May 1987

I am looking forward to graduation this year.  I will be walking down Campanile Hill into Memorial Stadium with the University of Kansas class of 1988.  I walked down the Hill last May, too.  But, this year will be much better.

Last year I spent my graduation week with my parents, brother and Uncle Mac.  My grand father Creighton was their, too.  I was joining parents and grandfather as a Jayhawk alums — fifth generation on my mom’s side, third generation on my dad’s.  Pompa (the name we called Grandpa Creighton) gave me Nanna’s (my Grandmother Creighton) Phi Beta Kappa key.  She was a Kansas  Graduate, too.  I was the first Creighton grandchild to graduate from KU so he felt it was appropriate for me to have the key when I was inducted into Phi Beta Kappa myself.

It was great to spend a graduation week with my family.  But, when family is in town, there are limits on what you can do.  You are expected at the family breakfast, which comes far too early if you’ve been part of a late night party.  You are expected at the evening dinner at one of the local restaurants, too.  There is no good time for dinner if you would rather be at a friend’s kegger on a sunny May afternoon.

That’s why this year will be so much, I won’t say better, just different in a fun sort of way.  My roommate Phil is graduating this year from the engineering school.  His family is in town and I’ll be sure to make some of their events.  But, I’m not expected to arrive on time and it’s okay to leave early so the obligations not the same.

Graduation at K.U. is not like it was in high school.  Thousands of students are earning their degrees.  It’s not practical to read every graduates name.  Instead, faculty and student make the traditional walk through the Campanile, down the fill and then take seats in the bowl of the stadium.  Each school is designated its own section.

There are speeches and other typical graduation pomp and circumstance.  Then, the Chancellor will come to the mike and ask graduates from each school to stand, conferring upon them his blessing that they’ve earned their degree.

I got thinking the morning of graduation.  It will be much more fun if I can spend the ceremony with Phil rather than sit in the stands with his family.  Why don’t I just walk down the HIll again?  My gown from last year is still in the closet.  I’m pretty sure I have the mortar board, too.  They won’t be reading any names.  If I dress the part, I can stand along with the engineers this year.  This is going to be a great way to view a friends graduation.  Right there by his side.  And, as an added bonus, I will be able to tell people for the rest of my life that I graduated from KU, twice.

I remember to grab my camera on the way out the door.  The walk down the Hill this year, was just as much fun as I expected.  Lots of people I knew lined the path as we walked down.  If you still have a cap and gown, and you have a friend walking down the Hill, this is the view I recommend.

May 1988

May 1988

May 1988

May 1988

May 1988

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May 1988

Sometimes the best made plans don’t play out the way we imagine.  Joni is working at Alpine Clinical Research Center.  She is supervising an asthma or heart study.  I don’t remember which.  Probably a heart study because she has to be on call.  If a patient comes in to the emergency room and is eligible for the study, the call nurse has to go to administer the study drug as soon as possible.  It’s Joni’s turn to carry the pager.

I get up early to finish carry the junk — a.ka. garage sale items — from the basement to the garage.  It’s about 6:30 a.m.  Our signs along Moorehead Avenue advertise a start time of 7:00 a.m.  I can already hear people talking outside our garage door.  These are the hard core garage salers.  These are the people that like to ask questions about the junk that’s for sale and then negotiate over a price.  They are exactly the kind of people I want to avoid at any costs.  I can imagine few things less appealing than talking to strangers about how much I want for something I’d just as soon throw in the trash.

Joni brings me a cup of coffee.  Just as she hands me the cup I hear the pager alarm.  She sets down her cup of coffee.  Checks the LCD screen.  Looks at me with regret on her face.  She doesn’t even have to say the words, “I’ve got to go.”

What now!?!  There must be fifteen or twenty people gathered outside our garage door already.  A couple have peaked over our back fence and asked if they could come in early.  The door is scheduled to go up in just ten minutes.  Meantime, Joni’s already gone.  This is my worst nightmare.

I think fast.  I need someone’s help.  There is only one person who I imagine is up for the job.

Most people who know me know that I’m a strong introvert.  It takes energy for me to meet new people.  I’m not particularly good at small talk.  It’s a skill I need to practice.

That’s why it can be uncomfortable for me to take Emma to stores or parks on my own.  Emma’s not an introvert.  She likes to talk to everyone.  She’ll call toward anyone who’s within twenty feet, “Hi.  How are you?”

We went to Sears just the day before.  Emma was riding on my shoulders.  She talked to every person who passed us in the aisle.  “Hi,” she’d say.  “We’re shopping,” in case someone didn’t realize that on their own.

It’s cute when a two year old calls out friendly greetings to complete strangers in a store (at what age does that stop being cute and start being strange).  Sometimes the strangers are so enamored with the child they stop to chat for a while.  I’m fine with that.  Except, when a stranger stops to talk to Emma they usually talk to me, too.  Ugh!

Now don’t get me wrong.  I like people all right.  It’s just that I’m shy and, often, in too much of a hurry.  When I’m in a store, I want to get in get out business done.  If I want to chat, I’d rather invite friends to the house or go to theirs.

I stood in the garage — alone — like a deer looking in headlights when the idea came to me.  This is a perfect job for Emma!  She loves to talk to strangers.  And, she’s not a bad negotiator either.

It was nearly 7:00 a.m.  I ran back in the house.  We had parked Emma in front of the baby sitter that no self respecting parents speaks of out loud — the television.  I picked her up and whisked her toward the garage.  On the way, I explained what I needed her to do, “Just say, ‘Hi,’ tell them how much things cost.  I’ll be right behind you if you need help.”

I set Emma down in the garage and pushed the button to raise the door.  People came flooding in before it was halfway up.  My plan worked like a charm.

“Hi, I’m Emma.  These are some old clothes.  Would you like to buy them?  We have candles over here.  My mom really likes those candles but we don’t need them anymore.”

*    *

Circa summer 1999

Mr. Finn

This column originally appeared in the Longmont Times Call and The Rawlins County Square Deal in January, 2006.  I am posting it in celebration of Teacher Appreciation Week.

*     *     *

Jim Finn was a special teacher for me, as he was for many who attended Atwood High School.  Enough years have passed that I can’t recall anything specific I learned in Mr. Finn’s civics or sociology class.  But his classes aren’t what made him special.

Mr. Finn was one of those teachers who inspired me to be my best — or at least to try.  He had higher expectations for me than I had for myself.  He made me believe I could do better.

For that I am grateful.  And, I tip my hat to all those teachers, mentors and parents who inspire young people to reach for their potential.  We don’t measure it on standardized tests but helping young people learn what it takes to strive for excellence is just as important as any subject.

One thing I’ve learned is that those who reach the top of their field aren’t always the most talented.  Those who achieve the most are those who have the best habits.

My brother Alec runs a radio station in Eastern Colorado.  He’ll tell you the best sales people aren’t the most charismatic.  Those who are best have the discipline to follow a system of making calls and follow-up calls.  It’s that basic.

Hall of Fame basketball player Magic Johnson is said to have shot fee throw every day after practice until he made 100.  Free throws seldom get you on SportsCenter but they do win basketball games.

At this time of year, when we’re making New Year resolutions, it is good to remember the role habits play in our ability to achieve success.

We are a society of people who seek shortcuts to our desired destinations.  Look at the shelves of diet books in every bookstore.  Good health is not rocket science.  Eat smart and exercise.  Yet, so many of us ignore these daily disciplines in search of an easier way that does not exist.

I’ve also learned, sometimes without grace, that to do our best we must listen to critics.  We must be willing to face the possibility that we’re not doing as well as we think — even if we’re working hard.  As legendary basketball coach and teacher John Wooden advises, we must not confuse activity with achievement.

I recall a history paper I wrote for Tom Bliss.  I got it back with a few words circled and “better word choice” scribbled across the top.  Grade: B.  I confronted him about his mistake.  I knew my material.  Surely, he meant to give me an A.

“You are capable of writing better,” he said.  End of conversation.  To this day, when I write for clients, I think about word choice and whether I’m giving it my all.  That experience in history class so long ago makes me better at what I do now.

As early as first grade, I can recall teachers asking me to do my best.  Miss Bearley, now Mrs. Erickson, “asked” me to do an assignment again because my first attempt was sloppy.  She cared enough to ask me to take pride in my work and not to be satisfied with just getting it done.  It’s a lesson that serves me well every day.

Stretching for our potential can be scary.  The angst of potential failure is powerful.  That is why each of us needs us support.  Indeed, no achieves excellence alone.

Sometimes we need tough love.  One of my most poignant experiences with Mr. Finn occurred when he heard me badmouthing someone.  He interrupted saying, “I would expect better.”  Then, he walked on.

On other occasions we need the proverbial — and sometimes literal — hug.  In track once, our team came out on the short end of a controversial finish.  We handled the decision with heartache but style.  On that day, Mr. Finn put his arm around me and said, “I’m proud to be your coach.”

When young people are given consistent support out of genuine caring, it can be breathtaking what they are able to achieve.

So thank you to all those teaches, mentors and parents who care.  Thanks to those of you who inspire young people to really dig down and reach for their potential.

Thank you, Mr. Finn.

Groups don’t stay together long without help.  We’re like cats.  We tend to drift off in our own direction doing our own thing unless someone herds us back together.

That’s the way it is with groups.  Groups need someone to organize activities and events.  Someone must make sure everyone in the group knows what’s going on.  Someone must help people feel welcome and connected.  Over time, someone must make sure members of the group know what is happening in one another’s lives.  Someone must invite, encourage, nudge and harangue people to attend group gatherings.  All of these things take time, energy and emotional effort.

The group which I’ve been part of the longest (nearly ninety percent of my life) is Atwood High School Class of 1983.  We began our journey in Mrs. Connelly’s Kindergarten class in the fall of 1970.  Forty years later many, if not most of us, are still connected to one degree or another.  Not just those class members who happened to live in Atwood in the spring of 1983 when we walked across the podium in the high school gymnasium to receive our diplomas.  Classmates who moved away in grade school and junior high are still members of our group.  Foreign exchange students remain connected, too.  That’s because the class of 1983 has a someone.

Natalie Ruda Seybold is the someone who holds us together.  It’s hard to be an organizer.  It’s especially hard when your group is scattered across the country and globe and neither the internet nor Facebook exist.  Most people would get burned out over time.  Or, just get busy going to school, getting a job, getting married, raising kids and caring for parents.  Yet, for nearly thirty years, Natalie has kept our class connected.

Natalie is the person who I count on to let me know when my classmates get married, have kids, lose a parent or are ill themselves.  Natalie is the person I turn to when I need to contact someone.  I know she’ll have their address, phone number and now email.  I’ve been able to reconnect with old friends who slipped out of my life because Natalie made it happen.  Natalie is the one who keeps me excited about being a member of this very special group.

I’m glad for Natalie’s sake that tools like Facebook now exist.  I can’t imagine how much effort it was to make all the calls she made and write all the letters she wrote.  She did those things in the Eighties and early Nineties when most of us had never heard of email or the internet.  Now, her tasks may be a little easier but the enthusiasm and the passion for the Class of ’83 still burns as strong as ever.

This recent exchange on Facebook is just one small example.

I tell Natalie thank you from time to time but never often enough.  I’m proud to be a member of the AHS Class of ’83.  I’m grateful we have someone named Natalie to help keep us all connected.

I feel a burst of pride each time I look at the bike parked by the steps to our front door.  It took me most of the summer to save enough lawn mowing money to pay for it in full.  I begged my parents to make me a loan but Mom said, “No!”  I had to pay for the bike myself.  She has the idea that I don’t take good enough care of the bike I already have — or had until just a few days ago.

The prospect of owning that orange bike is the first thing that’s really ever motivated me to keep up with my lawn mowing jobs.  Well, Mom motivates me.  Nags more like.  Every morning she makes statements in the form of a question, “Aren’t you supposed to mow Mrs. Pratts lawn today.”  No wonder she’s so good at Jeopardy.

She hasn’t had to remind me this summer.  I want the money.  I mow Pearl Pratt and Jimmy Greason — the live across the street and next door — on one day.  Mrs. Pratt likes me to mow her lawn first so I don’t bring weed seeds over.  Mrs. Hayes at Henneberger Apartments and Mrs. Henneberger — who both live near Paul’s house — are another day’s work.  Mrs. Wolf by the high school and my parents’ lawn I do on separate days.

I average about five dollars a lawn.  But, it’s not all profit.  Mom has this idea that I need to learn to manage my own business.  She charges me for gas, oil, plastic bags and rent to use the lawn mower.  She even charges me that stuff when I mow her lawn.  I don’t like it but I have no choice except to pay.  She makes me record all my revenues and expenses.  I have to show her my ledger about every two weeks.

I’m able to pick up a few extra dollars during harvest.  The older boys who drive combines or wheat trucks need someone to sub for them while they’re out in the fields.  It’s those harvest lawns that help put me over the top.

I ride every night before and after supper when I finally own the bike.  The best time to ride is between eight at night and the ten o’clock whistle when I’m required to go home.  The downtown streets are mostly empty this time of day.  All the stores are closed.

I made a circuit from my house, west on State Street, through the State Bank drive through, across the alley, wrong way through the Farmers’ Bank drive through, right on Fourth Street, right on Main, right on Fifth Street, through the parking area by Dunker’s Radio & TV, across State Street, through Currier Drug’s parking lot, east up the alley, right on Fifth, around the Christian Church, north on Sixth Street and back to my house.  I log my times in a notebook each night — when I remember; I’m not nearly as disciplined as my dad.

The joy I feel about my bike is tempered by the mood in the house.  Our dog Pepper has been missing for more than a week.

We have two miniature schnauzers.  Gruffy is the oldest.  Pepper joined the household a few years later.  We thought Gruffy might like a companion.  Alec and I are getting older and Gruffy spends a lot of time in our house all alone.  We didn’t want him to be lonely.

Only thing is, we never consulted Gruffy.  From the moment Dad set Pepper down in our dining room, he was in love with Gruffy.  Pepper followed Gruffy everywhere he went nipping at his heals, nosing him to play.  Gruffy couldn’t stand Pepper.  Four or five years later, Gruffy’s feelings have not changed.  We are all sad Pepper is lost.  Gruffy couldn’t be more delighted.

It’s getting dark a bit early tonight.  A thunderstorm is rolling in.  I love the smell of the cool air just before a storm.  I just hope it doesn’t start to rain soon.  I’m doing a full town loop on my bike.  I start going north from the high school to Highway 36, west to Highway 25, then south to the street just past Courts of Praise (I can never remember its name), back north along Second or Third (I like to ride by the pool), then back up State Street to the high school.

I’m just about to the swimming pool, checking the cross streets, when I see a small grey dog running toward Fourth Street at full speed.  It’s Pepper!  I change course immediately.  I can imagine being welcomed home a hero by my family if I can catch Pepper and carry him through the door.

I peddle harder than I ever remember.  In a matter of seconds, I’m on Pepper’s tail.  He does that sideways jump the way dogs do when they’re running and spooked. He’s not excited to see me at all.  He’s scared.  We’re almost to Fifth Street by now.  Rather turning left toward our house, he kicks it in another gear and heads back south.

“Pepper,” I yell over and over, “Come back.”  Each time I call out his name he seems to go a little faster — away from me.  It doesn’t occur to me to end the chase.  It doesn’t cross my mind that he may have found his own way home.  I try to ride faster, too.

Pepper beat me to the edge of town by a good ten yards and darts under the barb wire fence and into the pasture filled with soap weed.  I jump off my bike barely slowing down.  I struggle through the fence and begin to run.  I only go a few strides.  I’m winded and Pepper is still going full speed.  He runs without looking back over a hill into a draw.

My images of being a hero are erased by fear.  What will my family say when I tell them this news?  I blew it.  Should I even tell them, I wonder?  The six blocks back to my house are the longest I’ve ever rode.

Easter 2002

We squeeze into our stage left dinner table at the Boulder Dinner Theater with no sense that it is a meal I will remember the rest of my life.

Mom, Dad, Emma and I are in Boulder to see Fiddler on the Roof.  Emma is not quite five but she’s a big fan.  I’ve learned since becoming a dad that kids latch on to a handful of movies and watch over and over and over again.  Emma’s favorites are Disney’s Jungle Book, CATS, and Fiddler on the Roof.  I’m not much for musicals (or lyrics) but we’ve watched Tevye and his fellow villagers so often I can sing along.

Mom is a fan of Fiddler on the Roof, too.  The LP record of the movie sound track was a fixture on her turn table.  The first VHS she ever bought was Fiddler.  It probably cost $90 in those days.  It’s amazing how so many luxuries are so inexpensive now.

The meal and the performance at the Boulder Dinner Theater are good, not great.  But, we’re having a lot of fun.  It must be almost seven before we receive our meals.  I could say specifically if I listened more closely to Dad.  As always, he started his stop watch the moment we walked in the door and, again, when we the waitress takes our orders.  He’s always happy to give reports on the time we’ve spent in a restaurant, how long we have to wait to make our order and how long it takes for the food to arrive.

Dad and I order steak.  Mom orders salmon.  Emma orders a kid’s hamburger.  She’s already anticipating the ice cream sundae that comes later.  We’re all ravished by the time we’re able to eat.  Emma tears through her burger like nobody’s business.  Mom helps her out with her fries.  Mom eats the fish but scoots the over cooked broccoli, cauliflower and carrots off to the side.  I do the same.  We all enjoy the mash potatoes.  It’s hard to mess up even powdered mash potatoes if you add enough butter.

Emma climbs on Mom’s lap to watch the show.  They whisper to each other in anticipation of each song.  Emma loves being so close to the actors.  The performance keeps us entertained but certainly doesn’t compare to the movie.  But, who could hope to compare to Topol as Tevye?

The sundaes we receive at intermission are everything Emma hoped they would be:  two large scoops of ice cream, excessive chocolate syrup, whipped cream and a maraschino cherry on top.  I’m glad Emma’s not a big fan of the cherry.  I eat hers.

Tomorrow is Easter.  Emma will wake up to a basketful of chocolate and jelly beans but I let her eat as much ice cream as she wants.  She finishes off her sundae in mere seconds, or so it seems, and then moves back to Mom’s lap to help her finish hers.

The benefit of late night theater on Easter Eve is we’re able to sleep in just a bit in the morning.  Joe and Grace were both up during the night.  Grace is up almost every night at four months old.  Joe’s usually a good sleeper but often comes to our bed if he wakes up during the night.  I was glad all the children slept the next morning.  It gave me one of those rare occasions to read the Sunday paper.  Mom was already up, too.

The holidays are so much fun when the kids are small.  This is the first Easter Joe anticipates.  He’s only two but understands enough to be excited.  I stayed up late, after the dinner theater, to hide the eggs in the yard.  It’s a bit chilly but an outdoor hunt for eggs is always the best.  Our relatively new back yard is large enough for kids to run to their hearts delight as they discover each new treasure.  Emma will hide the eggs for Joe and whomever else she can persuade to play at least a half-dozen times.

I notice Mom is not as enthusiastic about Easter morning as the rest of us.  Dad enjoys these events because he can take photographs.  He’s almost as obsessive about documenting occasions as he is about timing the service at restaurants.  Mom does her best to feign interest but it is clear she would rather stay indoors.

Her mood doesn’t improve at the dinner table.  Lamb is one of her favorite meals.  It’s something both Mom and Dad enjoy so Joni made a point to serve it for Easter.  Mom does little more than push the food around her plate.

“I guess I ate too much last night she says” she says without being asked.  We accept this as a plausible explanation.  I feel bad Joni’s put effort into a meal that’s barely touched but, the truth is, I don’t have the energy to take much interest.

The last four months have been tough for Joni and me.  Grace’s birth threw our lives into a tailspin.  We knew three would be more work and we’ve been through the late night feedings two times before.  But, what I didn’t count on was how three kids would affect my work schedule.  I take Joe to daycare in the mornings now and pick him up, too.  His daycare is close to Joni’s work not mine so the new duty cuts into my work day by almost two, maybe three, hours.  I’m not keeping up with work and I’m feeling the stress.  I’m not just tired with a newborn but staying up late to work most nights, too.

Joni is that tired only the mother of a new born with a toddler and preschooler can describe.  She’s in survival mode.  The other night, we bumped into each other in the hall at two a.m. as we were passing between kids’ bedrooms, all three needing attention.  “Who the hell are you,” I asked.  I was only half-kidding.

Perhaps sleep deprivation or work stress makes it hard to listen.  Whatever the cause, I remember little of what Mom is saying to me on this Easter.  Something about her garden comes up two or three times.  “I’m tired from working in the garden,” she says.   “My back is sore.”

Those words, “My back is sore,” are something I will recall vividly in just a few short weeks.

I’m a little testy when Mom calls late one morning in early May.  I’m at work and I’m on a roll writing a report.  Finding uninterrupted time is one of my greatest challenges.  I’m on deadline and I don’t really want to take the time to talk.

The tone of Mom’s voice is different somehow.  The moment she says, “I just called to talk,” I get a sick feeling in my gut.  I know something’s wrong.  The call came to my cell phone, which I’m glad, so I exit from the office and head for the streets of Louisville.  I don’t want to be in the office to have this conversation.

“I’m sorry,” Mom says.

“Why,” I ask.

“I have cancer again.   And, it’s bad.”

The pain in her back is not from stooping too long in the garden.  Her lower back and abdomen are filled with cancer.  The initial diagnosis is ovarian cancer but we learn a few days later the breast cancer she beat fifteen years ago is back — with a vengeance.    It has metastasized and its literally consuming her body from the inside out.

Alec and I join Dad and Mom in Denver for Mom’s surgery.  We spend the next four weeks in hospital rooms.  Dad reads mom Agatha Christie books and we all watch old episodes of M*A*S*H at Mom’s bedside.  We were big fans of the 1970s sitcom.  It’s like comfort food to watch Hawkeye, Colonel Potter and the gang.  In fact, familiar television shows and books are the only comfort “foods” Mom tolerates.

Dad, Alec and I piece together the last two months between visits with Mom.  I learn that she hasn’t eaten anything but toast and tea since Easter Eve.  The salmon, mash potatoes, french fries and ice cream sundae she shared with Emma was her last meal.

The cliches are true.  We all say to ourselves enjoy every day as if it might be your last.  As our parents age, we realize we should enjoy every visit as if it might be the last.  But, few of us really do.  I don’t know that I am any better now at relishing the moment.

I am glad we had so much fun at Boulder Dinner Theater that night.

Greg Dreiling Fan Club

I wrote this post at the beginning of basketball season.  The season didn’t play out as I’d hoped.  Now, I am an enthusiastic fan of the K-State Wildcats.  Ask my kids what our rules are about who to cheer for in a game and they will tell you.  KU first, Big-12 second, never for Mizzou.

*     *     *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mario’s Miracle Shot

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

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

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

Just sayin’.

*     *     *

Picture Credits:

Mario’s Miracle Shot from Daylife

YouTube video by Joe

Nineteen eighty-six was the peak of my undergraduate career at the University of Kansas.  I was on the go ‘round the clock, had several once in a lifetime opportunities and received honors — some of which I’m not sure I fully deserved.

I was one of the tri-chairmen for The Kansas Relays student committee in the spring of 1986.  The Kansas Relays were a family interest from my earliest memories.  My dad competed in the Master’s Mile when I was a kid.  It was a natural group to join when I came to KU.

The tri-chairmen and student volunteers had three main responsibilities: fundraising, volunteer recruiting and competition management.  I was the tri-chair for competition.  My team and I processed entries, SEATED athletes in event heats and posted results for hundreds of high school and college athletes.

The work was still done by hand in those days.  Athletes who submitted “hand held” times (times recorded on a stop watch rather than an electronic timer) had their times adjusted manually for SEATING purposes. Heat sheets were printed by mimeograph.  It took twenty students working late into the night to get all the work done.  I loved it!

The summer swept me into the world of a statewide political campaign.  I joined Mike Hayden’s staff as his driver and assistant.  We traveled every day from Memorial Day to the August primary.  (I had an apartment and roommate in Lawrence.  I stayed there one night.)  Our days would start with breakfast at the Optimist Club and end with wine and cheese at the country club.  It was 100 hour weeks of pure learning; an inside seat on politics that is one of the best experiences of my life.

I took the reigns as president of the AKL Fraternity in the fall of 1986 and continued to campaign for Mike as best I could.  I was nominated and interviewed for the Rhodes Scholarship that fall, too.  The Rhodes process was exhilarating and humbling.  I still can’t believe how badly I botched my final interview.

Then came the spring of 1987.  I added economics as a major (in addition to business administration) my sophomore year.  The late start on a double major, combined with activities, meant that I would not graduate on time (May 1987) unless I took 28 hours my final semester.  Who wants to do that?  Especially at state school tuition rates.  I quickly came to terms with the fact that I would need a Super Senior Semester in the fall  of 1987.  That’s what made the spring so fun.

I limited my spring schedule to three classes and thirteen hours of credit.  I took two four hour business classes.  One met eight to ten on Monday and Wednesday mornings.  One met at the same time on Tuesday and Thursday mornings.  My third class was Meteorology 101, a five hour course with three hours of lecture and a two hour lab once a week on Tuesday nights.  The lab was great fun.  I can’t tell you about the lecture because I never went.

That was the extent of my spring academics — two hours of class, four days a week and two hours on Tuesday nights.  My duties as fraternity president were complete.  I was a member emeritus on the Kansas Relays student committee and there was no Hayden campaign.  That left a lot of hours for me to fill each day.

This became my daily routine (except Fridays): 7:00 a.m. breakfast. 7:30 a.m. bus to class. 8:00 a.m. class. 10:00 a.m. read and do homework for next day’s class.  12:00 p.m. return to fraternity for lunch and Days of Our Lives.  1:00 p.m. nap.  2:30 pick up basketball in the parking lot.  5:00 p.m. hang out.  6:00 p.m. supper.  7:30 p.m. cards, usually spades.  10:00 p.m. play pool, have a beer.  12:00 a.m. bed.

Who couldn’t get used to that kind of schedule.

The only thing that would interrupt my routine was Jayhawk basketball and Tuesday night Meteorology Lab.  Beyond that, the guys could count on me to be there for Days, Basketball and cards.  I took pride in being reliable.

Friday was my day off from this grind.  I’d fallen in love with a K-Stater.  Most Fridays after Days of our Lives (didn’t want to rush into the day) I’d head to Manhattan to visit Joni.  It didn’t really make sense to go earlier.  She had class on Fridays.  Imagine!

As I noted, I didn’t attend Meteorology lectures.  I’d been in a few large lecture classes.  I never found them a good use of time.  The professor or teaching assistant typically just covered what I’d already read in the text book.  It made more sense to me to read on my own time rather listen to someone else read at a set time.  Besides, I had commitments to keep — basketball, for instance.

I must admit, as the Meteorology final approached, I began to get nervous about my approach.  I decided I should go to the final lecture for the final test review.  I was walking to my car to drive to campus when a fraternity brother screamed my name.

“Stop,” he yelled.

“What,” I responded.

“Don’t go,” he said, as he reach my car out of breath.

“What are you talking about,” I asked?

“I heard you’re going to Meteorology,” he replied.

“Yeah, so.”

“You can’t do it.”

“Why,” I asked.

“Think about it,” he explained.  “What’s a better story?  I skipped all my Meteorology classes but one.  Or, I never went to one class.”

Twenty-one year old logic is perfectly clear… At least to another twenty-one year old.  I understood exactly what he was saying.  I went back to the house.  Changed into my hoops clothes and headed for the court.  It was another great day.

*     *     *

I ask myself now how I would feel if one of my kids coasted for a semester the way I did in the spring of 1987.  It might be one of those instances when ignorance is bliss.

It’s true that I didn’t maximize my academic experience that semester.  I rationalize by telling myself I didn’t damage my graduate school prospects.

Plus, it was one heckuva vacation.

How do we enable children to gain a sense of ownership in groups and organizations of which they are part?  One way is to let them use community spaces as they see fit.

I always felt that the United Methodist Church in Atwood, Kansas was MY church.  It was much more than the place I went on Sunday mornings.  It was like a second home.

One reason I felt so comfortable at the Methodist Church is that I participated in a wide range of activities.  I sang in the youth choir.  I was a regular at Sunday School.  I was an enthusiastic member of MYF (Methodist Youth Fellowship).  I was a huge fan of church potlucks (except for the time I took rhubarb pie by mistake thinking it was cherry).  It was a place where I spent many hours.

It was weekday afternoon hide-and-seek games that made the church seem much than just a place to go.  Our hide-and-seek games were not church sanctioned activities.  To this day, I’m unsure of whether adults were aware or not.  We never advertised our games to parents or other adults.  We didn’t really hide what we were doing, either.  That would have been impossible given the loud nature of our games.

The Atwood grade and junior high schools were located directly across the street from the Methodist Church.  It was a perfect place for young boys to stop and blow off steam after being cooped up for hours in a classroom.  We could usually round up at least four or five boys for our version of hide-and-seek better described as hide, chase and tackle.  A player wasn’t “found” until he was unambiguously tagged, which usually meant dropping the fugitive to the ground.

The church was never locked — at least, not all the doors were locked.  We tried to avoid the entrance by the pastor’s office.  Again, we weren’t necessarily trying to hide what we were doing.  We just figured fewer questions is always better than more.

The church building was, in fact, a group of buildings tied together by a convoluted series of halls and staircases.  We liked to enter down a long staircase into the old church basement which served as a fellowship hall for many years.  The basement was like an old gym complete with stage on one side and a large kitchen on the other.  The original sanctuary was up two flights of stairs.  Behind the old sanctuary, was an area where families gathered before funerals and the choir before Sunday service.

The new sanctuary sat to the north and extended to the east of the original building.  This portion included a balcony overlooking the sanctuary and to the side, an adult classroom, the pastor’s offices and an entrance hall for the choir behind the church alter.  The basement addition contained six to ten classrooms and a large nursery.

The combination of rooms with multiple exits, staircases and hallways was a better than any labyrinth.  We used all the space the church had to offer, including on occasion the bathtub designed for baptisms buried in the basement stage and the large air ducts in the older parts of the building.

My favorite hiding place was the old sanctuary.  It had the most favorable escape routes to evade pursuers.  I could exit toward the back, down the stairs to the fellowship hall, across the basement “gym” and through the kitchen to the new addition classrooms.

The more thrilling route was out the front of the old sanctuary through a series of up and down staircases followed by a long narrow hall.  I would lead my pursuer through this maze and up to the balcony overlooking the new sanctuary.  I would let my advisory believe he had me cornered.  Then, I turned and leaped from the balcony to the wide aisle dividing the two sections of sanctuary pews.

That’s were the pursuit would end.  Unless, I was being chased by a veteran who practiced the balcony tactic, too.  In that case, I hoped not to stumble when I hit the floor so I could make it to he choir hall behind the alter before being tackled from behind.

The Methodist Church became a second home because we had free reign.  One might question the appropriateness of our game — especially in a sanctuary.  Yet, the silent conspiracy between knowing adults (there must have been some) and energetic youth allowed our games to flourish for many years with little or no damage done.  The result was we young people felt a deep sense of affection for our place of worship.

Giving children free reign is a powerful gift.  My experience is that it builds confidence in children as well as a sense of ownership in the places we adults want them to be.

I’m must admit I don’t give my children the latitude to run free as I did as a child.  I tell myself it’s because the town we live in is bigger, the times are different, public buildings are used by more people.  The truth is I need to do a better job to adapt.  Their need for free reign is no different from mine thirty years ago.

What community spaces exist in your community?  How can you help children use these spaces as they see fit rather than only as adults prescribe?

*     *     *

John Creighton can be found on Twitter @johncr8on and onFacebook.

Photo Credit: Rawlins County Square Deal

Miss Mary's House

“Help,” I heard a small voice float by on the breeze.

I paused. I looked. Nothing.

I continued to walk up the alley toward my house when I heard the whisper a second time, “Help.” Again, I looked in all directions.  The voice was close yet distant. I felt like Horton searching for a speck with Whos.

I could sense that someone needed help.  I felt it. But couldn’t tell where the cry was coming from.  I stood there, ears pricked, for what felt like long minutes.  No sound. The voice seemed to have disappeared.

I began to cross the street from the alley behind the Library and Citizen-Patriot toward my house.  I was almost to our front sidewalk when I heard a slightly stronger voice call out, “Help me.”  I spun around and saw a pair of eyes peering over the bottom of Miss Mary’s screen door.

Miss Mary lived directly across the street to the west in a simple two bedroom cottage.  She was in her 80’s I would guess.  She suffered from terrible osteoporosis.  She walked in a permanent stoop as if she was always looking for a dropped coin.  Yet Miss Mary was remarkably active.

Despite her physical limitations, Miss Mary faithfully kept her yard in spit-spot condition.  Her sister and brother-in-law would join her to help with lawn mowing.  But, Miss Mary often did this work herself.  I remember many times seeing her in the summer heat, prairie bonnet perched upon her head, slowly pushing her small electric mower.  The pride she took in maintaining her property set the standard for the neighborhood.

Miss Mary lived across the street from us for many years.  Most that I remember.  But I had never been in her house until this day.  And, I would never enter again.

When I saw the top of Miss Mary’s head, I dashed across the street.  I could see immediately that she was in considerable pain sprawled across the floor just inside her front door.  I stepped inside unsure how to help.

“Move me to the couch,” she whispered.

I put my hands underneath her shoulders and began to lift.  The moment I exerted upward pressure she groaned in extreme agony.  I stopped.  I tried to think.  I felt an ache of panic enter my stomach – what do I do?

Miss Mary said nothing.  It was clear that my failed attempt had taken a toll.

I repositioned myself in front and picked her up.  Miss Mary was small.  I can’t imagine she weighed more than 90 pounds.  At age 10 or 12, I weighed less.

With all my strength I hefted her off the ground.  Her cries made clear this was a bad idea.  But, I was desparate.  I had to get her to the couch.

I scooted the four steps from the front door to the couch, hoping not to fall on top of her, and deposited her frail frame upon the couch.  She sat there panting for what seemed an eternity.  I stood by in silence yet to speak since I entered.

Finally, she gasped, “Call my sister,” pointing feebly toward her phone.

Thankful to leave her side I went to the phone and saw a number on a small piece of paper taped to the formica counter top.  I dialed the four digits and was grateful when a woman answered.  I have little recollection of the conversation.  In a moment or two I was back at Miss Mary’s side.

“She’s coming,” I said.

Miss Mary nodded but said nothing.  She panted shallow breaths.  I stood.  At long last Miss Mary struggled to say, “You can go.”

I walked slowly to the door.  Once I was on her one-step porch I didn’t hesitate.  I sprinted as fast as I could across the street and through  my own front door.

I ran from room to room in my house to tell my mom what had just happened.  But, no one was home.

I went back to our dining room window and opened the closed shades just enough to keep watch on Miss Mary’s house.  I stood there until I saw a car pull up.  A weight lifted from my chest as I watched Miss Mary’s sister and brother-in-law hurry up her short walk and through the front door.

My responsibility was done.  Relief.  But, then, anxiety.  Had I done anything to hurt Miss Mary?

Over the years, I would help three more neighbors who had fallen in their homes.  In each case, I was glad to be of aid.  But my memories of Miss Mary still include doubt, even a bit or remorse.  The groans of pain continue to echo in a far corner of my mind.  It was the first time I had stood face-to-face with the cruel side of old age.

I learned a great deal from my octogenarian neighbors – passion for living, perseverance through pain, pride in maintaining property, taking interest in children 70 years younger.

As haunting a day as I had with Miss Mary I am grateful for the experience.  I learned about the tremendous strength and fragility that exists simultaneously within each of us.

Our Longmont neighborhood does not provide my children with the same opportunity I had to be in relationship with people many generations older.

I am sorry that my children are missing out.

*    *    *

originally published January 28, 2009.