws, cousins, nephews and nieces. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">It's</span> comforting knowing there are good people out there who share at least one of the same parents with you. I've wondered what it would have been like to grow up with brothers and sisters in a larger family. Along with my brother Terry who was two years younger than me there would have been Dawn and Dianne who are six years older, Geri who is three years older and Chris who is thirteen years younger. I'm sure it would been very interesting and exciting. It would have been cool having all the older guys hanging around the house visiting our older sisters.<br />
<br />
I mentioned my cousin Margot earlier and she and her sister Maryel (Mary Elizabeth) are the daughters of my dad's older sister Rosemary. Margot is nine years older than me and Maryel is five years older. They both have families in Seattle, with whom we stay in regular contact, and we all get together every Easter at one of their homes. That yearly event has graduated from a group numbering in the teens to an event with grandpas, grandmas, mothers, fathers, kids, nieces, nephews, husbands, wives and cousins now numbering in the high twenties.<br />
<br />
When we have the Easter potluck at Margot's some of the adults inevitably end up in her back hall asking questions about all of her relatives photographs hanging on the wall. They include her husband Tim Hill's relatives also and she pauses as she remembers each name along with some pertinent information as to how they connect with the Lomen's, David's, Hill's or Weaver's (my paternal grandmother Vella's maiden name). At some point I may mention or maybe I've always kept it to myself but I've often thought, "There should be some McCrohan's up here too." Who are the McCrohan's you may wonder? Well if the 1918 national flu epidemic hadn't killed Frank J. McCrohan on December 19, 1918 in Nelson, B.C., Canada then the Lomen name would never have been connected to his wife Vella Vernell Weaver McCrohan, daughter Rosemary McCrohan and son Francis (Jerry) McCrohan. Frank's death certificate indicates that he died at the age of 33 of an "Embolism in the Main" which is a blockage of the main artery of the lung by something such as a blood clot. Apparently his father, Eugene McCrohan who lived in Whitby, Ontario outside Toronto either was with him when he died or handled the identification and the burial of his son in Nelson, B.C. which is 150 miles north of Spokane, Wa. on the extreme West Arm of Kootenay Lake in southern British Columbia. <br />
<br />
After her husband Frank McCrohan died it was understood that Vella would move from Nelson, B.C. to Whitby, Ontario and live with the McCrohan family. I don't know the family relationship as to if she felt comfortable with that arrangement or being an American citizen she definitely wanted to get back to her roots in Pendleton, Oregon or what, but soon after Frank's death she received a letter from a former suitor Ralph Lomen. Family lore says that in the letter Ralph sympathized with her husband's death then told her that if she was interested she could use the enclosed train ticket for Spokane, Washington and meet him at the Davenport Hotel. I don't know if Rosemary and Jerry went with her but Vella met Ralph in Spokane and they must have rekindled their former relationship because they were married March 12, 1919.<br />
<br />
I know my briefly recounted history is getting confusing and that is usually what happens as we all stand in Margot's back hall trying to connect dates and names and faces as each year everything gets a little hazier and harder to remember. Last Easter someone mentioned that we needed a family <strong>Timeline</strong> to keep track of where everyone came from and where they have been. That idea stuck in my brain when an event that I had hoped for for many years crystallized into a reality; Margot and Maryel wanted to meet my sisters Dawn, Dianne and Geri. They had already met Chris but my cousins wanted us all to get together so that we could share all the names, dates, photographs and memories we had accumulated over the years. The date was set for December 4, 2010 for lunch at Margot's and I knew that I now had the motivation for a family <strong>Timeline.</strong><br />
<br />
At that point I started taking notes, organizing family memorabilia and planning how to set up and create the <strong>Timeline. </strong>Finally Dawn and Dianne came to town staying at the Foxglove Bed and Breakfast on Capitol Hill, Chris arrived at our house from Spokane but Geri was unable to attend because of previous family commitments.She wanted to be here very much and stayed in touch by phone to get all the details. The lunch with Chris, Dawn, Dianne, Margot, Maryel and myself was also attended by Margot's husband Tim and my wife Gwynne. Gwynne was there because she has been with me for the entire family adventure and has a terrific memory for names and dates and Tim was our official photographer who recorded the event.<br />
<br />
After eating a terrific meal, highlighted by a unique and very tasty soup Margot adapted from the 1982 edition of "The Silver Palate Cookbook". (Recipe included below:) we all just sat around the Hill's dining room table and got to know each other. We shared the photographs we had brought and the memories we had of the man with whom we all had something in common: Francis (Jerry) Lomen. To Margot and Maryel he was the favorite uncle who would show up unannounced from some exotic location with stories and laughter; to Chris he was a gruff father who grew sick and died when he was thirteen; to Dawn and Dianne he was a name in their mother's Baby Book; and to Will he was a man who was a shadowy figure standing on a hill at Evergreen-Washelli Cemetery overlooking his youngest son Terry's funeral.<br />
<br />
As we laughed and talked I marveled at the normalcy of the get-together; brothers, sisters and cousins just chatting away as if we had all known each other for our whole lives. We all have physical and personality similarities and looking at the old black and white photographs those similarities are also apparent: mouths, eyes, noses, smiles and stature. A photograph of Vella who looked to be in her twenties could be Dianne except for the sepia colors, high button shoes, ankle length woolen skirt and the high-necked lace blouse. I took a lot of notes and began to form my plan for the <strong>Timeline.</strong><br />
<br />
One of my prime inspirations for a record of our family was a book of which I had been aware since I was a teenager. Written by Judge Gudbrand J. Lomen and titled: <u>Genealogies of the Lomen, Brandt and Joys Families</u> the book was an exhaustive 361 page record of three families who had roots in Norway going back to the 1600's and their subsequent lives in Norway to their immigration to America. The Lomen family travelled to Minnesota and put down roots in St. Paul with Judge Lomen, identified in the book as G.J., eventually moving his family to Nome, Alaska to pursue business interests. Judge Lomen had started the family project before his family moved to Nome but he stayed in contact with principals at the Mohn Printing Company in Northfield, Minnesota who eventually published the family history in 1929. <br />
<br />
The book is filled with black and white photographs of stolid looking, unsmiling men some of whom are in uniform and women with medium cut hair and pearl necklaces resting on formal dresses and children in sleeveless blouses and Sunday formal wear and bow ties. Last names like: Hjelle, Botne, Evenson, Fauske, Berentsen, Odegaard and Andersen serve to remind me of one thing; I am related to none of them. All of these fine looking people have only one connection to me: my step-grandfather Ralph Lomen. A man who married my father's mother, Vella Vernell Weaver McCrohan, and never adopted her children Rosemary and Francis (Jerry) McCrohan. I don't know if they were given his name for convenience sake, but it was probably to avoid confusion and the embarrassing questions that result from parents and children with different names. I am no more a Lomen than I am one of those Scandinavian names in Judge G.J.'s amazing and detailed record of his ancestors. I'm an Irish McCrohan on my absent father's side with some English from the Weaver's side and Irish and English from the Coyle's and the Dalby's on my mother Rosanne's side. <br />
<br />
Before I found out about my original grandfather, Frank Jeremiah McCrohan, people would ask, "So Lomen, what nationality is that?" After I would say Norwegian people would look closer at me with my black hair, fair skin and green eyes and say, "Norwegian? You look Irish." Sometimes I would say, "Yah I guess it was the Irish visiting Leif Erickson in Norway or the Vikings making a stop in Ireland on the way to "The New World." That usually didn't answer any questions and nothing against the Norwegians but I feel more like an Irishman than a Scandinavian.<br />
<br />
As I got started on my <strong>Timeline</strong> I envisioned having my first chapter end in 1973 when I started working for Dick Vaughan in the commercial furnishings business, moved into the family house in Madison Park and met Gwynne. Those were all notable events in my life but as I waded into the fourth week of my project I realized that I was going to have to revise my expectations or my <strong>Timeline</strong> was going to grown into book form. A new date made sense; September 2, 1969, the day I left the Marine Corps for civilian life. This gave me a much more realistic chance at finishing my project and I sprinted toward the finish.<br />
<br />
Now I have finished my <strong>Timeline </strong>and have forwarded it by email to Dawn, Dianne, Geri, Margot and Maryel and have mailed an original to Chris in Spokane. They will all read it but Dawn will be the first one to add her branch to it then she will forward it to Dianne who will forward it to Geri, then to Margot and then on to Maryel. Chris will add his branch, mail it to me and I will meld it into the final copy. This way we will have one original that will be added to consecutively instead of me receiving six different branches and having to add each branch separately. <br />
<br />
That's the plan anyway, so at least the family <strong>Timeline </strong>has been started. I think when my brother, sisters and cousins have read my branch they will be inspired to add their memories. Hopefully next year in the back hallway we will have something to add to the black and white photographs.<br />
<br />
<strong><u>Carrot and Orange Soup</u></strong><br />
<br />
4 Tablespoons sweet butter<br />
2 cups finely chopped yellow onions<br />
12 large carrots, 1 ½-2#, peeled and chopped<br />
4 cups Chicken Stock<br />
1 cup fresh orange juice<br />
salt and freshly ground black pepper, to taste<br />
grated fresh orange zest to taste<br />
<br />
1. Melt the butter in a pot. Add the onions cover and cook over low heat until tender<br />
and lightly colored, about 25 minutes<br />
<br />
2. Add carrots and stock and bring to boil. Reduce heat, cover and simmer until carrots are very tender, about 30 minutes.<br />
<br />
3. Pour the soup through a strainer and transfer the solids to the bowl of the food processor fitted with a steel blade. (I just drained the liquid into a separate bowl and ran the carrots through the food processor in batches and put everything back in the soup pot.)<br />
<br />
4.Add the orange juice, salt, pepper and zest then reheat. (The original recipe said to add more stock for “desired consistency”. Since I had no more stock, I served it thick rather than add water.)<br />
<br />
Says 4-6 portions but it made 8.<br />
<br />
<strong>With the proper guidance I think I can make these photos clearer but for the moment "what you see is what you get". Also I am considering providing a link to the TIMELINE.</strong><br />
<br />
<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;"><img alt="View Dawn, Dia...JPG in slide show" class="Thumb" height="293" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=0&messageId=601390f8-0226-11e0-9c9d-00237de334bc&Aux=44|0|8CD644A4C08A360||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 218px;" title="View Dawn, Dia...JPG in slide show" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left to right, Dawn, Dianne, Chris, Maryel, Will and Margot</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<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="View Margot 12...JPG in slide show" class="Thumb" height="160" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=2&messageId=601390f8-0226-11e0-9c9d-00237de334bc&Aux=44|0|8CD644A4C08A360||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 135px;" title="View Margot 12...JPG in slide show" width="135" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Margot</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="View Maryel 12...JPG in slide show" class="Thumb" height="160" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=1&messageId=601390f8-0226-11e0-9c9d-00237de334bc&Aux=44|0|8CD644A4C08A360||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 129px;" title="View Maryel 12...JPG in slide show" width="129" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Maryel</td></tr>
</tbody></table> <br />
<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;"><img alt="View family ph...jpg in slide show" class="Thumb" height="300" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=0&messageId=e035dc42-c151-4730-be96-11d240fd55a9&Aux=44|0|8CD6934D63D5EB0||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; width: 213px;" title="View family ph...jpg in slide show" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Left to right, Dianne, Chris, Dawn and Will</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-23968930297173047292010-12-14T16:35:00.000-08:002011-01-27T14:58:05.782-08:00GLADIATOROne of the benefits of the internet is that it is easier to find a "kindred spirit" who has the same interests as you or maybe enjoyed the same book as you did when you were a kid. It used to be that one had to hang out at the nearest Star Trek convention and dress up as a Klingon to meet an equal who shared your affection for a subject that wasn't "mainstream". We're not talking about people who flock to the latest "trendy author" book signing or mindlessly fork over $15 for the latest "hot director's" movie without even reading a review. No, we're talking about people who have affection for a novel that was written in the 30's, with "cutting edge" science fiction, that wasn't written by H.G. Welles or Jules Verne and that ended up with the main character being vaporized by a lightning bolt from the heavens. Yes, a narrow subject for specialization or interest but still unforgettable.<br />
<br />
The novel GLADIATOR written by Philip Wylie and published in 1930 is about a doctor who is trying to invent a serum that will turn a man into a superman. Don't laugh, the book was written before Superman was invented and is credited for giving Superman's authors Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster the idea for their comic book in the mid-thirties. While still in his mother's womb, Hugo Danner (a unique and cool name) is inoculated with a special formula by his father who is a scientist with a mad dream. Born with inhuman strength and invulnerability like Clark Kent, Hugo must promise his parents to not reveal his incredible powers. This frustration at being different adds to the angst of what a typical teenager would experience.<br />
<br />
Although I was a childhood fan of Superman, Batman, The Green Lantern and every other comic book superhero, the idea of a man with super powers and not being able to fit into society was foreign and unbelievable to me. I mean isn't that all any young boy would ever want; to be incredibly strong and invulnerable and to help people against the bad guys? When Hugo, frustrated and confused by his inability to connect with kids his own age and unable to reveal his powers, rampages goes through the forest and begins uprooting enormous trees and hurling them into the air I had an empathy for his rage. Not because I was so frustrated or confused as a teenage boy but because it was so surprising. In a comic book that frustration was never addressed but in GLADIATOR it was taken a step further and translated into a teenager who could kill anything he wanted but was held back by a slim thread of humanity. <br />
<br />
One of the most dramatic events I have ever read was when, as a World War I French Foreign Legion soldier, Hugo infiltrates the German lines at night and, with his bare hands, lays waste to an entire enemy unit in hand to hand combat. The idea of one man being able to turn the tide of history to defeat a regime that wanted to enslave the world was incredibly bold and exciting. With his inborn sympathy and respect for humans it was understandable that he would find himself sickened by his actions. Then his amazing plan to fly a plane to the German leader's lair and kill him and his henchmen was dazzling in its nerve and exhilarating in its audacity! That he couldn't follow through on his mission because of the Armistice prevented Wylie's readers from experiencing an event that would have been courageously classic; a hero who is going to save the human race singlehandedly! That was his one shot at glory and if he had been allowed to accomplish that daring mission could he have revealed himself to the human race and if so how would he have been received? A hero or the ultimate villain? <br />
<br />
At one point in his life he was incredibly frustrated that the only work he could find was as a circus freak, a strongman who amazed the masses but couldn't help them or protect them or be their savior. All he was ever really good at was being a fighter, a killer, a gladiator who had been hired out as a soldier to stop a madman. He wanted to be so much more and it seemed that the only logical step was to wear a costume, hide his identity and appear monthly in a flimsy magazine that only kids read; but those people didn't exist then and he wouldn't have fit in there because he had too much dignity. Somewhere deep inside of himself he thought that he was special not in a conceited way but in a manner that was beneficial to the real humans who would never accept him. The book ends years later as Hugo, still unable to fit in with normal humans, climbs to the top of a mountain in South America during a raging storm. With his hands stretched over his head he screams to the heavens that if he is not a God then for God to strike him down where he stands. After a moment a lightning bolt rockets from the sky and strikes Hugo dead. Very emotional for a teenage boy.<br />
<br />
I read GLADIATOR in the sixties as a teenage boy and unlike the hundreds of books I have read since then it is one of the few for which I have genuine affection and one that I can still remember a series of specific and dramatic events. There are a couple of other books that have also been occupying a special part of my brain for all those years: <u>The Terrible Game</u> by Dan Tyler Moore and <u>The Second Son</u> by Charles Sailor, and I think that these three books are memorable because they all featured memorable heroes. We can talk about those years as being when a young boy is impressionable, vulnerable, excitable, physical etc. etc. etc. but one thing I think that a boy is looking for is a hero. Hugo Danner of GLADIATOR may not have been a superhero but I remember he had some heroic qualities. And granted my recollection of this unique story is hazy and maybe I've glamorized Hugo and his memory but everything you remember as a boy seems bigger; especially your heroesTell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-37723250417703264482010-11-21T09:55:00.000-08:002011-03-07T17:20:43.006-08:00PURSUIT OF PERFECTION by Lynn BorlandI sent this email to a fellow named Lynn Borland who had just published a book titled, <u>Gilmour Dobie</u>: <u>Pursuit of Perfection</u> which covered the coaching career of legendary University of Washington football coach Gilmour "Gil" Dobie. It was Sunday morning November 21, 2010 and suddenly I was reading an article in The Seattle Times about the coach my grandfather William Jennings "Wee" Coyle used to tell my brother and me stories about when we were kids. As a high school quarterback at Seattle High School (later to be renamed Broadway High School) they beat North Division High School of Chicago for the National Championship and as the starting signal caller for four years at the U of W my grandfather's teams never lost a game. Along with the stories about Gil Dobie and his undefeated career at The University of Washington this was very heady stuff for young boys to process. Never losing? How could that happen? And then while his team's are still undefeated Dobie is suddenly forced from his "pursuit of perfection" after a confrontation with the school's president Henry Suzzallo.<br />
<br />
This book will be on my Christmas "wish list" and it is available at the University of Washington Book Store to fill other people's lists.<br />
<br />
Dear Lynn, <br />
<br />
What a great way to start a Sunday morning! Instead of more depressing news about the Mariners, the Seahawks or the Huskies, although they whipped U.C.L.A. Thursday night, here was an article about someone whom I knew was a genuine Seattle hero and who cares if what he accomplished was over a hundred years ago. <br />
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As a kid growing up in Seattle my grandfather, Will Coyle, regaled my brother Terry and me with stories of Gil Dobie as we paged through his University of Washington athletic scrapbooks. As your article in The Times confirms Mr. Dobie was a man to be feared and respected. The tone and the manner in which my grandfather spoke of his former coach suggested that those days were very special to him. Days where you worked your butt off for a man who was tough but fair, grudging in his praise but in the process instilling in a young man the certainty that if you did what he said without complaint, that he would take you to accomplishments that you would never forget.<br />
<br />
I remember a story my grandfather told me about when he had gone to visit his girlfriend the night before his last home game of his college career. Minnie Dalby was a fellow University of Washington student and they would eventually marry and raise their two daughters Mary and Rosanne in Seattle. Knowing staying out late with the opposite sex was not part of Coach Dobie’s recommended training regimen but being a senior and the starting quarterback gave my grandfather a young man’s cocky confidence that he would not get caught. After a night of platonic courting my grandfather boarded the street car for the trip home and found himself staring at the dour face of Gil Dobie. Without hesitating young Will found a seat and stared straight ahead contemplating his fate. After a few stops my grandfather, using every bit of his peripheral vision, saw his coach silently disembark and disappear into the night. To make a long story short my grandfather slept poorly, played well in a Husky victory and was joined in the post-game shower with his fully dressed, smiling, cigar smoking coach who said, “You know Coyle I saw a fellow who looked just like you last night on the street car. That couldn’t have been you could it?” Will Coyle never disagreed with his coach so he said, “No sir!”<br />
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Remembering a book I had downstairs I dug it out and dusted off a copy of The History of American Football by Allison Danzig 1956. Opening the front cover a small packet slid out. Wrapped in thin, transparent paper were two photographs: one titled Coach Gilmour Dobie 1908 (the same photo in your article) written in my grandfather’s distinctive handwriting and the other titled Assistant Coach Joe Cutting. Where the photo of Dobie was taken on a grass surface the assistant coach’s photo was taken on a muddy field with a small grandstand of what may have been Denny Field in the background.<br />
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I paged through the book recalling as a boy the amazement at seeing my grandfather’s name in print (Bill Coyle) and the confirmation of my grandfather’s stories about the legendary Gil Dobie in not only sentences but paragraphs and pages as he continued his success after leaving the University of Washington. “Why did he leave the Huskies?” my brother and I asked. I don’t recall my grandfather’s answer or what role, if any, he played in Dobie’s departure and I don’t recall ever being aware of the Machiavellian struggles going on at the time. As you suggest, “My, how times have not changed”.<br />
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I also remember specifically the name Gil Dobie being applied to the Seattle youth football division that had formerly been called Little League. Both my brother and I played for six years with the beginning division being called Pee Wee, the middle division Gil Dobie and the older division was called Bantams. Our grandfather came to most of our games. <br />
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Thank you for your carrying the torch for Husky football and your remembrances of a man whose success rivaled any coach in the history of college football. Now let’s get this year’s Huskies to a bowl game and rebuild the University of Washington tradition for football excellence.<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
<br />
<br />
Will LomenTell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-71487667756224317812010-10-24T13:29:00.001-07:002011-01-21T15:32:24.318-08:00Letter to Rush LimbaughDear Rush, <br />
Back in the days before I was enlightened by your wisdom I was a typical working stiff who had "feel good" opinions about busing kids all over town for racial diversity, that rich people were greedy, that unions protected the workers against evil corporations and Reagan was a failed actor who didn't know what he was talking about.<br />
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Initially I started listening to you as I traveled around my territory during the Iran-Contra hearings. Being an ex-Marine I inherently sympathized with Lieutenant Colonel North and respected his "stand up" bearing and directness with his questioners. I lost interest because I felt I had no connection to the issue and was more interested in KJR sports radio.<br />
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One day I turned back to your show and had a great time listening to your "red neck" jokes and I pulled over and wrote down as many of the sayings as I could remember. That weekend we had some friends over for dinner and after we had eaten and were diving into the post-dinner liqueurs I pulled out my red neck list and announced I would read one of the "you know you're a red neck if...." lines. To make a long story short we passed the list around the table reading the wisdom individually, then some of us stood up and roared them together. It was a great evening and the people who were there still bring up the classic "red neck" evening.<br />
<br />
From that point, for twenty-some years, I have been an avid listener and a true believer. I now find it an honor to consider myself a conservative and I admire your commitment to your beliefs and the eloquent way you express them. I know you have a lot of listeners and I'm sure you gain new listeners every day. However I think at this time in our Nation's history you can gain even more.<br />
<br />
As you say most Americans live their lives in a conservative manner but have a desire to help their fellow countrymen who need a helping hand; not with government handouts with strings attached but with a genuine love for their neighbors. Some of those people might consider themselves Liberals or Democrats but only in a reflexive manner not ideologically. I used to be like that because it felt good to be someone who looked out for the little guy and I believed that the "all benevolent" government was looking out for them too. Now I realize "big brother" wants the "have nots" to be beholden to him and never wants them to get ahead and off the "dole". Not to mention the Americans who drive our engine of democracy, the thousands of small businesses of the free-market system who just want to be left alone without being taxed into bankruptcy.<br />
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I think you need to offer a RUSH LIMBAUGH GUARANTEE to anyone who will listen to you for a month. You will warranty that that person will become a "ditto head" or "a believer" or "a Conservative" or a "Truthster" after 30 days of listening to your show. You could offer to donate $100 to the charity of your choice if they do not become a "Truthster". I know it is a sucker's bet because I think that anyone who is honest with you about their beliefs (as in not being "a mind numbed robot") and is willing to give you a shot will be a dedicated convert in a month (probably less).<br />
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The reason you separate yourself from the rest of your conservative brothers and sisters is your sense of humor, your positive attitude, your ability to talk and listen to your callers and your skill in turning a negative caller into someone who is an ally. You have a way of defusing an angry person who doesn't believe in you into someone who may be a little embarrassed about their hostility and willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. It is a rare skill and one that will convert many more "Doubtsters" into "Truthsters".<br />
<br />
Stay healthy, WillTell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-83112688927801225542010-09-08T09:53:00.000-07:002011-05-17T13:16:25.749-07:00Letter about DocOne of my friends from the Marine Corps, Mike Newton, contacted me recently about a fellow we both knew in Vietnam. He was a Navy Hospital Corpsman named Richard "Doc" Pinsonnault and a good guy who didn't make it back from Vietnam.<br />
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A Hospital Corpsman or just Corpsman is the Army's version of a Medic. He's the guy who ranges around a battlefield finding wounded men and trying to save their lives. All a Corpsman carries for protection is a .45 caliber pistol and very rarely does he use it because he is too involved in treating stricken Marines. It's hard to imagine the courage it takes to go forward in a hostile environment, with bullets flying all over the place and mortars landing near you to save a buddy. "Doc" was that kind of guy and he did it many times.<br />
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Mike had been contacted by a fellow name Ray King who was from "Doc's" home town of North Attleboro, Massachusetts and had grown curious about a World War I monument located in front of St. Mary's Catholic Church. Ray noted the thirteen names and asked around to see if anyone knew who they were. No one did. At that moment Ray, a "mill right" in a local factory who says he is "not a writer", started his quest. After a year he finished his research on who the men were and how they died and arranged with The Free Press, the local paper, to publish the stories. In a letter from Ray he said, "I feel it's a terrible sin to have perished in the service of the country and to be forgotten".<br />
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As the stories were published there was a favorable response from the townsfolk and Ray continued his journey through World War II, Korea and then finally reached Vietnam and Hospital Corpsman Third Class Richard Pinsonnault. Apparently Doc's parents are gone but through the internet and some dogged searching Ray King found my friend Mike Newton. Mike came off the chopper on Hill 689 the night of June 6, 1968 was wounded, treated by Doc Pinsonnault and med-evaced shortly after. He wasn't with us the night Doc was killed but he knew I was so now it's my job to remember Doc's sacrifices and make sure he is nover forgotten.<br />
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Attached is the letter I sent to Ray King. It and other remembrances of Doc will be published in the North Attleboro Free Press on Veteran's Day 2011.<br />
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Dear Ray,<br />
I am Will Lomen and I was with Doc Pinsonnault when he died on Hill 689 July 7, 1968. My great friend Mike Newton forwarded your email to me and asked me to write something for you about Doc. That was a couple of months ago and every time I tried to get started on my reply for some reason I had to stop. My brother Terry, who was also a Marine, was killed in Vietnam close to a year later in June of 1969 and his loss is something I deal with every day of my life. He and three of his best friends joined the Marine Corps because I did and they all made it back and in one piece except Terry. I have sworn I will finish this letter to honor the courage, steadfastness to duty and expertise that Doc exhibited in the field and under fire on many occasions.<br />
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I wasn't assigned to Charlie Company's 2nd Platoon until sometime in April of 1968 so I didn't know Doc as well as Mike and the other Marines on Hill 881 South. My memories of him were of a guy who was cocky but professional with his duties. To be a corpsman you had to be supremely confident in your abilities and able to handle the inevitable sarcastic banter lobbed at you daily by equally cocky but respectful Marines. We all knew that it took a special kind of man to range about a battlefield packing only a medical kit and a .45 caliber pistol that most likely would never be fired.<br />
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The night of July 6, 1968 Charlie Company of the First Battalion, First Marine Regiment was choppered onto Hill 689 in support of Delta Company who, the night before, had been hit by a fusillade of mortars followed by a suicide ground attack. They were in dire straits and undermanned but they couldn't be pushed off that hill. As soon as we landed we were hit by another mortar barrage resulting in two of my friends, Mike Newton and John Keeling being wounded. Mike with wounds to an arm and both legs; John hit in the face with shrapnel that miraculously curved down his forehead and over his nose, missing both eyes. Doc treated them both, and then in the dead of night and under fire our chopper returned, backed up to the hill, lowered the ramp and rescued all of our wounded.<br />
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That night we were re-enforced by Alpha Company then the next day Charlie Company was given the mission of retrieving marines from Delta Company who had been killed outside the perimeter the day before. Shortly after we went through the barbed wire to search for our comrades we were again hit by mortars and a lethal sniper whom we could not pinpoint. When our progress stalled we were ordered to pull back and once again Doc came to the front and treated his troops; specifically Waco Stroud and Sergeant Rowe both of whom died, but not because of Doc's actions. I watched him comfort them in their final moments.<br />
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After we returned to the top of the hill and were inside our lines again Doc treated more wounded men; specifically our company commander Captain Trautwein and two other Marines, Pat Caldwell and a fellow named Riley. I can't remember the other names. Once again the gutsy Marine pilots brought their CH-46 Sea Knight helicopters back to the hill and, in the face of nagging mortar attacks that were targeting our landing zone, recovered our casualties.<br />
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Suddenly as a former fire team leader I was informed that I was now the commander of second platoon and as darkness fell we came under attack again. Before I could ponder my new responsibilities the new company commander, Lieutenant Perry, ordered our platoon to a position on the west side of the hill. With my radio man Lance Corporal John Antonace and platoon corpsman Richard Pinsonnault following in my footsteps, I lead our small group of Marines out onto a small finger of land and dove into a trench. We tried to make out attacking soldiers in the dark on the other side of the barbed wire but couldn't see anything; our platoon laid down a wall of M-16 rounds anyway.<br />
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In the confusion of the moment we assumed another platoon from Charlie Company was to our left with Alpha Company to our right but we were wrong. For some reason I looked to my left and saw a group of men standing on a bunker and firing back inside our lines. They were shouting "We friendlies, we friendlies", but it was in a foreign accent. Before we had time to react two explosions detonated directly behind me, something lit up the area and Antonace landed on top of me, driving me into the bottom of the trench. The explosions turned out to be enemy hand grenades and the bright light was an illumination round that was strapped to the side of Antonace's radio. The illumination round was triggered by the exploding hand grenades and it fluttered into the air, landed on the side of the trench and rolled underneath me. Thinking it was some kind of time bomb I dragged myself out from underneath Antonace and dove out of the trench, falling into a bomb crater.<br />
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Not sure what was happening, my platoon regrouped and confirmed that somehow enemy troops were to our left and were attacking our position. We fired back, inside our lines, and eventually took out the men on the bunker. We killed most of them with their wounded succumbing to their wounds the next day. Still not sure about the security of our position we rushed back to the trench to find Antonace and Doc. They were gone. Doc had taken the force of the two exploding hand grenades to his front and John was killed when the igniting illumination round hit him in the side of the head as it detonated.<br />
<br />
I am sorry to hear that Doc's parents aren't alive to remember him but maybe you have made contact with the cousin and he will carry on the memories. The important thing is that you are doing what you have set out to do. It is a noble effort and you represent a chosen group who has selflessly taken on the task of making sure nobody forgets the ones who have paid the ultimate price for their country. You say you are not a writer but you are wrong. A writer is someone who sets a goal to tell a story and gets it done. There are a lot of people who may have better writing skills and know how to use fancy words and have big dreams about writing a story but never quite get around to it. That's what separates the talkers from the doers, like you. Congratulations on the dream you have chosen and good luck on your quest.<br />
<br />
Semper Fi, Will LomenTell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-32317669184966841312010-08-26T10:16:00.000-07:002011-01-21T11:54:15.158-08:00The Red and Black are back!As a guest of the McGilvra Soccer Club at a recent board meeting, it was terrific to see it was business as usual. In the comforting confines of John McCormick's Park Deli, we sipped cool beverages as President Bruce Clarkson and six other volunteers conducted club affairs as has been done for the past thirty-eight years. Covering such basic issues as player registration, team practice schedules, uniform and equipment purchases, budget updates and the expansion of the club website, the volunteers readied McGilvra's "association" and "mod" teams for the upcoming 2010 season in September. "Association" meaning boy and girl teams with players under ten (U-10) to under nineteen years of age (U-19) and "Mod" being boy and girl teams for under six (U-6) to under nine (U-9) who play under modified rules. These modifications for the younger soccer players include: reduced rosters, shorter fields, fewer on-field players, shorter games and a smaller ball. The "Mod" idea is that the kids will get more touches on the ball and be more involved in the game. <br />
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Back in 1973 when all players played eleven-a-side on a regulation field the McGilvra club provided approximately three hundred kids the opportunity to play soccer in the Seattle Youth Soccer Association. Over the years the Club has experienced steady growth and in 2010 the club now stands at more than five hundred players who are coached by over fifty volunteer coaches.<br />
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The McGilvra club is defined by the geographical boundaries of: North at the Ship Canal, East along Lake Washington to Yesler and west to MLK then along MLK until it runs into Madison then down Madison to the west side of Washington Park and along the Arboretum to 26th Ave. E. and back north to the ship canal. These borders are similar to the Madison Park, Washington Park, Denny-Blaine and Madrona boudries with the Mt.Baker/Lakewood Soccer Club to the south, the Capitol Hill Soccer Club to the east and the Woodland Soccer Club to the North.<br />
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Over the years one characteristic of the Club has been the outstanding volunteers who have kept the McGilvra Soccer organization (mcgilvrasoccer.org) running efficiently. Some years a few individuals have done most of the work and in other years a new generation of enthusiastic parents have filled every position covering such varied job titles as: President, Seattle Youth Soccer Association Commissioner, Mod Coordinator, Photo Day Coordinator and Coaching Director. Each team will then assign parents with providing such essentials as game day snacks and the end-of-the-year party. <br />
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After five years, Kendall Culwell the lady who has held the Club's most important position of Head Registrar, will step aside and is moving to California. Culwell, who swears that the reason she is moving has nothing to do with intensity of the job, will facilitate the registration for the 2010 season then will be available train her successor. As the Club searches for her replacement Culwell is enthusiastic about the job's rewards. She has enjoyed the energy of organizing each team and interacting with all of the coaches and many of the parents. She says that the May to August registration period can be hectic but also very satisfying as existing and new teams come together into units of kid-friendly teams with names like: Go Girls, Sparklers, Lasers, Stampede, Green Hornets, Superfriends, Speedy Cats and Hotshots. It is a testament to Culwell's efficiency and dedication that during her five years she has twice been designated the Seattle Youth Soccer Association volunteer of the month which includes the SYSA's (sysa.org) sixteen clubs and over thirteen thousand soccer players under their umbrella.<br />
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Although one of the smallest clubs in the city the McGilvra red and black are competitive with any of the larger clubs and have many City Championships to show for it. Last year in weather not fit for a polar bear, four of it's teams fought through the marathon rounds of the City Tournament and made it to the finals. On that cold and rainy of December 19th at the Nathan Hale and Summit field complexes, the GU11 Sparklers coached by Bruce Clarkson and the GU12 Chargers coached by Mike Riley won their respective City Championships in heart-stopping performances. The GU13 Go Girls coached by Scott MacIntire and the BU11 NIghthawks coached by Joe Nickerson finished as the gutsy runner-ups in their classifications.<br />
<br />
As I sat listening to Bruce Clarkson, Kendall Culwell, Scott MacIntire, Jonathan Stark, Darren Gray and Ken Gladden give their various reports you could feel the anticipation for the upcoming season. As dates were set, assignments were delegated and questions were answered it was comforting to know that the Club, which has been passed down through the years, was in good hands.<br />
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<img border="1" class="imgPrev" height="328" src="http://www.mcgilvrasoccer.org/imagedata/Team_Victory2.jpg" style="border-bottom: red 3px solid; border-left: red 3px solid; border-right: red 3px solid; border-top: red 3px solid;" title="Team_Victory2.jpg" width="469" /><br />
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2009 CITY CHAMPS! GU12 McGILVRA CHARGERS <br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><img border="0" height="348" src="http://www.mcgilvrasoccer.org/imagedata/IMG_0131.jpg" width="472" /></span><br />
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2009 CITY CHAMPS! GU11 McGILVRA SPARKLERS <br />
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Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-51486112598579774432010-08-17T13:23:00.000-07:002011-01-21T11:01:24.792-08:00Guess who just visited the neighborhood?The pieces to the puzzle were there, it was just a matter of fitting them in their proper places. <br />
<br />
Over the past week Madison Parkers may have noticed City of Seattle traffic signs appearing along south McGilvra Boulevard and south along Lake Washington Boulevard. If had they looked closely at the typically sloppy hand writing they would have been informed that certain curbs would not be available for parking south to the Madrona bus turnaround from 6am to 6pm on August 17th. Those of us who have been benumbed to the continuous home construction projects in our neighborhood and their inherent impact probably skimmed the dates and times and promptly wrote it off to just more pickup trucks, cement mixers, yawning traffic directors and another delivery of port-a-potties. That would have been a mistake.<br />
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As they lay in the sun at Madrona Beach today around 2pm on August 17th another group would have noticed the very strange sight of at least six distinctive boats with high powered outboard engines enblazened with large letters spelling POLICE jockeying for position off the shore from the Madrona bus turnaround. Their first thought would be, "Weren't the Blue Angels last week?" then they would have rolled over and reached for the sun screen.<br />
<br />
About a half a mile north on the Boulevard another more adventurous group would be searching in vain for parking at the nudie beach hidden on a secretive street off Lake Washington Boulevard. "I mean what's the problem with these lunch board signs telling me I can't hang out at my favorite Lake Washington beach in my birthday suit?" <br />
<br />
As you continued north along the Boulevard toward Madison Park suddenly it would become obvious that something different was happening in the neighborhood. There were vans and a whole lot of police officers and your first thought may have been: "They're filming a movie somewhere around here so they need the police for security and the vans for all the actors and support staff etc. etc." But then you realized that that didn't make sense because why would they be serving meals out of a police van? I mean can you eat donuts all day long?<br />
<img alt="View 010.JPG in slide show" class="Thumb" height="160" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=5&messageId=f7d16b50-aa84-11df-8e75-001f29de03c8&Aux=54|0|8CD0CA8DD5963D0||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; width: 213px;" title="View 010.JPG in slide show" width="213" /><img alt="View 032.JPG in slide show" class="Thumb" height="160" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=9&messageId=f7d16b50-aa84-11df-8e75-001f29de03c8&Aux=54|0|8CD0CA8DD5963D0||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; width: 213px;" title="View 032.JPG in slide show" width="213" /><img alt="View 008.JPG in slide show" class="Thumb" height="160" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=3&messageId=f7d16b50-aa84-11df-8e75-001f29de03c8&Aux=54|0|8CD0CA8DD5963D0||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; width: 213px;" title="View 008.JPG in slide show" width="213" /><br />
Then there are the people who would have recalled articles about the President being in town to show the flag for Patty Murray and some of them may have been excited for a few seconds about attending the fundraiser until they realized that ponying up $10,000 would put a serious dent in this month's entertainment and mortgage budget so they decided to watch it on the news. But what was this about the President hanging out at Rob Glazer's lakefront estate and didn't he just move from a hot condo downtown to a neighborhood more user-friendly to his new kid-friendly family?<br />
<br />
So guess what? Yup you're right that was the President hustling along Lake Washington Boulevard between 2pm and 4pm today encompassed in a secure entourage of Seattle Police personnel, automobiles, motorcycles, vans, State sheriffs and Secret Service agents along with the President's Beige Suburban with the tiny American flags followed by more vans and more motorcycles.<br />
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Next time pay attention to those street signs, you never know who's going to be visiting.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-53990597847441972032010-07-29T10:06:00.000-07:002011-01-21T11:13:03.193-08:00McGilvra Field of Dreams: The SequelOne day a little girl fell on the rough McGilvra Elementary School dirt field scraping her hands and knees. Years later in October of 1999, that little girl was the president of the McGilvra PTSA and the field was in even worse condition. Zimmie Caner had had enough so she approached another McGilvra parent, Deb Kahn, about chairing a committee to research the possibility of resurfacing the school's field. On that day the "McGilvra Field of Dreams" was born.<br />
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Reaching out into the neighborhood the committee found broad support within the entire Madison Park/Washington Park community to replace the miserable field. Raising funds through City and County matching grants, donations from local citizens and businesses and money jars at local stores the committee raised over $380,000 for the project.<br />
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During the field evaluation process the committee realized that the Astro Turf generation was over and that the "infill" generation was on the horizon. The "good news" about Astro Turf is that it is durable and doesn't require a lot of maintenance but the "bad news" is that the abrasive surface causes rug burns and its hard sub-surface results in bone-jarring thumps to the head and unyielding hits to shoulders and collar bones. The term "infill" refers to a green-bladed polypropylene material that is supported by millions of tiny rubber granules that are mixed into the synthetic carpet to provide a cushioned more grass-like surface for sliding and falling athletes. Put simply it is padded carpet installed over an efficient stone aggregate drain field.<br />
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Finally on the hot and dusty day of June 25th 2001, Jo Shapiro, McGilvra Elementary School's principal, attempted unsuccessfully to dig a ceremonial shovel into the rock hard surface of the school's 35 X 70 yard athletic field. If ever there was a validation of the committee's vision this was it. Throughout the summer, heavy equipment came and went, holes were dug, the drain gravel was laid and one day in late August ten large rolls of carpet were delivered and rolled out looking like an installation for a giant's living room. Then a few weeks later the first soccer game was played between two nine year old boys teams from the McGilvra Soccer Club, the Terminators and the Nomads.<br />
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Now nine years later, using funds from the Building Excellence III project approved by voters in 2007, the Seattle School District is in the process of replacing the field built in 2001. According to David Standaart of the Seattle School District the project, which cost nearly $250,000, should be finished by early August and he confirms the field will be ready for the McGilvra Soccer Club's practices later that month. According to Standaart the existing sub-surface needed a little laser leveling but was otherwise in good shape. He also stated that the District will conduct G-max testing once the field is completed which measures the impact of a body when it makes contact with a surface. Once they establish a "baseline" they will compare that to tests done in the future to evaluate how hard the surface has become. The School District will also be responsible for the yearly grooming and general maintenance of the field.<br />
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Bruce Clarkson the McGilvra Soccer Club president is excited about the new field and says that it will be complete with lines defining the soccer field and extra markings denoting kickball bases for the school's PE classes. He also pointed out that the original field had reached the end of its life expectancy with fraying seams and a slippery surface. "It was becoming a safety issue," he said.<br />
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One difference between the original surface and the new Sportexe field manufactured by Shaw Flooring is the addition of sand into the rubber infill. According to Hailey Towne a resident of Madison Park and a project coordinator for contractor D.A. Hogan, this mixture provides a firm surface that enhances speed and accurate ball movement. Supporting the surface are panels called "Brock Pads" which provide safe cushioning and prolong the life of the field. D.A Hogan, with offices locally, has built over a thousand athletic fields all over the country including synthetic surfaces at the Seahawks Virginia Mason practice complex and the natural grass surface at the Mariners Safeco Field. <br />
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It's heartening to have the Seattle School District recognize that the McGilvra Field is not only a public school asset but also a field that is used by the local community and kids and people from all over the city. The Madison Park/Washington Park neighborhood is pleased that the legacy of the "Field of Dreams" is continuing as a "Field of Reality".<br />
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<img alt="View field pic...jpg in slide show" class="Thumb" height="160" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=0&messageId=7acb6b1b-e8fe-4ffd-a092-71e96323730c&Aux=44|0|8CCF340E815DA00||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; width: 213px;" title="View field pic...jpg in slide show" width="213" /><img alt="View 008.JPG in slide show" class="Thumb" height="160" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=1&messageId=7acb6b1b-e8fe-4ffd-a092-71e96323730c&Aux=44|0|8CCF340E815DA00||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; width: 213px;" title="View 008.JPG in slide show" width="213" /><img alt="View field pic...jpg in slide show" class="Thumb" height="160" src="http://by134w.bay134.mail.live.com/att/GetAttachment.aspx?tnail=2&messageId=7acb6b1b-e8fe-4ffd-a092-71e96323730c&Aux=44|0|8CCF340E815DA00||0|0|0|0||&maxwidth=220&maxheight=160&size=Att" style="height: 160px; width: 213px;" title="View field pic...jpg in slide show" width="213" />Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-2578057545356015562010-06-30T12:21:00.000-07:002010-09-08T12:27:59.397-07:002010 Shore Run 5KEver since the 2009 Shore Run 5K, when the plantar fasciitis spiked my left heel at the Lake Washington Boulevard/McGilvra Boulevard intersection, I have been on a long road back to race fitness. Having to walk and limp the last two miles to the finish line, in my own neighborhood, was not only humiliating, because this has been my home course for over forty years, but also discouraging because the daily heel pain didn't seem to be getting better. Already covered in my 9/11/09 post, the injury was diagnosed, treated and has been in pretty good shape for the past year. It was a drag going through the drill of getting back on the road, getting my rhythm back, being able to breath normally while on the move, getting past the "heavy leg" point and losing the few extra pounds I had acquired. On the day of April 30, 2010 another gear kicked in and finally I had reached another level of strength and suddenly I was back to my dream world of Willie Boy closing on the former Olympic champion with the crowd willing me forward and into the lead.<br />
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The whole time during my comeback I was shooting for the next Shore Run 5K on June 13, 2010 that runs from the Leschi boat basin on Lake Washington to Madison Park, two blocks from my home. The route is one that I have run for years and while being mostly flat still has a substantial hill after the first mile that runs about a quarter of a mile. During my training I had gotten in the habit of pushing the pace on the hill and after awhile the hill became less of a challenge; still a butt-kicking hill but not as daunting.<br />
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Then on Monday May 10th after having upped my weekly mileage over the previous three weeks to 17, 18 and 18 miles I set off confidently and rolled my left ankle after having only run a block. I felt like I had been hit from behind and in a flash I thought of having gotten back on the road again, the Shore Run in a month, the work I had put in during my comeback and wondering if I could manage the pain that was ready to hit the next time my left foot touched the ground. I muttered an oath and continued across 41st Avenue East favoring my left foot as I headed up Garfield Street. It hurt but after a few strides I knew I could manage the pain. On the high/low ankle sprain chart this was a #2 roll. For the next six miles I gutted it out with the pain receding somewhat but always there on every other foot plant.<br />
When I got back home I broke out the family ice bag that is always stored in the freezer for exactly this kind of emergency. After fifteen minutes of icing the outside of my ankle and fifteen minutes on the inside I was gimping around the house OK. Then I downed a couple of aspirin, took a warm shower and was feeling even better because I could tell the injury wasn't going to keep me off the road. That night I wore my handy ankle brace which I had worn religiously during my plantar fasciitis treatment and with an extra pillow supporting my ankle I slept fine. The next day it was black and blue and sore but I put in five tender miles with an uneventful seven on Friday. It still hurt but I was back on the road for the Shore Run.<br />
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Because my ankles are skinny (I can encircle them with one hand) I have had a history of spraining them that dates back to playing basketball with my brother Terry when we were kids. Back then a sprained ankle would set me back a couple of hours as it loosened up with our daily running around the neighborhood. Then over the years, as long as I was wearing my high-top Converse All Stars I never seemed to have any problems until I hit the court wearing a pair of my hot new running shoes. (With low tops and no ankle support.) I think I wore them partly to show off the cool looking Adidas or Pumas I had just spent a whopping $30 on along with feeling like the new shoes made me faster and able to jump higher. Whether that was true or not whatever I gained in coolness and perceived athletic benefits I lost in support for my spindly ankles. <br />
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I can remember specific ankle spraining occurrences with a cringing grimace: driving home one night using only my left foot, my right foot blown out in a meaningless park league basketball game; having to walk home to the top of Queen Anne Hill after popping an ankle while running near Gasworks Park; getting lucky and hitch-hiking with a neighbor after biting the dust under the I-90 floating bridge three and a half miles from home; landing on my face in front of the Seattle Tennis Club while running on a perfectly flat sidewalk; and finally tripping on a curb and sliding elbows first in a driveway on E. McGilvra Boulevard.<br />
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One thing I've noticed when an ankle sprain falls into the "blowout" stage is that besides the outside tissue, ligaments, muscles and cartilage being negatively impacted the inside of the foot above the arch and below the ankle bone (I don't know what it's called) is jammed together in a compression sort of injury also. As in, the force of the leg bone jamming into the foot does something to the bones that hurts just as much as the outside damage and takes as long to heal. You find that when you stride forward with your heel landing on the running surface your foot rolls forward over your arch with your big toe landing next to be followed by a cascading effect running down your remaining toes. When that compression injury is still healing I have found that as soon as the big toe connects with the running surface stress is transferred back to the sore area above the arch and you tend to favor your foot by running more on the side of your foot to avoid the stress transferred back by the big toe. Got all that? Doesn't matter because anyone who has ever blown out their ankle knows what I am talking about and probably had an unconscious shiver of recognition in my description.<br />
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Somewhere along the line, probably after reading an article referencing: <em>SPRAIN, ankle</em>, in Northwest Runner, Runner's World or Running Times, I decided I had to do something about my predilection for for this injury that is a bane to all serious runners. It's not that it's chronic or that I end up in the hospital getting "scoped" or that it's stopping me from running but it just seemed like the issue was something I could deal with and possibly stop from ever happening again. I started cutting out articles and over time integrated my own personal daily regimen for preventing my sprained ankles.<br />
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My solution is a series of foot and ankle manipulations and massages that I do every evening before going to bed and every morning before I hit the floor as I sit on the side of the bed. Bending my right knee I take the front of my right foot in my hands and, without resting it on my left knee, I push into my right heel pad with my right thumb and rub back and forth. (The reason I don't rest my right foot on my left knee is that after I had originally started this regimen the outside of my right ankle developed a tenderness that never went away. After figuring out what was causing the problem I didn't see any reason why I had to rest my foot on my knee so I just adapted the method and it has worked fine.) After rubbing the heel for about twenty seconds I work my way up my foot to the arch for another twenty seconds and then continue to the ball of my foot making sure I rub hard enough to feel the bones underneath. Then I take my right foot in my right and rub down the outside of my foot with my left hand and work down the tissue until I reach my heel again. Keeping that same grip, I then rotate my foot in a clockwise motion ten times in an exaggerated slow rotation. When I started this motion years ago I noticed both of my feet would jerk as I rotated them and I remembered reading something about "muscle memory". As I recalled that is where during the rehab you have to "teach" the affected area to work again in it's proper motion. Over time this rotation smoothed out along with the muscles, tendons and cartilage becoming stronger and the joint smoother operating. Then I would finish up by squeezing my achilles tendon between my thumb and forefinger and work my way up my calf and press both thumbs into the muscle and rub up and down and then finish up with a massage back down my calf and achilles. This also had me a little more ready to go in the morning instead of gimping around on my sixty-three year old feet.<br />
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So there I was the Sunday morning of June 13th jogging around the Leschi boat basin getting warmed up for the 33rd Annual Shore Run. Since the sprained left ankle of May 10th my training had been going well with my weekly mileage increasing to a max of 18 miles and the intensity increasing along with my dedicated push up the lake hill on every run. I had always looked at hills as a necessary evil during a run or a race but after reading Roy Wallack's terrific niche book <u>Run for Life</u> recently I have been following his advice to use hills as an anaerobic opportunity for your training instead of having to run on a track. The sun was out and with a few clouds it was a perfect day for a race. Since we head north along the lake the sun is behind us, a comfortable hint to a pleasant day.<br />
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Around 8:10 I finished my stretching and jogging and headed for the starting line for the 8:15 gun. As I jogged down the sidewalk bordering the marina area I moved over for a mother and her stroller. Suddenly I was face down on the grass with a stabbing pain exploding in my right ankle. I had rolled my foot over the edge of the sidewalk where it meets the grass! I couldn't help but utter a four-lettered oath as I clutched my right foot in my hands. Someone near me said, "Jeez did you break your ankle?" The work that I had done the past year to come back from the plantar fasciitis; being able to run in the race and getting off my butt were all images that flashed through my mind. <em>Damn maybe if I could get up and start jogging I could shake it</em> <em>off like I did the sprained left ankle from a month ago</em>. I forced myself to my feet and tried to jog down the sidewalk but it hurt too much and I had to stop. I continued to walk toward the Blue Water Bistro Restaurant but the pain was unrelenting. Then the announcer informed the runners that there was two minutes until the start. Trying not to look like a weenie, I limped toward the starting area just in time to see my friend Steve Wood and his daughter Ellie who greeted me cheerfully and said, "Hi Will are you ready to go?" I grimaced and said something like, "Yah, except I just blew my ankle out." They both looked shocked, glanced down at my feet and immediately left me behind as the gun sounded.<br />
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I limped forward and the pain continued to stab into my ankle but I pushed forward trying to convince myself that I could run through the pain. At the entrance to the north Leschi marina parking lot I had to stop and I stepped up onto the sidewalk and began to walk. As I limped forward I realized that if I continued at this pace I wouldn't be home for an hour and that Gwynne and Charlotte, who were waiting for me at the finish line, would probably be ready to send out for the cavalry. I have never in my life not finished a race, they knew it too and would be concerned. With the course closed off to vehicles there would be no way for them to track me down. Gritting my teeth I stepped forward and against all normal reactions I limped forward. Damn it hurt but I knew I had to get home anyway so I forced myself forward, it hurt when I walked so why not try to jog and get home sooner?<br />
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The good news is that I continued down Lake Washington Boulevard, the bad new is that every-other step pierced my foot and ankle with pain. Finally I reached the lake hill, my increased fitness keeping my breathing under control but doing nothing for my injured ankle. As I gutted it out the pain became something I was familiar with and not the shocking jolt I had received on the sidewalk. I had reached a rhythm that was inefficient and painful but it kept me moving forward. The rest of the race was an unpleasant blur, my only thoughts were of being able to stop, going home and propping my foot up covered by the family ice bag.<br />
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The quick ending to this story is that I was greeted with shock and sympathy by Gwynne and Charlotte, I hobbled the two blocks home, iced my foot and ankle, took a couple of aspirin and a warm shower and drank four beers later that evening. My time was 24:28 for the 5K which far slower than the 21:58 I ran in 2008, but faster then my plantar fasciitis run and walk of 26:30 last year in 2009. Yah look at the bright side, obviously it's faster to limp a 5k than to walk and limp it.<br />
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So as of today my running log, which has been my walking/'running log for the past couple of weeks, shows that I took the Monday off after the Shore Run then walked around the neighborhood every day for about a week then gradually inserted longer and longer jogs into the mix. Today in mild/overcast weather my right ankle was still tender but I ran down to the infamous Leschi marina (while cringing at the sidewalk area where I fell) at an "OK" pace and pushed on the hills. Prior to my five mile run I walked a 1/2 a mile to get the ankle loosened up.<br />
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So once again all is right in the world; another treatable injury is healing, I am back on the road, the wind is in my face, the water is lapping at the shore, my breathing has smoothed out and Willie Boy is making his charge over the last mile for the lead.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-88001243358982757572010-06-14T16:54:00.000-07:002010-06-30T12:21:41.850-07:00High/Low Ankle SprainHave you noticed how so-called "experts" try to give themselves credibility by changing traditional terms? They think if they say "velocity" instead of "speed" to describe how fast a baseball pitcher throws that somehow they have said something earthshaking or unique, something that a regular person or a layman could never think up. As if a basketball announcer throwing out the word "length" describes a player's attributes better than just saying he has long arms, as two fans would say to each other as they watched a game. And wouldn't you think an announcer who has been calling games for over thirty years would by now know the difference between a curve ball, a slider or a spitball instead of saying "breaking ball". And does anyone know the difference between a "sports hernia" and a regular hernia? I guess having a big strong professional athlete be diagnosed with the same injury that a fifty year old couch potato can acquire from a lifetime of reaching for a bag of chips while he is lifting a sixteen ounce brewski is humiliating for the jock. Do you get more credibility for acquiring the injury while in a stadium being watched by 60,000 fans than you do while sitting on your butt stuffing your face? The last time I looked the guy with the washboard abs and the fat boy are still lying flat on their back, hooked up to an IV and hoping the doctor doing the work has a steady hand for any work being done below the waist. And then there are the announcers who have "to get it right" for their credibility by saying, "Jo Blo has twenty-five RBI this year", as opposed the way we were all brought up saying RBIs or ribbys. I love it when one of the announcers, who's older than me, slips up and calls it the old way without noticing it. I wonder how many twits or blogs or emails they get from geeks, who never played the game, calling them out on their mistake.<br />
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Then there is the "high ankle" sprain which I guess is somehow different from the "low ankle" sprain. Yah, yah I know I should Google "sprained ankles" and find out that there are a gazillion types of sprained ankles some of which fall into the "high" and others that fall into the "low" ankle sprain category. Sorry but I don't buy it because the last time I looked I had one joint that I call my ankle that meets right where the two bones in my calf connect to my foot. Also I don't care what all of those bones are called but I do know that if you step on the outside of your foot at the wrong angle and with enough force your ankle is going to twist and at that point it remains to be seen how bad you have sprained it. My experience with fifty-some years of athletics and running tells me that there are four types of sprains, three of which I have experienced and one that I hope I never do. <br />
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The first sprain, which I will call the "twist", is when you are cruising along without a care in the world and suddenly as you take the next step you feel your foot teeter for a moment to the outside before it lands in it's customary solid position on the surface upon which you are running. A brief flash of relief shoots through your brain as you realize those morning and evening ankle exercises are paying off and you continue down the sidewalk. The second sprain, which I will call the "roll", follows the same path as the "twist" but here your foot, instead of flattening into it's normal tread, continues the "twist" so that suddenly the weight of your body forces the ankle into an unnaturally exposed position stretching the outside of the foot at an abrupt angle. At that point, as the ligaments, muscles and bones are jammed away and against each other you have a brief moment where you evaluate the damage. The next step on the rolled ankle is the key and at that point you make a quick decision as to if you think you can keep running. Yup it's going to hurt but does it hurt so bad that you have to stop or as you limp forward does the pain abate somewhat and you can deal with it? If you can keep going sometimes the pain will disappear completely or you "suck it up" and at least keep going forward. The "roll" is terrific for the ego because you feel good that you handled the pain and "gutted" it out instead of quitting like a wimp. The third level of sprain I have experienced I will call the "blowout" and it follows the same track as the twist and the roll but usually ends up with the injured runner landing on his face in the middle of the sidewalk. At that point, gaining your feet and running down the sidewalk is usually not an option. From the point of your ankle twisting, rolling and blowing you feel as if an NFL defensive tackle has blindsided you and the next step is waiting for the stretcher to wheel you to the locker room. It's weird to explain it that way but for some reason the unnatural ankle action translates into a sickening domino effect from your foot all the way to your head and then suddenly you are down and wondering how you are going to get home on one foot. The "blowout" means that, because of the pain, you probably can't run, maybe you can walk with an exaggerated limp but in some cases you can't even walk. Whatever happens the key is to keep moving to wherever your destination is because your ankle is starting to swell and it is only going to get worse. Number four in the "hit parade" of hi/low ankle sprains is the break, which I have never experienced, and that is where one of those bones in the foot/leg ankle joint breaks and from there it is a walking cast, a couple of months of healing and then unknown weeks of rehab. They say it's better in the long run to break your ankle then to blow it out because the bones will heal back to normal whereas in a "blowout" the ligaments, cartilage and muscles get stretched into abnormal positions and never really heal back to normal. Well that may be but I NEVER want to break my ankle and my experience is that with regular exercise and a consistent rehab program an ankle can be strengthened so that you are less susceptible to future ankle injuries. <br />
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My regular exercise program involves massaging and manipulating my ankles every morning after I wake up and every evening before I go to sleep. While sitting on the side of the bed I rub the heal, arch and pad of each foot then rotate each foot 180 degrees five times in a clockwise motion then rotate the foot five times in the opposite direction. Then I squeeze my achilles tendon very hard and massage it back and forth and then finish up by moving up my calf and then rubbing back down to my achilles. I've been following this regimen for over ten years and have had a few "twists" but no "rollovers" or "blowouts". That is until May 10th and June 13th which I will recount in my next blog; one big bummer.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-82265378970685620882010-05-18T12:51:00.000-07:002010-05-24T17:31:38.539-07:00Cool Sequels/The Return of Cool Hand LukeWhat was the first movie sequel? Man I don't know and I'm not the guy who's going to research back to silent movies to see if Charlie Chaplin's character The Tramp and his classic comedies were the first sequels. As a kid I remember watching a couple of different movies on The Saturday Matinee which featured THE THIN MAN with William Powell and Myrna Loy. To a kid, William Powell was an older guy (my mother's age) who was very composed, talked with a funny accent and always had a drink in his hand. His wife, Myrna Loy, was always fixing Powell a drink, spouting witticisms with her chin lifted in the air and seemed to be smarter than her husband. But these weren't movies where an eight year old boy was going to say to his little brother, "Man I can't wait for them to come out with another THIN MAN movie that shows adults doing more talking and drinking." The movies my brother and I lived for were the ones we watched weekly at the theater in the Art Museum at Volunteer Park. Maybe the Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers and Tarzan serials weren't genuine sequels but we didn't care because it only cost a quarter to get in and there was a heck of lot more action in one serial than in ten THIN MAN movies.<br />
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When I saw the movie SHANE I was seven years old and I imagined myself standing next to Joey, played by Brandon <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">DeWilde</span>, yelling "Shane come back! Mommy wants you!" I knew Shane had been wounded and I wanted to help him but he couldn't come back. He knew his job was done, he knew Jimmy's mother (Jean Arthur) would never leave her husband (Van <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Heflin</span>) for him and he knew, as a gunman, he could never live amongst the "civilized folk". At that young age it never dawned on me that a movie studio could make anyone come back as long as there was a market for that character's return.<br />
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There are cases to be made for filming a sequel that don't involve money but I think the more a character is brought back the more diluted he becomes. Because it's thought that everything that needs to be known about a character is revealed in the first movie then that means the sequel can just move the story along with dialogue and action. As the recent rejuvenation of the James Bond franchise proves, the "gritty, ruthless and real" Bond is the one that people remember and flock to. I suppose it's easier for a studio to just change the silly character names, interchangeable exotic locations, sappy villains and forgettable Bond women than it is for them to write cool dialogue, return the Bond character to a risky edge, introduce a female lead with a confident aura and develop a story that takes gambles without relying on hour long car chases and special effects. (That was a long sentence).<br />
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Another issue in regard to filming a sequel is that the second film tends to be a remake of the first one with nothing new to say or offer. In the case of the ROCKY movies, all of which I loved, (whoops there goes any credibility I may have had) they all followed the same sure-fire formula: Rocky gets smacked to the bottom of the food chain but with the love of a great woman and a lot of hard work he climbs back toward the top and prevails over a brutal villain in the championship fight. Nothing wrong with that formula, great for the box office but not very satisfying to critics who are looking for something new and original. I understand advancing the story and developing the characters like in the GODFATHER trilogy with all the families and Michael's rise up the ladder; but in a boxing movie? What's Rocky aspiring to be, the head of the Pennsylvania Boxing Commission?<br />
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If SHANE had been remade there would have been the automatic conflict with the threesome of dad Joe, mother Marian and Shane, with little Joe looking on thinking everything is terrific and not "getting" it. I don't see any way to resolve this dilemma except for dad to die somehow with Shane being indirectly responsible. Afterward there would be plenty of conflict with little Joey hating Shane for not being able to save his dad, mom feeling uncomfortable with her affection for Shane and her husband gone and Shane with his guilt for not being able to help Joe when he was killed, along with his feelings for Marian. Plus there are all the neighbors gossiping about when they should be tending their farms. Of course Shane would have given up being a gunfighter because Marian insisted on it but at the end he would have to come out of retirement when more bad guys showed up to hassle all the innocent, God-fearing farmers. Also after everything was peachy-keen for awhile Joey could develop into a cocky kid who wanted to be a gunslinger like his step-dad and would want to take revenge on the bad guys who were responsible for his father's death years ago. Then Shane would explain to this headstrong eighteen, nineteen, twenty year old that, "Violence is not the way to solve your problems." Joey would roll his eyes and attempt to act anyway as he finds Shane's gun and attempts to use it. At that point Shane would have to intervene against the wishes of Marian. "Who do you want to face these men, Joey or me?" he will say. What can she say? She is speechless.<br />
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Wow I guess I got carried away since I had an idea for a sequel to another of my favorite classic movies. The second feature would take some logical steps that develop and complete the original story along with featuring a current star who I think is close to being the equal of the original lead. You might think: <span style="font-style: italic;">L</span><span style="font-style: italic;">eave it alone. It's a classic with a star-turning performance that should have resulted in the star's being awarded an Academy Award. Sure, one of the characters was awarded the Oscar for the Best Supporting Actor but he was playing off of the star. If the star hadn't been there George Kennedy would have been just another con. </span><br />
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Yes, it's true I'm talking about a sequel to the Paul Newman gem: COOL HAND LUKE starring Matthew <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">McConaughey</span>. What you say? Blasphemy! How can you consider a sequel when Luke was killed at the end of the movie? I say: Are you sure Luke was killed? I remember Luke standing in a doorway of a church with that wonderful Paul Newman smile and saying, "What we have here is a failure to communicate." Then at that moment the guard with the sunglasses, Boss Godfrey played with silent menace by Morgan Woodward, shoots Luke in cold blood with a rifle. Luke was hit in the neck then there was confusion as a Sheriff attempted to take Luke to the emergency clinic but the prison warden, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">Strother</span> Martin, intervenes saying they will take him to the prison hospital. The sheriff points out that the prison is an hour away and that Luke won't last twenty minutes. The warden, known as The Captain blows the sheriff off and says "Get out of the way. He's ours!" The warden and his guards then hustle Luke off to a prison vehicle. Then as I recall the movie finishes with George Kennedy, J.D. Cannon, Dennis Hopper, Harry Dean Stanton and the rest of Luke's posse reminiscing about lovable Luke back at the prison.<br />
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OK it's assumed that Luke was killed or died on the one hour trip to the prison. But what if the sheriff, having seen Boss Godfrey shoot Luke without provocation, and smelling another agenda, has second thoughts. With a deputy he gets in his car and chases down the prison vehicle. With his lights flashing he overhauls it and, as a man sworn to uphold the law for everyone, takes custody of Luke by shear force of will. The Captain and his guards, attempt to intimidate the sheriff with pointed threats about his safety and his state job. The sheriff says: "If you take this man back to the prison Dr. Mason with the State will be arriving at your State facility tomorrow to inspect the condition of this prisoner. If Mr. Jackson (this statement is personalizing Luke) is not alive or we do not take him to the emergency clinic tonight then I will report your interference and neglect all the way to the Governor of Florida if I have to!"<br />
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The warden who is sick and tired of dealing with Luke (he escaped three times), realizes he can't make the man just go away but makes a deal with the sheriff: The prison vehicle will detour to a nearby retirement home and Luke will be treated there. The site has a small clinic with facilities for treating a gunshot wound. With Luke losing blood and nearing death the sheriff agrees. Luke, the sheriff, one of his deputies, The Captain, Boss Godfrey and another guard arrive at the hospital and commandeer the facilities in the name of the Governor of Florida ("Two can play this game," says the warden). Then he sends a guard back to the prison who announces to the population that "the prisoner in question (not using Luke's name) is no longer a resident of this State facility." Luke's pals interpret this an an obvious admission that Luke is dead.<br />
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Back at the hospital the clinic doctor considers his ability to save Luke's life. "I haven't treated a gunshot victim in thirty years! You need to find someone else to do this!" he says. "There," said the warden, "this doctor is not qualified to help this man and he admits it!" "Shut up!" says the sheriff who turns to the doctor. "There's nowhere else to go Doc," he says. "You're all he's got." The doctor begins to operate and finds that the bullet took a chunk out of the side of Luke's neck but didn't hit his larynx, throat or spinal cord. However because of the loss of blood, trauma to his body and inability to breath properly, Luke slips into a coma then dies.<br />
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The day before when Luke is hiding out in the church and about to be re-captured he asks God, "What you got in mind for me next?" God's answer seems to be that Luke is going back to prison as the police appear and demand his exit from the church. Then he is shot by Boss Godfrey. It turns out that God has something else in store for Lucas Jackson as he lays on the hospital operating table. Everything is black and there is no sound. Suddenly he senses movement with a soft murmur that may be the wind. The movement increases in speed and up ahead there is a bright light. The sound of the wind increases and is accompanied by a voice that says. "Luke I have something else in mind for you, your journey is not over and you have a lot of work to do." The wind increases to a roar as the movement gains momentum; it is heading for the bright light that is pulsing and growing in intensity. It was like being strapped to the front of a speeding train as it rocketed toward the end of a darkened tunnel, the daylight rushing forward in a relentless rush.<br />
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The doctor covered Luke's face with a white sheet then stripped the rubber gloves from his hands. With a resigned sigh he dropped them on a tray next to his operating instruments. The sheriff, who had been watching through the window in the trauma room doors, pushed inside the room. The Captain and Boss Godfrey followed him. The prisoner was dead and they wanted to get him back to the prison and bury him as soon as possible. However they still deferred to the doctor and the sheriff. The doctor looked at the men and shook his head. "He lost too much blood. He's yours." The warden said, "He's my a prisoner sheriff, he has to be buried at the prison. And doctor we need you to sign a death certificate." The sheriff stared back at The Captain and said, "You're not taking this man anywhere!" Then he turned his gaze slowly to Boss Godfrey. "Your man here is under arrest for murder and I'm a witness!"<br />
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The doctor had removed his white smock and glanced idly at the covered body but something wasn't right. He focused on the sheet covering the prisoner's face. It was moving. The other men hadn't noticed. The doctor moved to the table and pulled the sheet back. The patient's eyes were open and he blinked! The warden who had followed the doctor's movements staggered back in shock, "Jesus," he exclaimed and Boss Godfrey muttered, "What the hell is goin' on?" The doctor rested his hand on Luke Jackson's forehead. It was warm! The man blinked again and he opened his mouth and moaned softly but the men heard exactly what he said. "It hurts."<br />
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The doctor pushed the sheet aside. "Oh course it hurts son", he said, "you were shot." Boss Godfrey had removed his sun glasses in disbelief and the first thing he thought was, <span style="font-style: italic;">Thank God, it isn't murder! </span>The doctor checked the dressing he had made moments before and saw that it was secure and not leaking blood. "I hear your name is Luke," said the doctor. Luke nodded. "St. Luke was the patron saint of surgeons, physicians and artists," the doctor added. Luke lifted his hand and touched the dressing as he started to remember what had happened. Suddenly the dream <span style="font-style: italic;">or was it a <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">vision</span></span> he had experienced probed him then blossomed. "Doc I think you must have been all three to bring me back from where I've been." Even though his neck hurt he smiled slightly and his blue eyes sparkled with life. Then he said, "I'm alive and the Man upstairs has plans for me."<br />
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</span>What does the Man have in store for Lucas Jackson, itinerant worker, womanizer, drunk and non-believer? Is it to clean up the Florida penal system? Run for Governor? Heal the sick? Start his own church or religion?<br />
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Luke turns his head and sees the warden and Boss Godfrey who is holding his sun glasses in his hand. "Howdy Captain," he says. Seeing Luke alive and knowing he's ultimately responsible for the attempted murder of a prisoner, the warden takes his hat from his head and dips his head. "Hello Luke I see you made it back." He gestures toward the doctor. "We brought you here to get the best care. This man saved your life." Luke looked at the doctor, sensing the dis-ingenuousness of the warden's statement. He raised his hand and said, "Thank you Captain, come closer I want to thank you for bringing me here." The Captain hesitated then he and B<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">oss</span> Godfrey shuffled forward.<br />
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If Luke's story were ever to be continued Matthew <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">McConaughey</span> would be the man to play him. Besides looking a lot like Paul Newman, <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">McConaughey</span> shares his blue eyes,dazzling smile and confident demeanor. Plus he's a genuine actor with the ability to play comedy (which is hard without looking foolish), action and romantic characters. I think he is about Newman's height but he would have to lose some of the bulk he has gained over the years to attain the lean look of a chain gang prisoner. They work them hard on those hot Florida highways so he would have to look more like a long distance runner than a Gator linebacker.<br />
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The Captain and Boss Godfrey stood next to the bed trying to make sense of Luke's death with the man who was lying in front of them, alive. The Captain's hands shook as he held his hat and Boss Godfrey, in spite of himself, began to weep. Luke raised his hand and the Captain took it automatically saying, "What do I do now?" Luke smiled briefly and said, "You release the men." The Captain cocked his head slightly. "Why?" "Because they have served their time," said Luke "And they are ready to speak the truth." Luke didn't know why he was saying these words but he knew he was supposed to say them. Finally the Captain nodded and said "That's true they are ready." Luke nodded back and his gaze took in all the men in the room. "You all are ready," he said.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-71510424626965433382010-04-30T12:39:00.000-07:002010-05-24T17:03:20.685-07:00Hard Drive Dive<div>The guilt was hiding in the background as I neglected my baby (Willie Boy) for so long but if there are other things going on, what can you do? I might as well list my excuses just to get it all documented. First of all, as it happens with all hard drives, ours died. Of course there were symptoms like; it was getting very slow and you had to key an icon a few times for it to activate but those things happen to all of us as we get on in years. Then one day it wouldn't boot up and even Microsoft/India couldn't get it going. It's odd being without a computer, as if checking your email is so-o-o important, or checking out a few favorite blogs is going to "make your day" or getting the news a half a day earlier than the newspaper is going to affect your ability to deal with the world. Suddenly neglected projects around the house get finished, you read a few more books and for me my second novel FAVORITE SONS gets resurrected. <br />
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Like most of DEVON LOCH I have been writing my new book by hand so it's never been something that I would have lost if the hard drive went down. I've been working on the sequel to DEVON LOCH for about a year with an exciting story to tell involving the novel's original characters who have grown and are facing new <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">cha</span><span class="goog-spellcheck-word">llenges</span>. I have a very detailed outline completed covering a terrific story, a few twists relating to the first novel, some cool n<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ew</span> characters, challenging situations involving them and loads of very snappy dialogue. <br />
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Having the outline completed gives me a great deal of confidence and optimism about completing a novel because I have a basic blueprint for what is going to happen. But one of the exciting parts about writing a novel is how the actual writing evolves from the basic outline; the characters that pop from nowhere and the situations that surprise me that make perfect sense. Originally I had DEVON LOCH ending and didn't imagine going back to it. But, as I am sure is true like running your first marathon, ideas kept popping up in my head. Is Jack done with competitive running at the ripe old age of 32 or does he realize he is in his prime as a world class distance runner who still has some reachable goals? What kind of running car<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">eer</span> does Laura have ahead of her with the proper training, desire and love for the sport? Does Teri want to provide emotional support for two runners in the family? What is in store for Billy who may be on the verge of being able to walk again and do he and Anne have a future involving more than just a physical relationship? Plus, are there ghosts from Vietnam lurking in the future?<br />
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But writing a novel is one thing and acquiring a new computer is another so Gwynne and I headed off to Costco to check out the inventory. We also planned to go to Frye's but the best laid plans..... Costco displayed six computers that ranged in price from $599 to four figures. Since we mainly just send and receive email, do some blogging, reserve books at the library, read movie reviews and compose an occasional Word document we realized right off we weren't candidates for the Lexus version of the Hewlett-Packard package. However we weren't sure about getting the basic package and missing out on some valuable options or even what printer to get either. A couple of days later our family computer expert Charlotte and I checked things out again at Costco and she cut right through <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ou</span>r issues by saying, "Dad you don't need all this fancy stuff with the big screens and all the options. J<span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ust</span> get the e-machine for $599 and use the money you save to get this HP printer with the copy/fax/scan option, plus you can do photo stuff on it too." It sounded like a good plan to me so we followed her recommendations and also picked up one of those wireless mouses which it turned out we didn't need. Obviously a mouse with a cord would be included in the computer package and Gwynne said that the wireless mouses are a big PAIN with their quirkiness and always having to change batteries when <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">th</span>ere are none in the house.<br />
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Eventually we got everything set up and it's all running just fine, plus the larger screen is very cool. It's funny because we were using caveman technology that we were very satisfied with; a big boxy Dell monitor that probably still worked off a gerbil on a treadmill, a hard drive that still had a port for a floppy disk and an 8 track tape and a laser quick printer which I have absolutely nothing critical or snide to say about. After a referral from the nice people at Cartridge World we picked it up for $5 at the Inter-Connection re-cycle place near Gasworks Park and we cycled everything at a recycle fair sponsored by the Whole Foods store on Roosevelt Way.<br />
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The only downside of the process is that we still have our cheesy little speakers that emit sound in a tone that is just above a whisper. Ya, ya I know about the <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">li</span><span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ttle</span> icon on the lower right side of the screen and the volume controls on the keyboard (very cool) and, yes Charlotte has checked through the Control Panel Help tutorial but nothing has worked. Her solution is to use the "hot" speakers she has stored in one of her moving boxes in the garage so we'll work on that this weekend. In the mean time I've answered the <span class="goog-spellcheck-word">thir</span><span class="goog-spellcheck-word">ty</span>-seven emails that piled up during our down time, introduced Mr. HP printer to Ms.e-machine hard drive and am sitting here blogging and still confused about the difference between a blog address and a blog name.</div>Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-86574631307023136272010-03-07T17:39:00.000-08:002010-10-24T18:06:30.656-07:00Writing/Blogging MotivationIt's interesting how writing a blog works. Since my blog doesn't have a specific subject that repeats itself through each post I'm free to follow whatever interests me at the moment. Once a blog entry is posted I have a feeling of relief that I haven't let WILLIE BOY fade away from lack of attention. I suppose all of us bloggers think that some day we will run out of things to say and considering the number of people that are following my blog there aren't many people who will care. Granted maybe nobody is paying attention to my musings so it must be a conscience issue that keeps me keying away, like forgetting about a friend or missing an appointment or not living up to something I said I would do. For me that blog posting relief thing starts to fade after about a week and then I know that I've got to start thinking about something else to say.<br />
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Before I started WILLIE BOY I made a list of subjects that interested me and for which I felt I had something constructive, humorous or enlightening to say. I limited my list to one 8-1/2 X 11 sheet of paper with the subjects listed down the left side of the page and on the right side I wrote notes on each subject but limiting myself to one line. Eventually I completed a whole page of approximately forty possibilities. I felt that having one page to refer to would be the most efficient way of organizing my possible posts. I wanted to be able to have one sheet with all of the options right in front of me; not pages of subjects, notes and thoughts. <span style="font-style: italic;">If you keep it simple you'll have fewer reasons for not starting this thing. </span>Occasionally I would think of something new and I would either "white out" a topic that didn't interest me anymore and write in a new one or I would squeeze the new subject in between a couple of lines where there was a little bit of space.<br />
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The only time I had ever written under any kind self-imposed deadline was when I wrote my one and only novel DEVON LOCH. Writing a blog is similar to writing a novel in that I find myself thinking and daydreaming at various times during the day about what I am going to write next. There I was taking a shower or mowing the yard and suddenly a new character or event or line of dialogue would pop up. Another way I came up with inspiration for my book was during a run. Sometimes a new idea would just occur for no reason and I would hold onto it tight as I neared home. Other times as I ran I would probe at a character or plot point that wasn't making sense when suddenly a solution would ignite into my brain. Dead ends into which I had found myself trapped suddenly opened, characters that were acting inconsistently made sense or plot holes where I found myself staring down a long dark tunnel opened to the light.<br />
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During those evening runs I would worry that I wouldn't remember what I had worked out and would forget what I had come up with. But somehow the idea would come back to me the next time I sat down to write as if there was some kind of organizing system in my brain that filed the idea away then released it the next time my mind searched for it. It beat running with a pencil and paper or a tape recorder.<br />
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I'm always intrigued when I read about authors (Stephen King being one of them) who sit down and start writing, not knowing where the muse is going to take them. They probably had a glimmer of an idea before they started but they didn't know where they are going or how they were going to get there. I need to put the idea down on paper and then write down other stuff that I know is going to happen or list characters that are going to play their part. When I get that overall plan written down, somewhat like an outline, then I can get started. This is somewhat of a linear plan, as in traveling from point A to point B but with an option to veer off to point A-1 and A-2 and then back to point B. Not a short-cut but a long-cut, like a journey you have planned where you decide on the spur of the moment to detour over to Highway 101 on the Oregon coast instead of heading up boring old I-5.<br />
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That's where writing becomes so fascinating as your main plan takes a completely different direction or a new character suddenly arrives that you hadn't even thought of originally. I guess we shouldn't be so surprised about the spontaneous direction our writing can take us as those ideas come from our own brains. We may be making things up but those glimpses that occur are a product of our own imagination which is a product of everything we have accomplished, failed at, read, seen, experienced, people we have known and met and everything else that has happened in our lives. The amazing thing is that somehow all of that information has been secreted away in your brain but can be accessed as your fingers manipulate a pen or type on a keyboard. Also there must be other secret doors behind which are ideas that come from unknown places that are unexplainable and just plain minor miraculous because obviously the first book written about traveling in a rocket ship to the moon was not written by someone who was relating first-hand experiences. Somehow those chemicals and neurons and synapses in your brain trigger ideas that no author has ever had before and that unique occurrence may be taken for granted by career authors but not by me.<br />
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I'm sure most people who write started out as a child listening to a parent or as a kid cuddled up on a comfortable sofa or as a teenager perusing titles in a library. Traveling in your mind to far away galaxies, storm driven seas, exotic foreign countries, terrifying dark forests or imaginary kingdoms made you want to create your own adventures and at some point you had the courage to try. Those books you read years ago sparked something in your imagination and one day you followed through.<br />
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It's funny, for all my years of reading there are a small collection of books for which I have never forgotten, even though I last read them over forty years ago. None of the books were particularly noteworthy, none of them were written by authors who have endured in fame, none of them are still in print (but are available on Amazon) but all of them sent a young boy to places he had never been and on adventures that had him holding his breath and stimulating his imagination. I read a lot of books as a kid but for some reason these three have been seared into my mind and I can tell you briefly about them as if I read them yesterday.<br />
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The first book titled: GLADIATOR by Philip Wylie I am going to save for a special post but one of the memorable books I have not forgotten is THE TERRIBLE GAME BY Dan Tyler Moore (no relation to Mary Tyler Moore). Jonathan Burr is the college-age son of an American super spy who has been assigned a mission in a small European country. The father's job is to parachute into the land-locked mountainous region to play a game that all captives of that country are required to complete. The game involves running, riding, wrestling and sword fighting to the death. If the participant survives the competition, without being killed, he will be granted any wish that the country is able to provide. In the United States' case their wish will be to establish a land-based rocket system which will give them a strategic advantage over the U.S.S.R. which borders this small country. The dilemma is that the father is seriously hurt on the eve of his mission and the son, who has been training with his father and knows the intricacies of the Terrible Game, is enlisted by the secret agency to take his father's place. Naturally the athletically gifted and fearless Jonathan accepts the assignment. However one thing his superiors fail to tell him is that the game has never been won by an outsider for hundreds of years. I remember a great villain whose name was Tunch Belak an ominous adversary for young Jonathan. Thrilling adventures for teenage Will!<br />
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The last book I have never forgotten was titled THE SECOND SON by Charles Sailor which has one of the most thrilling openings to a book I have ever read. Joe Turner is an average good guy who works in New York city as a welder who connects steel girders at the top of high-rise buildings. After he and his best friend ride the elevator to the top of their latest project they begin their work-day hundreds of feet above the city's streets. During a maneuver to connect a beam Joe's friend loses his balance and is forced to grab onto the steel girder to save himself. The beam is hanging over the site attached to one steel cable. As the beam circles in the air and starts to tip down the man begins to lose his grip. Just before his friend drops Joe leaps onto the beam, leveling the steel girder and allowing his petrified friend to swing back to the main structure. As his horrified co-workers watch, Joe coolly attempts to balance the beam and swing it back to the main frame. Instead he loses his grip and falls to the sidewalk landing in a deadly heap. As the police try to keep the area secure the crowd watches in awe as Joe Turner begins to move and rises unsteadily to his feet, unhurt. Joe's adventures continue as his invulnerability becomes known to the world and he aligns himself with an anti-nuclear weapons group. A hydrogen bomb is detonated and the extent of Joe's powers are revealed. Very dramatic and exciting stuff as I read the book more than once!<br />
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I'll never know if either or all of these books encouraged me to want to write but I think the inspiring and exciting ideas at least gave me the idea of giving it a try. For that I am grateful to the authors who wrote those books. Maybe there aren't a lot of people who remember my three favorites but those authors are lucky to have at least a few of us. The point being that anyone can write but whether anyone else is going to read whatever you write is another story that involves talent, intestinal fortitude, belief in yourself and luck. That's why blogging is so great. All you need is access to a computer and something you want to communicate. A blog is personal, it's for the writer and if someone else happens to be interested that's fine but it shouldn't be what is driving you; you're mainly doing it for yourself to prove that you can do it.<br />
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Jeez I don't need the pressure of thinking that there might be people out there hanging on my every word and relying on my musings for their entertainment.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-77554386586844898172010-03-01T09:57:00.000-08:002010-03-05T17:49:38.612-08:00The Last Stand of Fox CompanyI always have a book going. Whether it's during my lunch hour, in bed before going to sleep or laying in the sun on a warm summer day I am reading something. When Caitlin was old enough to sit up and page through a brightly colored book featuring running and jumping animals I began reading to her every night. Then when Charlotte appeared I had one daughter on either side of me as we read about George and Martha, The Cat in the Hat and Goodnight Moon. This tradition was started by my mother and the nightly sound of her voice taking us to fantastic places instilled a love of books in my brother Terry and I. It wasn't until later that I found there might be consequences related to reading.<br /><br />I remember vividly my seventh grade Language Arts teacher criticizing me in front of the whole class after I had just completed giving an oral book report involving the Hardy Boys. She informed me that this sort of book wasn't acceptable reading because it wasn't in the school library. I had a healthy respect for all teachers for their knowledge and authority so I just stood there in front of my classmates as some of them snickered and rolled their eyes. I remember that the assignment didn't specifically require us to report on a book in the school library and even as a twelve year old I knew that that woman was absolutely wrong! As if the book my mother had bought me for my birthday was somehow unacceptable reading material. That the story about two brothers who solved crimes wasn't proper for a young boy to read because this teacher or someone in a higher authority had deemed it so. I didn't let it get me down because I secretly knew I had another thirty or so adventures with Frank and Joe Hardy left to read.<br /><br />I took the failing book report home to my mother who after reading it gave me a long thoughtful look and said, "This is a good report, it sounds like an exciting book. Keep reading the Hardy Boys but look at the books in the library too, I'm sure you will find something you'll like." She was right as I found authors such as Howard Pease, Arthur Conan Doyle and H.G. Welles who introduced me to high seas adventure, deductive reasoning and science fiction.<br /><br />Years later my mother quit her job as the publications director at the Rainier Brewery and went back to school to be a teacher. I remember her telling me once that as a high school English teacher she found that there were students who just didn't like to read, whether it was because they couldn't sit still long enough, were bored or had never learned to read. Eventually she realized that if she encouraged them to read about a subject that interested them then at least they would be reading something. Maybe those students weren't following her required reading list but she was glad that they were reading about drag racing, Hollywood celebrities or the Fantastic Four. "You've got to start somewhere," she said.<br /><br />Over the years my reading interests ranged and changed to Jules Verne, Robert Heinlein, Mickey Spillane, John D. MacDonald, Dick Francis, Stephen King, Tom Clancy, Douglas Preston, Lincoln and Lee Child, Harold Coyle, Michael Connelly and Robert Crais. I can't say that my choice of authors or subjects became any more sophisticated; just consistent. Hey, I get into LITERARY type stuff now and then; stories with big words, high-minded ideas and complicated characters who have to make "gut-wrenching" decisions but I guess all that thinking just wears me out. Having to constantly refer to the dictionary, screw up my forehead in confusion, then nod my head in understanding is very time-consuming. Obviously I like Science Fiction, Suspense, Detective, Military, Horror and Techno fiction but I always have a non-fiction book going too. At the moment I'm reading a book about the United States Secret Service titled: IN THE PRESIDENT'S SECRET SERVICE which reveals insider information re the government agency tasked with protecting the lives of the President, Vice President, their immediate relatives and other high mucky-mucks. I might report on it later.<br /><br />A non-fiction book I just finished titled: THE LAST STAND OF FOX COMPANY covers the heroic actions of two Marine Corps infantry units that supported the withdrawal of 10,000 Marines who were nearly trapped at the Chosin Reservoir during the Korean War while surrounded by over 100,000 Chinese soldiers. During late November of 1950 one unit, Fox Company of the 2nd Battalion 7th Regiment, held the summit of a small hill seven miles to the south of the Chosin for four days and five nights as they protected the exit point for the withdrawal. Another unit, remnants of the 1st Battalion 7th Marine Regiment comprised of 350 Marines, headed south from the "frozen" Chosin to reinforce Fox Company whose beleaguered 246 man company was under attack from over 10,000 Chinese soldiers and fighting to keep the choke point open at Toktong Pass.<br /><br />In twenty-five degree below zero weather and with three quarters of the Marines killed, wounded or captured the three platoons of Fox Company dug and hacked into the frozen ground for cover. Commanded by Captain William Barber, who hauled himself around the hill on a wounded leg to organize and rally his troops, the men of Fox Company packed their wounds with icy snow, ate frozen food that couldn't be thawed and huddled with their comrades to keep them warm.<br /><br />As their frozen automatic and semi-automatic weapons jammed the Marines were forced to fire with single shots but used their superior tactics, leadership, and camaraderie to hold off the Chinese. Thought of by the enemy as weak and inferior the Marines on Fox Hill knew that the Chinese soldiers, many of them teenagers, were forced to fight in Korea while the Marines who had enlisted were obviously there because they wanted to be. Utilizing fatalistic humor the Marines did their duty as they protected and supported their comrades and, with unwavering confidence in their officers, fought through the terrifying nights as they made their stand thousands of miles from home.<br /><br />Seven miles to the north, near the Chosin Reservoir, Lieutenant Colonel Ray Davis led a cobbled together group of three hundred and fifty Marines in support of their comrades on Fox Hill. Traveling light and under the cover of darkness the remaining men of Abel, Baker and Charlie companies of the 1stBatallion 7th Marine Regiment aimed to slip through the Chinese lines with a surprise move to the northeast then a circle move to the south. Traversing deep gullies, slogging up steep hills and skirting precarious ridge lines, the sleep-deprived Marines fought their way toward Fox Company with the wind chill dropping the temperature to thirty degrees below zero.<br /><br />Using first person accounts, maps, photographs and after-action reports the authors, Bob Drury and Tom Clavin, recount an historic action that produced three Medal of Honor recipients and culminated in a memorable reunion of those heroic Marines at the opening of the National Museum of the U.S. Marine Corps in November 2006.<br /><br />This book is perfect for people who want to know about a nearly forgotten War that isn't taught in school history books anymore. It's also for Marines who remember what it was like to fight far from home, who have a hard part inside them that is still a Marine and who haven't forgotten the horror of battle and have the pride of knowing what it takes to be a survivor.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-17481581641846540182010-02-04T15:22:00.000-08:002010-02-10T21:41:13.937-08:00Para-abnormal Activity or The "Audience Con"I know, I know, I tell myself. When you started this blog thing you were going to write about subjects that interested you but that you were going to do a variety of stuff. True, personal stuff, but something different for each blog. Right, I answer myself. I know I can't write about my latest macramé project all the time because even craft geeks will be bored stiff as I laboriously describe my recent trip to the fabric? fiber? store and how I spent two hours picking the proper material in regard to color, hue, scent, texture and clarity. Even my fans who are hanging on every word of my latest excursion into my garden to perform Ciscoe-like (the whack job on TV) artistry on my Forcythius Maxiimus, are eventually going to start activating the "Next Blog" icon on their computer if I don't show some variety. And my dedicated walking buddies are going to run from me in horror if I recount my latest journey through the neighborhood spreading good cheer and words of wisdom on my every blog entry.<br /><br />Yes, that's all true but I can't take it anymore. I know I just did a post on movie stuff. But I have to speak up because if I don't I will be complicit in the most recent example of the greatest addition to societal decay since the advent of text messaging while eating dinner with your family: "Audience Con". What is "Audience Con"? I think that deep down we all know what it is. Somewhere along the line during our amateur movie going career we have been exposed to "Audience Con" and might not have known it at the time but we realized it after the movie was over.<br /><br />I've talked about it before but for some reason I feel compelled to address the issue again. As in the movie opinions of big name critics, film festival geeks, auteurs, snobs, know-it-alls and media creeps like the Entertainment Tonight crowd who are such "suck ups". These folks just look at movies differently than we do. And that's OK but just don't expect us to agree or like the stuff you are swooning over. The drivel they have conniptions over are part of "The Audience Con". It's a form of brainwashing as in the preconditioning of the audience before they go to the movie: "You are going to be scared out of your pants!" "You are going to laugh until you gag!" "You are going to cry like a baby with colic!" "You are going to be so inspired you will want to adopt twelve Haitian refugees!" I admit it it's hard to resist the heavy-duty, multi-million dollar ad campaigns because deep down inside we WANT to believe! We're suckers just waiting to be conned.<br /><br />You people rave about a movies like: INGLORIOUS BASTERDS an unnecessarily graphically violent, laughably revisionist World War II ego trip, NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN another overly violent movie with the super-killer so bad that he can walk around with some kind of fire extinguisher-hydraulic weapon that somehow blows door-locks into the next room and people's brains into neighbors house and STATE OF PLAY a convoluted-clichéd story staring Russell Crowe in his long-haired thirty pounds overweight mode (I'm playing a character) showing why the current news business is rushing daily toward irrelevancy. Why are we supposed to take you people seriously if you endorse stuff like this?<br /><br />Here's an example. There I was with Charlotte and her friend Conrad watching the latest flick with all the endorsements from "the people that know" and we began to realize that we had been suckered again. As in PARANORMAL ACTIVITY-suckered and I just laughed at myself for being "had". Actually there was another movie I wanted to see (which I can't remember) but Charlotte picked PARANORMAL ACTIVITY because she said: "I heard it was supposed to be real scary." "Oh really," I said, "where did you hear that?" "Somebody at work saw it and said it was good." Well that's good enough for me, an endorsement from somebody I don't even know. That's money in the bank," I thought.<br /><br />So when we reached that point in the movie where we had gotten sick and tired of watching the two dopes, Katie and Micah (pronounced Mee' ka by girlfriend Katie), laying in bed with the camera on all night, the three of us had been shaking our heads for an hour. Then Katie reveals to her fiancée that the demon that had been spooking them in their snazzy condo had been following her since she was a little girl. Charlotte shook her head and said, "What is he hanging around for? This isn't a haunted condo this is something that's after her and it's probably real jealous!" Conrad then says, "Man I'm out of there." And I'm thinking. "Time to dump her, she can have the condo."<br /><br />OK there were a few times I started in my seat but when the sheet billowed up around them? the door moved? the footsteps in the talcum powder? snozzerville. When Meeka pulled out the Ouija board I thought, "Gee how original, I've never seen that before." But Katie puts the kibosh on it real quick, telling ultra-wimpo, "No Ouija boards in my house!" As if they rival land mines, methamphetamine and nuclear waste on the list of catastrophic household hazards. At that point I knew that she was in league with the demon to gain control of the cool condo and that Meeka "was history". I suppose when you classify this as a movie you file it under Horror but to me that means it's real-l-l scary as in terror! This movie? No way! In a couple of years the people who endorsed it or embarrassingly raved about it are going to be shaking their heads and will be contracting with computer experts to hack into their archived reviews to erase all evidence of their lunacy.<br /><br />The only one with any sense was the ghost expert who said, "This isn't a spirit this is a demon and I don't do demons." He was out of there and I should have been too. For some reason they sucked him into to coming back but he wouldn't even take a step inside the front door, he told them AGAIN: "I don't do demons", wished them good luck and then was "in the wind". Don't worry I "get" the subtlety of being scared by what is being generated in your mind as opposed to having it jammed down your throat with knife-wielding, chainsaw-slicing, limb-breaking, blood-spattering brutality. But, 1. there must be an underlying menace to the overall, everyday, everything's normal atmosphere (there wasn't), 2. there has to be more than a few moments when you are really shocked or terrified (I wasn't) and 3. you have to care about the two lovebirds (I didn't). It was a relief when Meeka in all his pseudo-macho punkishness got taken out. Now she and her demon buddy can have the condo.<br /><br />According to "sources" the reason this latest example of "Audience Con" even saw the light of day was because somehow Stephen Spielberg (I loved JAWS) got a hold of it after it had been gathering dust on some studio's shelf for the last couple of years. Hey I like the idea of "big name director" discovering "sleeper" movie and anointing it as the latest cool thing but in this case he was looking too-o-o hard and "pushed" his opinion. He should have held back and let it happen naturally but I think he was looking for something that wasn't there. What he, and everyone who has adopted this sorry-looking little orphan is seeing, is "The Emperor with No Clothes". I'm the little boy saying, "but mommy that gnarly old man is creepy and he isn't wearing any clothes!" It's time for the rest of you to face reality." PARANORMAL ACTIVITY is naked and you've been "Audience Conned"!<br /><br />But all is not lost as there's still some great stuff out there that will keep you youngsters from getting sucked into the super-violent crap being released now. Here are five good scary ones that you may not have heard of. Put them on your Netflix list, they have stood the test of time:<br />1982 THE THING, 1980 DRESSED TO KILL, 1979 SALEM'S LOT, 1969 CARRIE, and a subtle sleeper: 1973 THE WICKER MAN<br /><br />Everybody likes a good scare but make sure it's REAL and not something you've been conditioned into like PARANORMAL ACTIVITY. All I can say is: "Oh please God, no sequel!" Right, you know the screenplay is already completed. Hell, I know what's going to happen, I could have written it. Hint: Meeka's not really dead! Woo-woo-woo!Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-11699261612450030312010-01-20T17:54:00.000-08:002010-01-31T13:03:48.244-08:00The Disposer Blew and the Water FlewSo there I was Sunday night staring blankly into a sink full of dirty bowls and pans left over from Gwynne's excursion into peanut butter cookie cooking excellence. I had just finished my second beer of the evening and normally would be cracking the third one within moments. For some reason I decided to roll up my sleeves and dispatch that dirty batch, the grunt's share of the cooking project. <br /><br />As I broke out the scrubber and dish soap Gwynne gave me a strange look but went back to her book. Within minutes I was done, the feeling of having accomplished my largest project of the weekend fresh in my mind. Just before cracking my third brew I rinsed out the sink and, the water still running, turned on the disposal. A noise that didn't sound like the thrashing of mangled carrots, celery stalks or cabbage leaves assailed my senses. In a flash I reached over and turned off the disposal letting it's grinders come to a halt. With that innate fear-part of my DNA telling me not to do it, I lowered my left hand (I'm right handed) into the drain. I immediately felt metal that was not the disposal manglers. I gripped the remains and pulled it out. A spoon! A measuring spoon! Gwynne's measuring spoon, part of a set that she has had since she and her mother began baking cookies and cakes many years ago. The thin metal utensil (probably tin) looked like a piece of gray broccoli that had been run through a jet propelled Cuisinart.<br /><br />She looked at me from the kitchen table and said, "That looks like the remains of my measuring spoon set." "Yup," I said, "I think this is the tablespoon." I fished out some more memories of her childhood and she identified each spoon size. I was suddenly aware that the water was still running and that my feet were getting wet. "I wonder where the 1/2 teaspoon is," she murmured as I stared down at my feet and belatedly turned off the water. "I think I know," I said as I opened the cupboard door underneath the sink. As water dripped out of the cabinet I crouched down and looked at the disposal. I gritted my teeth and said, "blank!"<br /><br />Sticking out of the side of the disposal, like a piece of shrapnel blown through the housing of an unlubricated transmission from a 1971 Ford Maverick, was the 1/2 teaspoon. Water forced it's way through the opening and dripped onto the floor of the cabinet. I quickly pulled the garbage bag, Windex, Comet, Fantastic, grease jar, sponges, brushes and floor wax out of the cabinet and soaked up the water with every towel in the kitchen. Realizing that the next day was MLK Day and a holiday I resigned myself to what I was going to be doing on that Monday; buying a new garbage disposal and installing it like I did a couple of years ago when the old one seized up after an overdose of potato peels. Just what I'm great at; on the job plumbing. Yah right. I mopped up what water I could and cracked that third beer.<br /><br />The next day we stood in the aisle at Lowe's staring at the garbage disposal (also called a food waste disposer) display weighing our options: the Insinkerator (which I'll call the ISE) or the Badger. The difference between the two names (which were both built by ISE) was like the difference between a Lexus and a Toyota. The ISE looked cooler, was quieter and had more options. The Badger was the stripped down version, basic looking and after activating the shelf-mounted display, noisier. Gwynne said, "I never liked the old one, it was way too loud." I'm now thinking was this a plan to sacrifice her treasured measuring spoon set for a quieter and cooler looking disposal?<br /><br />OK, that left the ISE which offered models that included everything from racing stripes to a double barreled carburetor to leather seats to the high def version on the Satellite locater. After doing everything but take it for a test drive we settled on the Evolution Spacesaver version with Sound Seal & Multi Grind Tecnoligia, (whoops I meant Technology, I was reading the French description) with a 5/8 horsepower motor and racing hubcaps. <br /><br />I was aware of a guy like me lurking in the background as we made our disposer decision and as we were leaving I noticed a small plastic container of plumbers putty and a few pieces of plastic pipe that had been placed on one of the nearby shelves. The putty container looked familiar and I stopped and picked it up, inspecting it. My fellow do-it-yourselfer glanced over from his disposer inspection and said, "That stuff is mine in case you were wondering." I didn't take offense as I knew it probably took him an hour to find his supplies, another hour to choose everything and God knows how many hours it was going to take to glue and connect it all to his new ISE or Badger. Suddenly I recognized where I had seen the container of plumbers putty; at home, downstairs in the basement inside one of our storage cabinets. "Yah," I said to the guy, "I've already got some of this at home; your going to need it to seal off your sink gasket." He stared at me as I put down his putty probably grinding his teeth at the presumptuous know-it-all. "He'll probably put it in upside down," I thought.<br /><br />As we were leaving I'm sure Gwynne was wondering what I knew about sink gaskets and why I would have plumbers putty in my arsenal of fix-it tricks. I was wondering too because I couldn't remember when I had ever used the putty before and if I hadn't then how could I ever have installed a garbage disposal? That question was answered after we had returned home, I had unpacked everything and was reading the installation directions. I looked at the circular flange mounted to the bottom of the sink then, using my Christmas gift flashlight, looked in the cabinet underneath. Yup nothing had changed, the the disposal was still there with the 1/2 teaspoon protruding from the housing's wall. I could see a mounting bracket that was somehow attached to that flange inside the sink. I looked at the instructions again; all twenty-six detailed steps when it started to dawn on me. I stood up and looked closely at the flange again. Stamped into the gray steel on the top of the curve was the word IN-SINK-ERATOR with ISE DISPOSER printed on the lower part of the curve. As if seeing it for the first time in my life I turned to Gwynne as said, "I didn't put this in!" Seated at the kitchen table again, she looked up from her book and said, "Right, I think Jim Curley did." <br /><br />"Oh blank," I said again. Jim Curley, the Einstein of appliance installation. This is a guy who could build a washing machine from the ground up with his eyes closed and one arm tied behind his back. If he had gotten into computers he'd be the guy you would call to restore your hard drive after it had frozen into a chaotic mess. If he had been an auto mechanic he'd be fixing a custom NASCAR engine while riding underneath the car on a skateboard. He always showed up to a job in a freshly laundered blue jumpsuit, a smile on face and all the right parts in his pristine white van. I hated him because he was just cheerily too-o-o-o good and he was retired.<br /><br />I stared at the installation instructions which rivaled blueprints for construction of a nuclear reactor and contemplated either begging Jim Curley to come out of retirement like Michael Jordan, tracking down my own plumber/appliance installer or tackling the project myself. I read through the twenty-six detailed steps again then stared at Gwynne who was again happily immersed in her book. "We can do this," I announced. She looked at me over the tops of her glasses. "We?" she said.<br /><br />So with Gwynne narrating, "If you are replacing an existing disposer, continue to Step 2" (yup that's us), and me plumbing I detached the old disposer and lowered it to the cabinet's floor. "Hey it's a Badger," I said noting the label on the budget version of the ISE. "That's why it was so noisy," said Gwynne, Ms. Disposer Expert. At Step 4 we reached the electrical part which is as scary as putting your hand inside the mouth of a real badger or a garbage disposal. She said, "There's all kinds of exclamation marks and warnings that say, WARNING: SHOCK HAZARD!! I cringed inwardly and outwardly and since I didn't want any communication problems in regard to whether or not I had a chance of being electrocuted, I read the instructions myself; at least five times. Steps #4 & #5 basically involved turning the power off at the source (these are code words for knowing where to find the breaker box). This is the way for the electrician (ME!) to avoid the chance of suffering any lasting effects from what would amount to be an INSIDE THE HOUSE LIGHTNING STRIKE! Since brain damage or paralysis were not options I was considering for the plumbing project Gwynne and I perfected a system of plugging her hair dryer into the plug outlet on the disposer on/off switch, turning the hair dryer on and me turning breaker switches off and on in the basement. I could hear the hair dryer (which doesn't have a muffler) running all the way in the basement as I turned breakers off and on. Three of the breakers were marked Kitchen and none of them turned the hair dryer off. This was confirmed by Gwynne, calling downstairs, that YES the hair dryer was still running. (That means that the electricity is still running LIVE to the disposal!) Finally I noticed an unmarked breaker switch at the lower level of the box and I turned it off. The hair dryer's noise immediately subsided! ALL RIGHT! I HAVE A CHANCE OF LIVING THROUGH THIS! <br /><br />From there our luck changed as: 1. I detached the electrical connections from the disposer, 2. realized we could skip immediately to Step #17 as we could re-use the existing mounting assembly because we were using an ISE model and 3. Charlotte, our twenty-two year old daughter, showed up early for a home-cooked dinner. I was getting ready to re-attach the electrical connections to the new ISE as she inspected the instructions. "Hey dad be careful," she said. "There's a WARNING: SHOCK HAZARD! thingy here when you're doing that electrical stuff." I thought, "It's too late for that." "Thanks," I said, "I'll be careful."<br /><br />With the electrical completed I figured we'd be done after attaching the new ISE disposer to the old Badger mounting-assembly then connecting some hoses. "Wrong you rookie amateur you're going to have to "pay your dues," the do-it-yourself Gods were whispering to me. With Charlotte narrating, as Gwynne had gone back to her book, I connected the Anti-Vibration Tailpipe to the disposer then prepared to mount the new disposer underneath the sink. First I inspected the old Badger and lined it up with the new mounting bracket which I didn't need because, as you may remember, it was identical to what was already connected under the drain opening. "Piece of cake," I thought as I screwed the two parts together. Charlotte nodded, seeing how the two pieces fit snuggly just like in the instructions.<br /><br />Not able to fit into the cabinet, I balanced the new and heavy ISE in the palm of my right hand and pushed it up toward the mounting ring. I couldn't see if the two pieces were fitting together but I turned the disposer anyway expecting it to seed into the bracket, but it didn't. I couldn't get my left hand inside the cabinet to take the weight so time after time I pushed up only to have the ISE fail to fit then drop out of the hole. Charlotte could see my dilemma and offered encouragement but couldn't really help. Gwynne looked up from her book but she's real smart so she didn't say much.<br /><br />Finally while taking a break with my right arm quivering uselessly, Charlotte bent down and inspected the connection I had made with the old Badger and the new mounting bracket. She turned them back an forth no doubt remembering the old adage her father had told her many years ago. "Righty tighty, lefty loosey." Scooting across the floor she said, "Dad move over to the other of the cabinet and let me slide in there, I'll help." I shifted over with the disposer in my lap and with a young girls flexibility she shimmied all the way into the cabinet and helped insert the new disposer into the mounting bracket. "OK turn," she said. I did as directed then she said, "Turn it the other way, to the right, you've been turning it to the left." I pushed up and twisted and the ISE locked tightly into place. "It's in," she said, able to look from her position directly at the connection. <br /><br />"Well no kidding," I said laughing. I looked at my red-haired partner stuffed next to me in the cabinet and said, "I appreciate you showing me how to install a food waste disposer." "Hey dad any time you need any help just call," she said looking very smug. Gwynne looked up from her book and offered her congratulations. After connecting the drain and waste pipes we gave our new ISE a test drive and it performed with whispering perfection. I guess this shows that anything a certified plumber/appliance guy can do three amateurs can do just as well. Plus I've got a full container of unused plumbers putty all ready for the next project.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-29169989160748255482010-01-12T13:06:00.000-08:002022-07-16T13:10:40.546-07:00Good Flicks & Guilty PleasuresThere are all sorts of classifications for rating movies. Some reviewers use the basic, Very Good, Good, Fair, Poor or Bomb rating system. Others use stars from zero to five with a 1/2 a star as a way to further define a movie. Roger Ebert, who is my "go to guy" for movies, uses the "thumbs up" or "thumbs down" rating system. In other words he recommends you either go to the movie or don't go to a movie. Back when Gene Siskel and he hosted "Sneak Previews" on PBS you could just about guarantee that if they both gave a "thumbs up" to a movie that it was worth going to see and you were probably going to like it. If they split on their ratings of a movie then you were gambling on whether you were going to like it and if they both gave it a "thumbs down" then you got what you deserved when it turned out to be a pooch.
One of the many things I liked about the show was the prickly relationship the two articulate men had with each other. They seemed like guys who were very different but had a common bond in their love of the movies. Guys who wouldn't necessarily hang out in a bar together but would enjoy a conversation about John Ford or Orson Welles. They were similar in that they were both very smart, they both had quick, knowing wits and certain aspects of their individual personalities represented the "everyman" in their reviews. There were times when one of them got a little "high-minded" and the other would bring him back to earth with a sarcastic comment or a pointed look. It was funny to watch Roger as Gene talked about how a movie could have been better if the scriptwriter had done this or that or how another actor could have interpreted a character better than so and so. Finally Roger would say "Fine but that's not the movie we're reviewing; thumbs up or thumbs down?" You could see Gene's frustration at Roger's bluntness but invariably he would give a thumbs down because the movie didn't quite measure up to what he thought it could have been. After watching the two of them for years you learned to read between the lines when they gave a guarded thumbs up or thumbs down. Like maybe the hesitant thumbs up was because of a director's reputation (Scorsese) or the marginal thumbs down was because a movie was too violent (UNFORGIVEN).
If you only go to a movie because of the hunky, hottie star or the avant-garde director then you have only yourself to blame if you end up going to a bad flick. As you no doubt have found out a name actor (George Clooney/THE GOOD GERMAN), a trendy actress (Sarah Jessica Parker/DID YOU HEAR ABOUT THE MORGANS?) or an award-winning director (Francis Ford Copolla/YOUTH WITHOUT YOUTH) is no guarantee that the movie is going to be worth your time and money to see. If you are willing to go to a movie without doing your homework then good luck.
Hey, I "get" the thrill of sitting in a bustling theater with the anticipation of seeing a good flick thick in the air; people are chatting with excitement as they glance back toward the projection booth while the ushers are encouraging moviegoers to move to the center of their rows to fill up the dwindling empty seats. Finally the lights go down and we all sit in the dark impatiently watching the Coke commercials and previews of coming attractions, many long minutes pass, you check your watch when finally the MGM Lion or the Columbia Lady appear on the screen. Then.... the movie unfolds in glorious truth. You smile, you laugh, you nod, you hold back the tears, you jerk in your seat and stifle a scream or....something starts to turn in your stomach and it's not the mealy microwaved hot dog. You swallow and look over at your companion who is already looking at you. You each grimace but turn your heads back to the screen, optimistic that what you have seen so far will get better; but it doesn't. You trade looks with your companion again and you shake your heads. You look at your watch then settle in for the inevitable.... a bad flick. You gambled and lost because you didn't do your research.
You know how it happens. It could have been that cool trailer on HG TV that showed the only scenes worth seeing, or maybe it was that quick blurb on the radio that revealed the only two funny lines in the whole movie or maybe it was that big ad on that cool website showing those two attractive lovebirds or it was that dreaded endorsement from that geeky guy who has that cubicle next to you at the office or that suspect "can't miss" thumbs up from the friend of a friend; yup they sucked you in...again! You have to realize that in these days with movie admission being in the double figures along with the high prices of popcorn, jujubes, milk duds, hot dogs and pop you have to be careful about your entertainment investments. Plus, now that automated and online ticket purchasing have been instituted full body scans are probably the next option to keep smuggled snacks at a minimum; that's a few more bucks out of your pocket.
I can't help you in the chow department but if people do their homework they have a better shot at improving their movie going experience. One of those resources for checking out movies before you blow it again is a website called rottentomatoes.com. Their niche is to compile reviews from noted, established or "accepted" reviewers who have met a standard. Rottentomatoes gives individual reviews a numerical rating e.g. 25%, 60% or 90% then combines it with all the other reviews into a single numeric rating. A rating of 60% or higher is given a FRESH rating, signified by a plump red tomato and a rating of 59% or lower is given a ROTTEN rating, signified by a splattered green tomato. Along with their ratings the website provides trailers, industry insider stuff and other movie info. Check it out. Anyway it's cool because the key to it is you can check out the individual reviews and focus in on a particular reviewer (like Roger Ebert, Cole Smithey, James Berardinelli or Rossiter Drake) that you like, respect or hate. They have another feature which I haven't checked out yet that can compare what you like to individual reviewers. As an example you might find a reviewer you agree with 80% of the time so you would respect their rating as opposed to someone you agree with 40% of the time. This would be akin to you being at the movie and critiquing it without actually being there; like your own personal remote reviewer.
Be careful though because a high rating can also mean disaster. It means that a bunch of "experts" who spend a lot of their work and free time eating mealy popcorn and sitting in the dark think they have a greater understanding than the average viewer of movies and the movie industry. They may have met a star or two or a director or a gaffer or a best boy (you know all those people who get credited at the end of the movie as you are heading for your car) or they may have taken a film study class online or have ten pages written of a screenplay. Sometimes these folks get a little too serious about the whole movie going experience.
This is where the average movie goer struggles with the difference between critically acclaimed movies that have received rave reviews from all the "name" reviewers but when viewed in the cold dark light of a movie theater they come up short. Is it because we, the average viewer, just aren't sophisticated enough to intuit the subtle shades of meaning in a French movie with sub-titles or understand the affected dialogue between the sophisticated co-stars (Ralph Fiennes & Keira Knightley/THE DUCHESS) or appreciate the retro black and white color definition that accentuates the moody atmosphere (another French movie with sub-titles), or celebrate the incredibly talented actor who can cry on cue not once, not twice but three times (Sean Penn/MYSTIC PIZZA)?
There is a difference between what is "critically acclaimed" and what is entertaining. Do people go to movies to be lectured with a boring point of view or to have some unsubtle political message jammed down their throat or do they go to get away from real life and laugh at stupid stuff or be scared witless or to be breathlessly inspired or to be eye poppingly excited? I think most people go to movies to escape for two hours and to be transported to a world they will never visit or experience. People don't want to leave a movie theater depressed or confused or sad; they want to be entertained. I "get" the thing about messages and craft etc. but that's for the pros not the typical movie fan. Do you want to know what my definition of a great "flick" is? It's a movie that you like so much that you can't wait to tell someone, anyone about, it's a movie that you will pay to see again within a couple of days of viewing it for the first time, then you will buy the DVD the following day, you will drop everything on a sunny summer day and watch it on cable to the hooting scorn of your wife and daughters and you will buy the soundtrack for it even if it was performed by Vanilla Ice or an American Idol drop out.
And finally there is that movie classification invented by Siskel and Ebert to cover that unique movie that seems to connect with you on a level that is hard to describe. This is called the Guilty Pleasure and once or twice a year Roger and Gene would devote their entire program to movies they liked but had a sliver of guilt attached to that opinion. (Roger/THE TALL GUY & Gene/BLIND FURY) This is a movie that no matter how guilty you feel about liking it there is nothing you can do to hide that affection. For whatever it's attraction; it's trashiness, it's "off the wall" humor", it's cool star or unbelievable villain; you just like it and tough for anyone else because this is your baby! It doesn't have to be on your all time top twenty or even on your favorites list and in certain company you might not volunteer your affection for it so you keep it to yourself; your treasured Guilty Pleasure.
Here's five of my guilty pleasures you probably will never find on anybody's top fifty list, what are yours? 1.VANISHING POINT 2. LIFEFORCE 3.THE HIDDEN 4. GOIN' SOUTH 5. MIAMI BLUESTell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-2710657698462588262010-01-03T13:23:00.000-08:002010-01-07T17:30:06.959-08:00Scott's Memorial<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVScTcla2fcrgJUbarvGBAKz0JiDSa0Iw2tVdLkxTUAVhi2_57BId291Zp7SR-TorOsX1V75bkxeaj-Z_0Kd21Vn54C7x7uh2-S0jzAR77lpajE7EUE2-CShW79oJbdgJtn2WrnwbcXgFJ/s1600-h/scott.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVScTcla2fcrgJUbarvGBAKz0JiDSa0Iw2tVdLkxTUAVhi2_57BId291Zp7SR-TorOsX1V75bkxeaj-Z_0Kd21Vn54C7x7uh2-S0jzAR77lpajE7EUE2-CShW79oJbdgJtn2WrnwbcXgFJ/s320/scott.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423439659416310290" /></a><br />Yesterday on January 2, 2010 in the most amazing outpouring of love seen in Madison Park since the passing of Judge John J. McGilvra over one hundred years ago, friends and relatives of Scott Earl McKee memorialized his passing. With people lined out the door of McGilvra's Restaurant and up East Madison Street over four hundred well-wishers told Scott stories and drank his beer. <br /><br />As if respecting the occasion, the Winter Seattle weather turned unseasonably mild as Madison Park residents stood on the sidewalk renewing old acquaintances and introducing themselves to strangers. Under the sunny skies we all searched for the "Scott connection" and it was a joy when that connection happened with someone you had just met. Invariably the connection had to do with a lifetime neighborhood guy with a generous nature, who had the "know how" to fix things, possessed an easy smile and had the ability to explain things to people who didn't have a clue about driving a nail, opening a can of paint, turning a screw in the proper direction or turning off the electricity before sticking their finger into an electric socket. <br /><br />Former school mate and UW football star Greg Alex, there with his wife and granddaughter, talked about Scott's old station wagon that carried his pals to school; Edwin Weihe attending with his wife Noreen, recounted Scott loaning him tools for 30+ years and Scott's wife of six years, Kay McKee, remembered Scott's joy of being a father to his new step-sons Parker, Colin and Andrew.<br /><br />Scott's mother Lola McKee was surrounded by her daughters Jane and Jeri, their children Kelli, Daryl, Todd, Lisa and Bryan and cousins Kirk McKee, Betty, Jack, Paul and Sandi and her husband Bill. With all of these loved ones attending along with her Madison Park neighbors, Mrs. McKee seemed to thrive off the positive energy emanating from the crowd. She looked radiant as one old friend recounted seeing Scott walking down 41st Avenue East a few weeks earlier as the neighbor was on a run and Scott called out, "You're getting slower!" She laughed recognizing Scott's ironic wit.<br /><br />Mingling in the jam-packed McGilvra's, hosted by owner Peter Johnson, were lifetime residents John Gallen co-owner of Best Buds with Brenda Lorentzen and her sons Rory, noted arborist & Ross seen on "Deadliest Catch" as a commercial fisherman; Jim Hagen and his family and father, Steve Day and his wife Kim(Hagen)Day, along with her sister Nan & husband Ken owners of Nanny's Daycare. Also attending was the Stephens' daughter Alexandra, former soccer star with the McGilvra Raptors coached by the legendary Will Lomen, the former champion runner and author of the best-selling novel DEVON LOCH who was seen holding court with wife and banker Gwynne Lomen and Sally and Burt Straight 30+ year residents of Madison Park who were known for their wild makeup, weird outfits and unconventional behavior in their rabid support of their daughter's soccer team. <br /><br />Other lifetime residents represented were graphic designer Brad Ingham of Zeppelin Design known for inventing the award winning Kid Valley hamburger chain logo and Neil Murphy well-known entertainment entrepreneur hanging out with former Attic Manager Rob Gentry now a "community organizer" which gives him all the qualifications needed to run for President and Scott's pal for 30+ years Mike Lazzereti known Attic and Red Onion supporter. Laughing with Mrs.McKee was another lifetime resident, Madison Park raconteur & artist Dick Lehman and his wife Karen. Dick writes the Award winning column in the Madison Park Times that chronicles the history of Madison/Washington Park. Unable to attend but filing reports from a secret vacation site was noted Madison Park Blogger, Bryan Tagas, who moonlights as a banker and real estate dilettante.<br /><br />Other lifetime residents seen were land barons Dick and Nancy Clark, their daughter Carrie and Nancy's sister Lexi Robbins along with a fine representation of the Robbins clan: sons Todd & Spafford, former valedictorian at McGilvra Elementary School, his sister Sarah, brother Howard and his son former Garfield football star Bo, all six foot eight of him. Real estate mogul Tom Maloney and wife Christine, the girls tennis coach at Holy Names were seen chatting with Tom's mother Jan owner of Park Travel for over 30 years.<br /><br />Lifetime Madison Parkers architect Dan Clancy and his wife Adele schmoozed with their neighbors Dave Hutchens and his wife Jennifer the award winning designer who, along with Lola McKee, had a major hand in organizing the wildly successful Madison Park Book Fair this summer. Noted rock and roll stars Paul and Nancy Dobrin, career residents, modestly signed autographs amongst a hoard of rabid fans. <br /><br />Keeping a low profile was petroleum recycler & former IBM executive Hoby Douglass who is in the Madison Park top five of people who solicited the most free advice from Scott McKee and is in the top 1% of people who still need to return borrowed tools.<br /><br />Thirty+ year residents Dr. Steve Chentow and his lovely wife Laurel attended but had to leave early because Steve thought they had to pick the kids up from soccer practice. Attending solo was another former Garfield football star and McGilvra soccer standout William Schulze one of the heirs to the Schulty's sausage fortune.<br /><br />Another former athletic star attending was McGilvra Bandit scoring machine Connor Casabeaux seen with his sister Andrea and his ravishing mother Erin Gailey a 20+ Madison Park resident and neighborhood insider. Her neighbor, 20+ year resident Linda Lesnick was there with her daughter Lauren.<br /><br />Others honoring Scott were real estate grande dame Janet Rooks; 20+ year resident Kathryne "Kit" McGarry mother of crusading attorney Tim McGarry; Kay McKee's brother Bo Peck, wife Susan(Rolfe) and daughter Analise; Mark Lunsford and his wife Lynn who emmigrated to Madison Park over twenty years ago from the far away kingdom of Anacortes and Marcy Rawn who grew up on 39th Ave. E. and used to help Spafford Robbins with his ABC's.<br /><br />To the unnamed hundreds who attended Scott's Memorial you are honored by your commitment to the first family of Madison Park, the McKees. It was a great day made even greater by the hope that Scott knew we all loved him and will never forget him. Meanwhile life goes on and as always Madison Park Hardware will open at 8 o'clock sharp Monday January 11th. Scott won't be there but the memories of him will never leave.<br /><br />If you would like to read Bryan Tagas' Memorial of Scott on his blog click <a href="http://madisonparkblogger.blogspot.com/2010/01/scott-mckee-1951-2009.html">here</a>.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-89755477051122549252010-01-02T12:13:00.000-08:002010-05-18T17:04:10.008-07:00Veteran's DayI went to see my brother Terry on Veteran's Day and it's always the same. I try to be stoic and just say to myself I can handle it, but on the drive out my memories always turn to what a great guy he was and how I wish he was here so we could grow old together. I wish I had known the wife he never had and I wish my two daughters could have had cousins to play with when they were younger. Although I was two and a half years older he was bigger, faster and stronger than me. Oh yes, he was better looking too. Smarter? Probably me, by a nose.<br />
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Growing up and all through our school years we were best buddies. His friends were my friends and my friends were his friends. Our mother always said, "It's good for you boys to get along because you'll always have each other". We could not possibly have dreamed how horribly wrong she would be.<br />
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Whenever I would turn out for a sport he would come to all of my games, just itching at his chance to play when he was old enough. Then wouldn't you know it, by the time he was finished playing he would find a way to top whatever I had accomplished. One of the happiest days of my life was when I received a registered letter while stationed at Camp Lejueune, North Carolina. I was about a month shy of shipping out for Vietnam and seriously reconsidering my decision to enlist in the Marine Corps. Upon opening the envelope I found an Income Tax return check for a whopping $125 and a letter from my mother. My heart began to pound as I read her account of Terry's thrilling run in the District 10 Mile Championships. Although a fourth place finisher in the City Championships a week earlier, he felt he could beat the same City runners and the best from the rest of the District.<br />
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With a raucous following of his best friends cheering him on, one of whom had already qualified for State in the Mile Relay, Terry charged into the lead at the start of the final lap and fought off all challengers for the next quarter of a mile. After breaking the tape with a ten yard lead his friends, led by our mother, rushed from the stands and mobbed him. As I stood alone in the Base parking lot I shot my fist into the air and shouted with joy.<br />
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Two years later three of those friends and Terry had enlisted in the Marine Corps and were in Vietnam. They all made it back alive except Terry.<br />
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People gravitated to him. He was a young man with a special aura. I'm not saying that because he was my brother. Ask anyone. Girls liked him because of his good looks and natural charm and guys liked being around him because of the girls, his sense of humor and his easy confidence.<br />
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The summer before his sophomore year in high school we were visiting friends in California and while riding a bicycle one night he was hit by a car. Thrown through the air, he landed on his back and skidded into a three-foot gap between a fire hydrant and a telephone pole. When I found him he was in a great deal of pain but joked that he could see he was going to hit the fire hydrant so he maneuvered himself in the air to miss it. He had gashes on his back that required fifty stitches and five cracked vertebrae but he was alive and I thanked God for that. His injuries prevented him from turning out for football but the circumstances led to his successful high school running career and a college scholarship.<br />
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Our mother used to say that the way Terry landed was a miracle and the reason it happened was because God was saving him for something important. We all believed it. We used to call it the "Lomen luck". When I got back from Vietnam, sane and in one piece, I knew the "Lomen luck" was real. I could recount a minimum of six events that would have kept me from coming home alive. From comrades in front and behind me being killed, to being pulled into an underground river and almost drowning, to my missing a helicopter flight that was shot down, the "Lomen luck" protected me for twelve months and twenty-one days. The "Lomen luck" ran out for Terry after four months and seven days and it turned out God wasn't saving him for anything. Maybe he had already been called.<br />
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Somewhere there is a woman who might be married, has a wonderful husband and a house full of great kids or she might be someone who is happy to be by herself and puts her energy into a career that is extremely successful or maybe she is just getting by and has taken a lot of lumps from life. Whoever she is, every once in a while she is going to remember something that happened to her when she was very little. She might remember it because it is indelibly imprinted in her mind or maybe she remembers it because she still has a clipping from the Seattle Times or the Seattle Post-Intelligencer. At a quiet time the memory might be triggered by some unknown reason and she will drift back to a time when little girls played with dolls and dreamed of white knights from children's stories read to them by their parents or maybe as she watches her children splashing in Lake Washington on a sunny summer day or maybe she opens a special box and brings out that faded newspaper clipping and reads about a boy who pulled her from the water after she had foolishly waded out too far and stepped into a drop-off. At that moment she will wonder who that boy named Terry was, what he looked like and how his life turned out. She will nudge the memory and fantasize she knows Terry and that he will always be there to talk to and protect her. Then she will snap back into reality and go on with her life.<br />
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It is probably better that she doesn't know what happened to that boy because it would spoil the fairy tale.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-86708277048604660982009-12-29T11:18:00.000-08:002010-02-02T13:17:04.724-08:00Guy StuffOK here's a disclaimer: No offense to gals, whom all Guys love, respect and adore, but there is Guy Stuff and Gal Stuff. This post is about Guy Stuff and if you want to communicate about Gal stuff find a knitting or a "chick lit" blog.<br /><br />There are things Guys like to do together such as going to bachelor parties, sporting events, weekends in Vegas, happy hours, drag races, strip joints, golf clubs, taverns and pool halls. It's OK for gals to be there as long as they are not known or related to any of the Guys on site. When Guys are together at these male bastions of cultural interaction they feel free. When you look at them being Guys and hanging out with other Guys there is a relief and a joy that encompasses the entire group. They know they can tell dirty jokes, make up ludicrous stories, tell lies, swear, yell, fart, puke, pass out, turn up the music REAL loud and nobody is going to look at him sideways and whisper, "What's wrong with him doesn't he have any manners?" or "Is he like that all of the time?" or "Does his mother know he acts like that?" or "Doesn't he realize he's embarrassing his entire family and every relative who's ever lived?" It must be one of the many positive male characteristics; Guys just aren't judgmental of other Guys after they've had six to eight beers.<br /><br />Just because Guys are hanging out with other Guys doesn't mean they are trying to pick up chicks or cheat on their wife or girlfriends. Invariably it means they are lounging around with big grins on their faces, their elbows on the table, a pitcher of beer between them, a wad of twenties on the table, talking about sports, movies or reminiscing about something that happened ten to fifty years ago. Usually these are events and incidents they have talked about many times before but because they were usually the highlights of their lives they bear repeating. When a table full of Guys is in a bar or a club that's where the laughter and noise are coming from as they respectfully over-tip the waitress without micro-managing the bill to make sure everyone pays the exact same amount. Guys know there is always one Guy who sneaks out without paying his share but so what, he's just another Guy.<br /><br />If you're looking for things that Guys do or don't do here's a partial list: Guys don't go shopping with gals for wedding gifts, baby shower gifts or lingerie; it's OK to shop for women's clothes with a gal if there is a big screen TV in the store or in a bar within one to ten yards of the front door; Guys don't go to college sorority reunions, macramé stores, sewing stores or any store with large bolts of cloth stacked on ceiling-high shelves; Guys don't get their nails done, eyebrows waxed or have a massage done by another Guy or male, but it's OK to have a gal pay you for a massage even if you haven't been to a certified massage therapy school; massage is a skill where a Guy is allowed to learn "on the job" because of a Guy's natural "hand eye coordination" talents; Guys don't drink wine out of corked bottles with other Guys, or any liquid that is labeled with words that contain fruit, wine or cooler or any beer whose taste needs to be masked by the flavor of cherries, apricots, peaches or "exotic spices"; also Guys don't go with other Guys to movies starring Sandra Bullock, Diane Keaton, Meryl Streep, Susan Sarandon, Whoopi Goldberg, Jodie Foster, Keanu Reeves, Hugh Grant, anything with sub-titles or having scenes depicting gals ordering Guys around. If the gal has a whip and is wearing knee-high boots allowances can be negotiated as long as no video equipment or photo enabled cell phones are in operation.<br /><br />Guys also don't play co-ed team sports such as: Ultimate Frisbee, slow-pitch softball or anything involving tu-tus, tiaras or long-toed padded shoes that wrap up their ankles and are the color pink. However it is OK to compete guy vs gal in dodgeball, touch and tackle football, rugby and hurling (Irish national sport that doesn't involve drinking) as long as no Guys are wearing a skirt. After the game it is OK to drink with any gal who is still able to walk. Any male seen wearing tight pants with shoulder straps, ruffled shirts cut to the waist or an outfit consisting of a red sports coat, black hat and black boots can not drink with other Guys unless it is Warren Sapp who has just finished his performance on "Dancing with the Stars".<br /><br />Well there they are; guidelines on the do's and don't's of being a Guy and how to act when out in public with other Guys. Feel free to update my list or add your own. Being a Guy is tough work and the standards are rigorous. I'll tip one for you, hoping you make the grade.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-69939434666099271422009-12-27T16:28:00.000-08:002009-12-29T10:09:56.132-08:00What really ticks you off?Thank God it's six o'clock and the pressure's off. You've walked out of your place of employment and you are free! Yah that's great but you're still ticked off! Or you are still feeling very uptight! Your eyes narrow as you remember that smarmy fellow employee who stabbed you in the back when he told your boss you had alcohol on your breath after yesterdays lunch and then that puke lunchroom drone, who can barely speak English, who hassled you because you didn't recycle your lunch waste into the proper "green" containers and then that fat doughboy security guard who said "excuse me sir but you should have parked in the "L" row and not the "K" row as you know you are supposed to; am I not correct mein herr?"<br /><br />Man all you want to do is kick somebody's rear end, right? Or go to some bar and get hammered. But then you end up sitting next to that butthead who's yelling at the top of his lungs like he's some kind of real estate heavyweight and he wants everyone in the bar to know about the big deal he just closed. Then there's the bartender who won't change the channel from the Canadian National Curling Championships to the seventh game of the World Series. "We've got a lot of bacon-head customers dude". No problem dude, don't look at this change on the counter like I'm going to leave it when I'm out of here in thirty seconds. <br /><br />And then you reach Lake Washington Boulevard for a nice relaxing drive home and you come up behind three chatterboxes blocking the road as they pedal their three thousand dollar Fuji bicycles at less than fifteen miles an hour. You shake your head at their color coordinated red and green shirts and shorts with enough advertising printed on them to rival a European Soccer Jersey. You can tell these Lance Armstrong wanna-bees are really hot bikers and are working up a heavy sweat as they pedal side by side with their heads jerking back and forth like a flock of chickens in a barnyard.<br /><br />Then you look in your rearview mirror and there's a guy so close to your back bumper you can read the Obama label on his ball cap. You can see the sap trying to change channels on his stereo as he's juggling his cell phone with his Starbucks "double tall Americano" latte. A long time ago I learned when this happens you do not speed up because the wretch will just match your increase in speed, dogging you along the boulevard like Richard Petty in the last lap at Daytona. I don't know if it's a vision thing; as in the goofball needs a new pair of glasses and can't see the car in front of him until my bumper comes into focus or if it's territory issue, as in "you're in my space dude and I want it" or "I'm in a hurry to get home thirty seconds sooner than if I just sat back and enjoyed the drive" or maybe he's starting to taste that first cocktail and some sort of withdrawal has already started to settle in. Anyway the only way to make these morons back off is for them to suddenly see the red lights of your back jukebox. When those surprising reds pop on usually reality will set in and the piggybacking push-punk will back off. If he doesn't it's his "bad". He connects with your back bumper and it's on him, as in: "he was FOLLOWING TOO CLOSE Officer, he was dogging me when that flying squirrel landed directly in front of me; I barely stopped in time!" <br /><br />And then you get home, get out of the car and the rabid mutt across the street is barking at an elderly couple who are tottering down the sidewalk minding their own business. And the thing that really ticks you off is that the dog's owner is standing in his front yard behind his white picket fence that is getting ready to fall down and watering his shriveled sorry excuse for a garden. The couple stop and attempt to befriend the extremely annoying animal who shoves his mangy muzzle between the fence slats and increases the rate of his barking. I can hear the mutt's owner talking to his obviously retarded rover probably saying: "I think it's OK to back off Fido I don't think these 80 year old folks who've lived in the neighborhood for 60 years present much of a security problem, would you lower your voice".<br /><br />Don't get me started on dogs who dump in my front yard, run unleashed in City parks, sneak toward my left ankle with their teeth bared as I run down the sidewalk or their owners who don't get the part about "Yes all the City dog ordinances apply to your dog too" or who sneak their dog poop bags into my recycling container. Couldn't they at least put it in the garbage? I've been staying up late working on my new invention: a garbage can with mega speakers that yells BOO! when opened by someone with unauthorized finger prints.<br /><br /><br />There that felt better. Give it a try. If you get home and there's nobody to listen as you unwind from your day just start a blog and unload to someone at the other end. Somewhere there will be a sympathetic ear but the deal is that you have to share their day too. Then we're all a lot happier. What ticks you off?Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6115380707010214835.post-66041829519354368982009-11-14T16:29:00.000-08:002010-07-06T10:53:38.604-07:00Moment of TruthAt the Marines Corps reunion I attended last August in Philadelphia I was reminiscing with one of my great friends, Mike Newton. Wounded by an exploding mortar round the evening of July 7th 1968, Mike was med-evaced off Hill 689 by helicopter in the dead of night. Miraculously, today he is in fine shape with no lasting effects from his ordeal. One of the first things he said to me during our reunion was, "Remember that time you almost drowned in the Rao Quan River near Hill 558?" In a flash the chilling memory rushed back at me like it had happened yesterday. To this day I shake my head because having survived contact with enemy soldiers, mortars, grenades and bullets, the closest I came to dying was while taking a bath.<br />
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In June of 1968 I was a twenty-one year old Marine infantryman with only two months left before getting my flight date back to "the world". My unit, Charlie Company of the First Battalion First Marine Regiment, was occupying hill 558, about two miles from the Khe Sanh Valley in the northern part of South Vietnam. We had been there a month running daily patrols of platoon and company size. At night we ran squad sized patrols around the company perimeter. We had had no enemy contact for a month so we were allowed to relax a little during the days if our platoon was not on patrol. One day after descending a forty foot ravine bordering our position, we discovered a swiftly running river that widened into an idyllic pool of calm, clear water. As we scrubbed weeks worth of dirt off in the river's coolness, time stood still. I looked around and imagined myself only a year before on a family trip swimming with my brother in the Dosewalips River near Hood Canal, in the state of Washington. I laughed as some of the guys, Newton being one of them, scrambled bare-ass up the rocks, then leaped from a twenty foot high cliff, landing with cannonball explosions in the river. Although nagged relentlessly I didn't attempt any of the daredevil antics, saying "I'll stay down here and clean up the mess." I was a better than average swimmer and had developed a healthy respect for the water while learning to swim as a kid.<br />
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As I tread water in the peaceful stream I became curious about the loud roar that was coming from around a bend in the river a short distance away. I let the gentle current take me and I drifted to a large rock guarding the narrows. I slid my hands along the rock's surface and with my feet, felt carefully underneath the water for a foothold. Sliding to the edge of the rock, I stopped. The roar of the river was deafening. I braced myself and stretched around the corner of the rock. I knew immediately I had made a serious mistake. All I could see was foaming white water. I remember the mist covering my face like millions of tiny tears. I tried to pull myself back around the corner. I could not move. The river had me in it's grasp. Forcing myself to stay calm I gradually increased the pressure of my grip on the rock and pulled again. I still could not move. To this day I'm not sure why I didn't yell for help. Fifty feet away there were at least twenty strong and quick combat-ready Marines who could have banded together in seconds to get me out of my predicament. Maybe that was it. I was young, confident and fit and this was a situation I felt I could get myself out of. Or maybe I just didn't want to cry out like a wimp. Suddenly my feet slipped off the rock, my right hand followed immediately and I was jerked powerfully around the corner without a whimper. I found myself gripped in a brutal maelstrom of swirling, churning water.<br />
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Rocks flashed into my path and the rapids smashed me maliciously into them. I tried to grab on but was going too fast. I forced myself into a sitting position and was immediately slammed into a solid wall of boiling water. Just before being yanked under I took a gulp of air. In less that a second I was shoved into an underwater cavern. I was forced into a crouching position with gallons of water cascading down on me. I pushed myself to my feet. I could see the sunlight. It was a blur. I knew I had to get out of that hole! I reached up with both hands and grabbed onto a rock. Fueled by coursing adrenaline I pulled upward with all my strength. I did not move an inch. Images and thoughts ignited through my mind: "Nobody saw me go!" "I'll never see my mother and brother again!" "There's nothing I can do!" I almost gave up. The water was crashing down on me and I realized there was no way I would ever be able to pull myself out. All I had to do was breathe in and my troubles would be over. But a voice screamed into my brain. "No! Don't give up! Fight back!" I relaxed my body and let the torrent take me back down. I tucked myself into a ball trying to protect my head. The sunlight disappeared and I was driven into the darkness of my worst nightmares. My arms and legs ricocheted off the rocky tunnel. As I somersaulted out of control I was almost ready to black out. Light! It was coming at me fast! I shot out of the underground stream and into a raging pool gasping for breath and disoriented. My mind was devoid of everything but one thought, "Don't let the river take you down again! You won't survive this time!" The current pounded me against a jagged wall. I rebounded off it unable to maintain a grip. The river narrowed again and I realized that this was my last chance. Stroking desperately to guide myself, I used the river's power to catapult me out of the river and onto an outcropping of rocks. I held on. I vowed nothing was going to pull me down again.<br />
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I lay there teetering on the edge of consciousness then let the exhaustion take over. When I came to my right cheek was resting against the outcropping's rugged stone surface, my ragged breathing rendered silent by the thunderous sound of the rapids. My eyes began to focus. The first thing I could see was the smashed crystal of my watch. One hand was missing and the other was sticking up from the face, broken in half. Water dripped off my nose, running through my mustache. I licked my lips, savoring the coolness. I realized I was still alive. Elation and relief poured through me. I rolled over slowly and sat up, my body aching. I had abrasions on both knees and both elbows. Blood trickled in little rivers down my arms and legs. The toes on my left foot throbbed dully. The joy of surviving began to wear off. As I wobbled to my feet I started to shiver uncontrollably. I looked around and could see I was at the bottom of a small fissure cut out of the rock. I took a deep breath and began climbing. Reaching the top, I pulled myself out and began limping unsteadily over the rocks, back up the river. I slipped and fell a few times but was numb to any more pain. I just kept moving through the white noise of the river.<br />
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Finally I climbed over an enormous rock and into view of the other Marines. They had realized I was missing and were heading down the river to find me. They cupped their hands to their mouths and called to me but I couldn't hear them over the thunder of the roaring river. I gestured with both hands for them to stay where they were as I continued toward them. Exhausted, I collapsed next to my gear. I tried to stop the bleeding on my arms and legs but doc, our Navy corpsman, took over. My buddies gathered around me. <br />
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"What happened?" Newton exclaimed. <br />
"I got sucked down the river," was my lame answer, feeling pretty stupid. <br />
"Can you walk?" Newton asked. <br />
"Sure," I said, "piece of cake." <br />
Newton chuckled. "Come on let's get him dressed and up the hill, we're heading back." <br />
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That night I was unable to sleep in our underground bunker as the walls began closing in on me like the walls of the subterranean tunnel. In the morning my arms and legs were black and blue and further examination by our corpsman revealed I had broken the big and little toes on my left foot. The bruises would heal and there is no treatment for broken toes except time, so after a few days of rest I was getting around OK. A week later we did make contact with the enemy and I had few close calls, but none as close as the incident at the river. Since that day I've always had the feeling that if I could survive an encounter like that I could survive anything.Tell Them Willie Boy is Herehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15903483516693892064noreply@blogger.com0