Neil Armstrong is dead. To an ever aging generation,the first man to set foot upon the moon was a hero of the greatest magnitude. In his mind though, I am sure Neil Armstrong felt he was not a hero. He was just doing his job,doing what was asked of him by his superiors, just as we do at our everyday jobs, albeit ours, for the most part, do not involve the risks and dangers that his did.
Hero or not, when Neil Armstrong, along with his two other astronauts executed their tasks to perfection, he inspired countless young men and women to follow in his footsteps. As an 8 year old,I sat transfixed in front of our console television set watching history unfold one black and white image at a time. Around the world, countless others did the same. In an instant, kids such as myself went from playing Cowboys and Indians to playing Apollo astronauts. Some of those kids, I am sure, actually did make it to Space later in their lives, all thanks to the events of July 20, 1969. I'll also bet that these latter day astronauts had had the chance to meet Neil Armstrong, and to tell him how he inspired their dreams and ambitions. I'll also bet that Neil took it all in stride, probably shrugging it off with an "aw, shucks, thanks so much" attitude. I never met Neil Armstrong, but that is the impression I have of him, no big ego, just an ordinary guy who happened to do an extraordinary thing, and in doing so, gained the admiration and respect of not only a nation, but the world. Thanks Neil, you will be missed.
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I have a copy of a bicycle racing magazine from 1991 in my hand. There, on page 6 is a short column stating that Lance Armstrong, a cycling phenom from Texas, will ride for the Subaru-Montgomery team for the upcoming year. The team director is quoted as saying Lance has real possibilities for a great career in the sport, a real talent. Little did we know.
From 1991-1996 Armstrong's career was studded with triumphs big and small. Fans know what he accomplished during those years, but it is what happened after 1996 that made Lance a household name.
The story is a familiar one now, of how he was diagnosed with Cancer, beat it, and came back against all odds to not only race again, but to win the world's toughest race, the Tour de France, a record 7 times in a row. He was a hero, an inspiration to all, an example of positive attitude and a never-say-die attitude. He became a spokesperson for the cancer community, started a foundation, and raised millions for cancer research. He made wearing a yellow rubber bracelet into a fashion statement, I have one on, and I'll bet you may too. His story was a fairy tale come true. Lance was a celebrity, and had the celebrity friends to prove it.
Now comes the news that Lance Armstrong was probably using illegal substances to help him achieve his successes. He has given up his fight to clear his name from those accusations, and thus his achievements in the cycling world have been eradicated. No more 7 Tour victories, no Olympic medal, nothing. Lance Armstrong has ceased to exist in the cycling world.
I cannot say for sure whether he doped or not. My feeling is that he did, using drugs such as Oxyglobin which was, at the time undetectable and not even on the banned substance list since it was so new. One has to look at the 1996 Tour winner,Bjarne Riis, who eventually admitted to doping during that race. The 1997 winner and Armstrong's main rival in later years, Jan Ullrich, was also found to have doped. Marco Pantani, 1998 winner, was found positive during the 1999 Tour of Italy, which means that he also was probably doping before that. Other cycling stars have also admitted to doping, casting a cloud of suspicion over the whole sport.
Lance, I want to believe you raced clean all those years. I want to believe in the power of proper training and diet, and the power that sheer determination can give you. You were gifted with a superior physical make-up that I can only envy. You, like your namesake Neil, have inspired thousands upon thousands of people, and through your foundation, books, and speeches have given hope to people fighting cancer worldwide. You too did the extraordinary, and became a hero in the process. I want to believe,trust me. And if you did dope, come out and admit it. You'll still be a hero, a hero for admitting you did wrong, and when you pass from this earth, you'll do so in peace with yourself, satisfied with a life well done. Do it for your fans, do it for yourself, and do it especially for Neil Armstrong, another American hero.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
Sunday, July 29, 2012
What Happened?
I began riding my bicycle for fun and fitness again, after a 14 month layoff. Over the past 5 or 6 years my riding had become sporadic at best, family and job considerations took center stage, those things happen in life, it's just how it goes. Anyway, I have more time now, so the old steed got cleaned up and put back on the road where she belongs. I admit it, it feels great to push the pedals, feel the wind and the warm sun, and generally feel fit again. Good for the soul, you understand.
Because I have to start out over again, (can't just ride 100 miles right off) I thought I'd ride a bicycle path near my home. The path is about 13 miles long, and combined with the distance I need to ride to the trail head and back gives me a nice 44 mile round trip. As paths go, it's about what you'd expect, rather flat, and it parallels a river and a canal. Lots of trees provide shade and block strong winds, and having no traffic for almost 26 miles is a good thing, since the roads near me seem to fill up with more and more cars each passing year.
Cycling today is popular, way more so than when I was starting out. In those days (mid 70's) if you saw another serious cyclist while out on the road it was a rarity. And if you did, and you both were headed in the same direction, greetings were exchanged as if you had just met an old friend, and you'd ride together until one of you had to head off in another direction. Oncoming riders would wave heartily at each other. Hey, cyclists were kind of like a fraternity back then, lots of lasting friendships were made this way. Felt good in a way, meeting another person who shared your passion.
Throughout the 36 years I have been riding, 99% of the miles I put in have been on public roads. Bike paths were not too common, and besides, they were thought of as dangerous. Lots of blind turns, riders pretending to be racers, joggers, rollerbladers, people walking dogs, and other obstacles combined to make paths more dangerous than the roads. It's true...statistics show more accidents occur on paths than on the roads. So I, and others stayed off of them. Paths were, and still are , not for fast riding. Too narrow and too many distractions. When I rode a path, it was always at a safe speed and for fun. If I wanted to train for my racing I took to the roads where I belonged.
Fast forward to now....
Over the past 2 weeks I have ridden the aforementioned bike path 8 times, and (shudder) I admit to actually liking it a lot. I ride at a comfortable pace and take in the sights, sounds, and smells of the surrounding areas I pass through. I have also taken in something else which disturbs me a lot.
I have noticed lots of cyclists use this path, from beginners to professional wanna be's. I have also seen walkers and joggers, but mostly it's cyclists rolling up and down the tarmac. Good thing, no?
No.
I have a habit of saying hello to fellow (a term used loosely here) cyclists I encounter while out on my bike. Young, old, doesn't matter. On a 150.00 Wal-Mart special or a 6000.00 carbon-fiber masterpiece...doesn't matter. Wearing a T-shirt and cut-offs or 500.00 worth of racing jersey, shorts and shoes...doesn't matter. They all get a greeting. Old habits die hard, I guess, but it's a habit I want to keep, being nice is an admirable thing, or so I was taught. Funny thing is, that lesson mustn't be taught much anymore. Let me explain.
Over the 26 miles of the bicycle path I have come to like, I see perhaps 40 riders, even more on a weekend day, when sometimes groups of 15 or 20 pass at a time. Lots of these riders look good on their fancy bikes, pedaling away at speeds I used to reach, but, alas, are out of my reach now, thanks to the aging process. Other riders are more casual, pedaling mountain and touring bikes at a pace more suited to me. But whatever they ride, they are all riders to me, brothers in the brotherhood of cycling. So they all get a greeting from me, Mr. Friendly. Here's the rub....I don't get many responses. My admittedly informal poll has around 20% of the cyclists returning my greeting. I get snubbed by all types, from racers to senior citizens. Don't understand it, not at all.
When I ride, I wear my old racing clothing. You might think racer types would say hi, or at least nod in response to my greeting. Nope....too busy suffering I guess. As for the others, God only knows. I get more blank stares than anything. Oh well....
Sunday, February 19, 2012
The Walk Of Understanding
My father was a difficult person to know. As a child,I saw him as someone who laid down the law, a disciplinarian to be feared. Spankings were quite common, (guess I was not an Angel) he had a quick temper, and was not afraid to show it. With 5 kids in our family,there was always someone misbehaving and the house echoed quite often with my mother's warning,"wait until your father hears about this!"
Dad worked the second shift, leaving the house at 1 pm or so and returning around 1 am. He was driven to and walked home from the train, and usually stopped at a bar to have a couple of beers. Beer was big in his life, on weekends he would knock back a case, or sometime he would go to a bar on a Saturday afternoon, come home for dinner, then return for a nightcap. Sunday afternoons might find him there as well, watching a sporting event. You might say he had a drinking problem, maybe he didn't. All I know is that bills got paid, we were fed and clothed, and Christmas found lots of presents under the tree. Nobody said anything, even my mom was quiet, at least in front of us kids. If anything was discussed, it was said behind closed doors.
With those hours and his habits, I hardly saw my dad; he was sleeping when I left for school or went out to play and I was sleeping when he arrived home after work. Often I found myself envious of my friends whose fathers spent time with them. Do not misunderstand me, at times my dad and I spent some time with each other, he would sometimes take me to the bar (you could do that back then) and buy me a soda to sip while he watched the ball game or whatever, but we didn't have much conversation beyond the "Did you see that play?"or "The Cubs are gonna lose, huh?" sort of talk.
Once in a while, my dad would do something surprising. When I was 10 or so I got interested in coin collecting, and one summer day after he woke up he showed me 4 or 5 old coins that he had borrowed from a co-worker. After my drooling stopped I was told I could keep one of them; I chose the oldest and most unusual one, an 1853 3 cent piece. I loved when things like that occurred, made me feel like I was wanted somehow, or that he was proud of me. Beyond the uncommon gestures such as that he really didn't encourage me or the rest of my brothers and sisters much, he just worked and drank most of the time and I came to accept that. I really had no choice, but I felt somehow cheated out of a dad; he certainly was not the stereotypical "Father Knows Best" type, that's for sure. As for my mom, I am sure she was not all that happy with him, but like I said earlier, we had a home, food, and clothes, and sometimes even went on a family vacation. Maybe that was all life was supposed to be, I don't know.
The family vacation was just that, but with one exception; my dad never went. He stayed home and painted or fixed something which needed fixing or did whatever fathers did when they found themselves alone for a week or more. He did not drive, so his time away from work coincided with the time the rest of the family was away. I don't know if he liked being alone, perhaps it was nice not to have all us kids around, and he could relax a bit. When we returned from vacation, whatever needed to be done was done, and our lives returned to what was normal for us.
So imagine our surprise when one day dad announced that vacation was to be at his childhood home in Pennsylvania and that he was going along. Honestly, I did not know what to think, but the trip was to be made by train from Chicago, and that was exciting! Even more excitement occurred when, due to flooding in the Northeast, we were to fly instead! To that point none of us had ever flown, and we impatiently counted the days until departure.
As it turned out, this time my mom and older sister did not come along, the reason was probably financial, but we did know that my paternal grandmother and my mom did not get along well. So on the day we were to leave, my mom took us to the airport kissed us all goodbye, and returned home to do whatever moms do with their oldest daughter when the rest of the family is away.
Upon arrival in Pennsylvania we were picked up and taken to my dad's boyhood home. My grandmother gave us kids a cool reception, she really never cared for us much, there were no Christmas or Birthday cards from her ever. My uncle Bill, however, was a real nice guy and made us feel quite at home with his sense of humor and general kindness. As for my dad, he seemed quite happy to be back home, actually smiling sometimes. It felt kind of weird to be away from my mom though, after all she was the one who was there most of the time for us.
I began to notice a change in my dad, he seemed really relaxed, quite a difference from his usual uptight self. Things we did that, at home would cause him to yell at us were dismissed with a good natured laugh or a wave of his hand. Maybe he was putting on an act for his family, I don't know; but it sure was nice. At night my brothers and I would talk about this change, wondering what had happened. Whatever it was, we hoped it would last. No drinking, no yelling, no spanking....wow!
As the days went on we did the usual stuff, visiting other relatives, going swimming, going to amusement parks, and just generally goofing off. After a long, hot day at one park I became ill and vomited in the car. Back home that would of earned all my dad's fury, but here it was met with a "well,that happens" attitude. I think we all pinched ourselves to see if we were dreaming. Dad even bragged about my coin collection to my uncle one day, and I was promptly taken upstairs and given a few pieces by my uncle.
One day near the end of the trip my dad asked me to take a walk with him. As the two of us walked down a hill away from the house he began to open up, telling me about his life here and showing me where things had happened when he was a kid. We passed his grade school where he pointed out where he had gotten into fights, over there was a ball field where he hit a game winning Home Run. I saw where he would go sledding, a steep hill that ended at a guard rail, past that rail was a 300 foot drop. Here was where he first kissed a girl, and over there he smoked a cigarette when he was 12. I was almost 12 myself, and I could not believe he had done some of the same things as me, and even more. I told him about my escapades, and began to see him as a real person, someone more than a stranger who fed and clothed and yelled at me. He had a life, and in his own way he was revealing it to me.
Dad told me about his father, a mine worker who died of Black Lung disease when my dad was 15. I found out he had lost an older brother as well, to a form of heart disease. As he talked I could see the pain and emotion on his face, he lost his composure once, but only once. Men were not supposed to cry, they had to be strong you know; but in that moment he was a human being in need of consolation. It felt awkward seeing him that way, I really didn't know what to say or do. So I just said I was sorry, and he hugged me. He told me life can be cruel sometimes, so enjoy it while you can, that you cannot predict the future. Heady stuff for an 11 year old to understand perhaps, so I just nodded my head and we walked on. I wondered if he enjoyed his life, certainly he had over the past week or so. He seemed a changed man, and for the better.
Seven months after we had arrived home, on a Sunday morning my father had a massive heart attack, he did not survive. I cried of course, but not much. I was now the "Man" of the family, I needed to be strong, or so I felt. At the wake and funeral I was strangely detached, shedding not a single tear. People told me to let it all out, but nothing came out. I accepted his death and moved on with my adolescent life, fatherless.
I don't know if it was fate, maybe my dad knew something somehow, and that trip the previous summer was his farewell tour, so to speak. When I look back upon that time, I see a person who, perhaps, was ready to make a change in his life; to start a new chapter. He had opened the book to page one, and then that book was slammed shut. I may of been denied the opportunity to have spent any more time with him, but I do cherish the memories of that one day in the summer of 1972 when for a few hours we were two people; one a teacher, the other a student.
I now have my own son, ironically my father and I were the same age when our first born sons arrived, so our lives sort of parallel each other but with a couple of exceptions. I spend as much time as I can with my son, to a fault sometimes I am more a friend than a dad. I like beer, but drink way less than my dad did, and try to live a much healthier lifestyle. My dad was 44 when he died, I am now 51 and feel great.
Having grown up and raised a boy of my own I now understand why sometimes my dad could be the way he was, life is full of pressures. Maybe that was his final gift to me, on that walk helping me to understand that we all make mistakes, we are all human. But humans have the ability to look at the past and to learn from it, to apply positive changes. So thanks dad, you have taught me well, though certainly I am not perfect. My son will see my mistakes, learn from them, and hopefully avoid making the same ones I have. I just wish my dad was around to see it happen.
Dad worked the second shift, leaving the house at 1 pm or so and returning around 1 am. He was driven to and walked home from the train, and usually stopped at a bar to have a couple of beers. Beer was big in his life, on weekends he would knock back a case, or sometime he would go to a bar on a Saturday afternoon, come home for dinner, then return for a nightcap. Sunday afternoons might find him there as well, watching a sporting event. You might say he had a drinking problem, maybe he didn't. All I know is that bills got paid, we were fed and clothed, and Christmas found lots of presents under the tree. Nobody said anything, even my mom was quiet, at least in front of us kids. If anything was discussed, it was said behind closed doors.
With those hours and his habits, I hardly saw my dad; he was sleeping when I left for school or went out to play and I was sleeping when he arrived home after work. Often I found myself envious of my friends whose fathers spent time with them. Do not misunderstand me, at times my dad and I spent some time with each other, he would sometimes take me to the bar (you could do that back then) and buy me a soda to sip while he watched the ball game or whatever, but we didn't have much conversation beyond the "Did you see that play?"or "The Cubs are gonna lose, huh?" sort of talk.
Once in a while, my dad would do something surprising. When I was 10 or so I got interested in coin collecting, and one summer day after he woke up he showed me 4 or 5 old coins that he had borrowed from a co-worker. After my drooling stopped I was told I could keep one of them; I chose the oldest and most unusual one, an 1853 3 cent piece. I loved when things like that occurred, made me feel like I was wanted somehow, or that he was proud of me. Beyond the uncommon gestures such as that he really didn't encourage me or the rest of my brothers and sisters much, he just worked and drank most of the time and I came to accept that. I really had no choice, but I felt somehow cheated out of a dad; he certainly was not the stereotypical "Father Knows Best" type, that's for sure. As for my mom, I am sure she was not all that happy with him, but like I said earlier, we had a home, food, and clothes, and sometimes even went on a family vacation. Maybe that was all life was supposed to be, I don't know.
The family vacation was just that, but with one exception; my dad never went. He stayed home and painted or fixed something which needed fixing or did whatever fathers did when they found themselves alone for a week or more. He did not drive, so his time away from work coincided with the time the rest of the family was away. I don't know if he liked being alone, perhaps it was nice not to have all us kids around, and he could relax a bit. When we returned from vacation, whatever needed to be done was done, and our lives returned to what was normal for us.
So imagine our surprise when one day dad announced that vacation was to be at his childhood home in Pennsylvania and that he was going along. Honestly, I did not know what to think, but the trip was to be made by train from Chicago, and that was exciting! Even more excitement occurred when, due to flooding in the Northeast, we were to fly instead! To that point none of us had ever flown, and we impatiently counted the days until departure.
As it turned out, this time my mom and older sister did not come along, the reason was probably financial, but we did know that my paternal grandmother and my mom did not get along well. So on the day we were to leave, my mom took us to the airport kissed us all goodbye, and returned home to do whatever moms do with their oldest daughter when the rest of the family is away.
Upon arrival in Pennsylvania we were picked up and taken to my dad's boyhood home. My grandmother gave us kids a cool reception, she really never cared for us much, there were no Christmas or Birthday cards from her ever. My uncle Bill, however, was a real nice guy and made us feel quite at home with his sense of humor and general kindness. As for my dad, he seemed quite happy to be back home, actually smiling sometimes. It felt kind of weird to be away from my mom though, after all she was the one who was there most of the time for us.
I began to notice a change in my dad, he seemed really relaxed, quite a difference from his usual uptight self. Things we did that, at home would cause him to yell at us were dismissed with a good natured laugh or a wave of his hand. Maybe he was putting on an act for his family, I don't know; but it sure was nice. At night my brothers and I would talk about this change, wondering what had happened. Whatever it was, we hoped it would last. No drinking, no yelling, no spanking....wow!
As the days went on we did the usual stuff, visiting other relatives, going swimming, going to amusement parks, and just generally goofing off. After a long, hot day at one park I became ill and vomited in the car. Back home that would of earned all my dad's fury, but here it was met with a "well,that happens" attitude. I think we all pinched ourselves to see if we were dreaming. Dad even bragged about my coin collection to my uncle one day, and I was promptly taken upstairs and given a few pieces by my uncle.
One day near the end of the trip my dad asked me to take a walk with him. As the two of us walked down a hill away from the house he began to open up, telling me about his life here and showing me where things had happened when he was a kid. We passed his grade school where he pointed out where he had gotten into fights, over there was a ball field where he hit a game winning Home Run. I saw where he would go sledding, a steep hill that ended at a guard rail, past that rail was a 300 foot drop. Here was where he first kissed a girl, and over there he smoked a cigarette when he was 12. I was almost 12 myself, and I could not believe he had done some of the same things as me, and even more. I told him about my escapades, and began to see him as a real person, someone more than a stranger who fed and clothed and yelled at me. He had a life, and in his own way he was revealing it to me.
Dad told me about his father, a mine worker who died of Black Lung disease when my dad was 15. I found out he had lost an older brother as well, to a form of heart disease. As he talked I could see the pain and emotion on his face, he lost his composure once, but only once. Men were not supposed to cry, they had to be strong you know; but in that moment he was a human being in need of consolation. It felt awkward seeing him that way, I really didn't know what to say or do. So I just said I was sorry, and he hugged me. He told me life can be cruel sometimes, so enjoy it while you can, that you cannot predict the future. Heady stuff for an 11 year old to understand perhaps, so I just nodded my head and we walked on. I wondered if he enjoyed his life, certainly he had over the past week or so. He seemed a changed man, and for the better.
Seven months after we had arrived home, on a Sunday morning my father had a massive heart attack, he did not survive. I cried of course, but not much. I was now the "Man" of the family, I needed to be strong, or so I felt. At the wake and funeral I was strangely detached, shedding not a single tear. People told me to let it all out, but nothing came out. I accepted his death and moved on with my adolescent life, fatherless.
I don't know if it was fate, maybe my dad knew something somehow, and that trip the previous summer was his farewell tour, so to speak. When I look back upon that time, I see a person who, perhaps, was ready to make a change in his life; to start a new chapter. He had opened the book to page one, and then that book was slammed shut. I may of been denied the opportunity to have spent any more time with him, but I do cherish the memories of that one day in the summer of 1972 when for a few hours we were two people; one a teacher, the other a student.
I now have my own son, ironically my father and I were the same age when our first born sons arrived, so our lives sort of parallel each other but with a couple of exceptions. I spend as much time as I can with my son, to a fault sometimes I am more a friend than a dad. I like beer, but drink way less than my dad did, and try to live a much healthier lifestyle. My dad was 44 when he died, I am now 51 and feel great.
Having grown up and raised a boy of my own I now understand why sometimes my dad could be the way he was, life is full of pressures. Maybe that was his final gift to me, on that walk helping me to understand that we all make mistakes, we are all human. But humans have the ability to look at the past and to learn from it, to apply positive changes. So thanks dad, you have taught me well, though certainly I am not perfect. My son will see my mistakes, learn from them, and hopefully avoid making the same ones I have. I just wish my dad was around to see it happen.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
The Motor Boy
John the "motor boy"was a kid around my age (6 or 7 at the time) about whom I knew nothing about. As I recall, he did not go to my school, I only heard others in the neighborhood mention him in passing conversation,usually derisive, about how weird he was. Seems he liked to make sounds like an engine, and preferred those sounds instead of speaking, which is how he received his nickname. Probably he was autistic, or had other issues, but what do 7 year old kids know? All they knew was that he was different, and thereby to be avoided. Back then (mid 60's) conditions like that were not discussed, everyone looked the other way.
So imagine my surprise when, on a summer's day, I found out he lived on the next block. This was discovered while walking home from a friend's house. I heard a peculiar sound, and as I passed a yard I saw a boy pushing toy trains around a table, all the while a motor sound coming from his mouth. I stopped and stared....there he was, in person. His eyes caught mine, and as they did he made a louder sound. I looked away and continued home, not quite knowing what to make of him, but I liked the trains he had!
I had trains too, my father's Lionel set, but I was curious to see John's trains. I would pass his yard and look to see if per chance he was out there playing. A few days later, he was, and I ran home and collected some track pieces, the locomotive, and a couple cars. I told my Mom I was going to go play trains with a new kid down the block and ran out of the house back to John's yard.
When I arrived, John was still playing. I didn't quite know what to do, so I just stood there waiting for him to notice me. When, after what seemed to be an eternity, he stared at me and made louder noises, seemingly agitated. Then I held up my trains.
That broke the ice. He ran up to the fence which separated us to get a closer look. His face broke out into a half smile. Without speaking, he reached for a train car. I held it away from him, the smile went away. He then grunted and motioned for me to open the gate and enter. I admit I was nervous and somewhat scared, but I did. Going to the table I set up some track and put my train upon it, he immediately began to push it around while his motor voice revved nice and loud. I occupied myself with his trains.
I don't know how long we were playing (I tried to talk to him but he would not respond) when his Mom came out to the yard. She was probably taken aback to see me, but all I really remember is that she asked my name and where I lived, then went back into the house and came out a bit later with some lemonade. She offered me a glass and I accepted. She said I seemed nice and thanked me for sharing my trains with John, and that I was welcome back anytime.
My Mom asked me about my new friend, all I said was that his name was John and he liked trains too. I didn't say much else because I was afraid she would not let me go play with a kid that was "weird". She said that was nice, and if I wanted to ask him over it was OK with her.
I played over at John's 2 or 3 times a week, one day it was cars, the next trains. We seemed to be able to communicate, though I don't recall him speaking (at least not in complete sentences). For some reason it did not bother me, though my other friends did not know I played with him, I thought by telling them they would laugh at me.
Near the end of summer, John's Mom came to my house to talk to my Mom. I do not know the exact words that were spoken between them, as kids were not supposed to listen in on adult conversations ( at least in my family). So I kept my distance, waiting and wondering.
When she left, my Mom was smiling. She told me that I had done a nice thing by playing with John, his Mom said he hadn't any real friends at all. She also said that John's family was moving soon, in order for him to go to a special school that could help him talk.
I played with John a few more times, but the shorter days and the "For Sale" sign in front of his house foretold what was to come. Sure enough, one day his Mom told me they were going to move that weekend, the house was sold.
John and his family moved away, I don't know where. His house and yard were now empty, awaiting a new family. But my memories were not empty, for that summer I had found a friend, and learned that the language of friendship is deeper than the spoken word. If you don't believe me, ask John the Motor Boy.
So imagine my surprise when, on a summer's day, I found out he lived on the next block. This was discovered while walking home from a friend's house. I heard a peculiar sound, and as I passed a yard I saw a boy pushing toy trains around a table, all the while a motor sound coming from his mouth. I stopped and stared....there he was, in person. His eyes caught mine, and as they did he made a louder sound. I looked away and continued home, not quite knowing what to make of him, but I liked the trains he had!
I had trains too, my father's Lionel set, but I was curious to see John's trains. I would pass his yard and look to see if per chance he was out there playing. A few days later, he was, and I ran home and collected some track pieces, the locomotive, and a couple cars. I told my Mom I was going to go play trains with a new kid down the block and ran out of the house back to John's yard.
When I arrived, John was still playing. I didn't quite know what to do, so I just stood there waiting for him to notice me. When, after what seemed to be an eternity, he stared at me and made louder noises, seemingly agitated. Then I held up my trains.
That broke the ice. He ran up to the fence which separated us to get a closer look. His face broke out into a half smile. Without speaking, he reached for a train car. I held it away from him, the smile went away. He then grunted and motioned for me to open the gate and enter. I admit I was nervous and somewhat scared, but I did. Going to the table I set up some track and put my train upon it, he immediately began to push it around while his motor voice revved nice and loud. I occupied myself with his trains.
I don't know how long we were playing (I tried to talk to him but he would not respond) when his Mom came out to the yard. She was probably taken aback to see me, but all I really remember is that she asked my name and where I lived, then went back into the house and came out a bit later with some lemonade. She offered me a glass and I accepted. She said I seemed nice and thanked me for sharing my trains with John, and that I was welcome back anytime.
My Mom asked me about my new friend, all I said was that his name was John and he liked trains too. I didn't say much else because I was afraid she would not let me go play with a kid that was "weird". She said that was nice, and if I wanted to ask him over it was OK with her.
I played over at John's 2 or 3 times a week, one day it was cars, the next trains. We seemed to be able to communicate, though I don't recall him speaking (at least not in complete sentences). For some reason it did not bother me, though my other friends did not know I played with him, I thought by telling them they would laugh at me.
Near the end of summer, John's Mom came to my house to talk to my Mom. I do not know the exact words that were spoken between them, as kids were not supposed to listen in on adult conversations ( at least in my family). So I kept my distance, waiting and wondering.
When she left, my Mom was smiling. She told me that I had done a nice thing by playing with John, his Mom said he hadn't any real friends at all. She also said that John's family was moving soon, in order for him to go to a special school that could help him talk.
I played with John a few more times, but the shorter days and the "For Sale" sign in front of his house foretold what was to come. Sure enough, one day his Mom told me they were going to move that weekend, the house was sold.
John and his family moved away, I don't know where. His house and yard were now empty, awaiting a new family. But my memories were not empty, for that summer I had found a friend, and learned that the language of friendship is deeper than the spoken word. If you don't believe me, ask John the Motor Boy.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
Requiem For Kodak
Eastman Kodak has filed for bankruptcy protection,surprising no one really,given the fact that the photographic world today is ruled by the megapixel. Yes,we all ditched that yellow box in favor of memory cards faster than people escaping a burning building. In someways,Kodak is that burning building,clinging to the hope that it can rise from the ashes like a Phoenix to rule the world of imaging as it once did.
Ironically,Kodak was at the forefront of digital technology, it had,over 20 years ago partnered with Nikon to create one of the first digital cameras. At a cost approaching 30,000 dollars that camera was more of a curiosity than anything, a small dot on the photographic horizon. But as the years passed,that dot began to transform itself into a small hill,the hill into a mountain,and the mountain into an avalanche. That avalanche buried Kodak.
Did Kodak not see it coming? Back around 2002-2003 they released a study that found that to approach the quality of a 200 speed color negative film, a digital sensor would need to have around 22MP. At that time the absolute best sensors were approaching 6MP, almost 1/4 of the quality of film. So perhaps Kodak felt safe, believing technology could not produce such a large chip. Digital cameras,though expensive, were used mainly by well-heeled consumers and by pros who saw them as a kind of "scouting" camera....they would go to a promising location and shoot various angles and compositions,returning during the period of good light to record the final image on film.
Kodak themselves produced and marketed a line of point and shoot digital cameras,and continued to work with Nikon on high end pro level cameras,but their profitability still depended upon the sale of millions upon millions of those little yellow boxes together with supplying the worlds' darkrooms with chemicals and papers. They also ruled the AV world,their slide projectors were used in homes, businesses,and theaters world-wide. Sales from digital cameras were probably less than 1% of their business. Then it happened.
Almost overnight, technology improved to the point where photo journalists were able to capture usable images using a new breed of Digital SLR cameras from Canon and Nikon which used a different type of sensor that was less costly than the CCD chip used in the Kodak/Nikon camera. These journalists could shoot images and send them via phone line to their offices, where editing could be performed on the spot, eliminating the need to process film and prints. Darkrooms at newspapers disappeared quickly, as did Kodak's sales of the necessary supplies needed for those darkrooms.
As digital became more and more commonplace, film sales dropped as well. The old stand-by of pros worldwide, Kodachrome,was eventually discontinued. Paul Simon sang a love song about that film, but the verdict was in.....film was dying. The company that told us "You push the button, we do the rest" was now pushing buttons to stay afloat. I myself gave up film in 2009, later than others but still.....
Today, film cameras sit on closet shelves gathering dust. A few people shoot it for nostalgic reasons, to be "avant garde", or just because they like film. Film does have it's charm, much like driving an antique car. Fun,but not practical. Lots of things change, history is littered with products and fads (photography was once considered a fad!) that blossomed and died. Film will go on until it is just not practical to manufacture it any longer,and one day kids will see an old ad and ask "What was film,Daddy?"
I can only guess what will happen to Kodak. Will they, like Schwinn, sell their name to any company to put on inferior products in the hope that "Name sells"? Or will they give up film and chemical products completely,concentrating on cameras only? Perhaps they will market digital processors for high volume labs, I don't know. What I do know is that I miss the smell of a new roll of film, and the anticipation of seeing if what I shot was any good. The days of standing at a light box looking at slides and then projecting them are gone,and the smell of darkroom chemicals are a distant memory. I might of gone "digital", but I will not forget those memories, ever. And in a way,that was what Kodak was (and still is,I guess) all about....preserving memories, and in that respect they have succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams. God speed, Kodak.
Ironically,Kodak was at the forefront of digital technology, it had,over 20 years ago partnered with Nikon to create one of the first digital cameras. At a cost approaching 30,000 dollars that camera was more of a curiosity than anything, a small dot on the photographic horizon. But as the years passed,that dot began to transform itself into a small hill,the hill into a mountain,and the mountain into an avalanche. That avalanche buried Kodak.
Did Kodak not see it coming? Back around 2002-2003 they released a study that found that to approach the quality of a 200 speed color negative film, a digital sensor would need to have around 22MP. At that time the absolute best sensors were approaching 6MP, almost 1/4 of the quality of film. So perhaps Kodak felt safe, believing technology could not produce such a large chip. Digital cameras,though expensive, were used mainly by well-heeled consumers and by pros who saw them as a kind of "scouting" camera....they would go to a promising location and shoot various angles and compositions,returning during the period of good light to record the final image on film.
Kodak themselves produced and marketed a line of point and shoot digital cameras,and continued to work with Nikon on high end pro level cameras,but their profitability still depended upon the sale of millions upon millions of those little yellow boxes together with supplying the worlds' darkrooms with chemicals and papers. They also ruled the AV world,their slide projectors were used in homes, businesses,and theaters world-wide. Sales from digital cameras were probably less than 1% of their business. Then it happened.
Almost overnight, technology improved to the point where photo journalists were able to capture usable images using a new breed of Digital SLR cameras from Canon and Nikon which used a different type of sensor that was less costly than the CCD chip used in the Kodak/Nikon camera. These journalists could shoot images and send them via phone line to their offices, where editing could be performed on the spot, eliminating the need to process film and prints. Darkrooms at newspapers disappeared quickly, as did Kodak's sales of the necessary supplies needed for those darkrooms.
As digital became more and more commonplace, film sales dropped as well. The old stand-by of pros worldwide, Kodachrome,was eventually discontinued. Paul Simon sang a love song about that film, but the verdict was in.....film was dying. The company that told us "You push the button, we do the rest" was now pushing buttons to stay afloat. I myself gave up film in 2009, later than others but still.....
Today, film cameras sit on closet shelves gathering dust. A few people shoot it for nostalgic reasons, to be "avant garde", or just because they like film. Film does have it's charm, much like driving an antique car. Fun,but not practical. Lots of things change, history is littered with products and fads (photography was once considered a fad!) that blossomed and died. Film will go on until it is just not practical to manufacture it any longer,and one day kids will see an old ad and ask "What was film,Daddy?"
I can only guess what will happen to Kodak. Will they, like Schwinn, sell their name to any company to put on inferior products in the hope that "Name sells"? Or will they give up film and chemical products completely,concentrating on cameras only? Perhaps they will market digital processors for high volume labs, I don't know. What I do know is that I miss the smell of a new roll of film, and the anticipation of seeing if what I shot was any good. The days of standing at a light box looking at slides and then projecting them are gone,and the smell of darkroom chemicals are a distant memory. I might of gone "digital", but I will not forget those memories, ever. And in a way,that was what Kodak was (and still is,I guess) all about....preserving memories, and in that respect they have succeeded beyond anyone's wildest dreams. God speed, Kodak.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
How A Sandwich Saved My Life....(Sort Of)
As a 14 year old,I became hooked on bicycle riding. The bicycle became an instrument of freedom,allowing me to see and explore places otherwise unreachable in those pre- drivers license days. On the bike,I was in charge of my own destiny, a sort of "go where you want to go,do what you want to do" mentality,and I loved that feeling.
Bicycle riding back then was not what you would call popular,certainly a far cry from today, where it is a socially acceptable and popular activity,and everyone (almost) has heard of Lance Armstrong and the Tour De France. In those days it was a major happening if I saw one other "serious" rider out on the roads.Information in the way of books and magazines was hard to come by, and mostly we riders had to rely on trial and error to discover what worked and what didn't.
I had a friend who also caught the bike "religion" and we would go off on Saturdays for 30 or 40 mile rides if the weather was good. Along the way we pretended we were famous European racers (Eddy Merckx,anyone?) fighting it out over the cobblestones of Belgium or France, and dreamed of actually doing it someday.
One such Saturday my friend informed me he couldn't go too far,as his Dad wanted him back home early to help with chores around the house. So after 10 miles he said he needed to turn around,telling me if I wanted to go further it was all right with him. It was a nice warm day,so I told him yes,I would like to go on alone. We said our good byes,and I pedaled off up the road. Ten minutes later a rider on an expensive bike came up alongside me, asking where I was headed. I told him I didn't really know, whereupon he said he was headed home to Aurora (about 34 miles from my home) and I was welcome to tag along. It sounded good to me and so off we went.
This rider was GOOD. He pedaled at a pace faster than I was accustomed to,but I hung in there while he explained about technique and training and diet and all those things one can easily read about today but were mysteries 35 years ago. So I listened and marveled to myself about my good fortune to be able to meet someone like him. Heck, for all I knew,he could of been a famous racer. What a day!
Aurora arrived,and my new buddy said he had to turn off the road we were on to get home. I said cool, since I felt I had gone far enough and thought I should head home too. I thanked him for all the advice, wished him well, and turned around for the ride back. Immediately I was greeted by what cyclists despise the most; a stiff wind blowing directly into my face.
Headwinds sap your strength, as you try to fight them you use more energy than normal,and if you don't replenish those energy stores,trouble ensues. The body depletes it's carbohydrate stores,thus running out of fuel, so to speak. The result is a weak,wobbly feeling that cyclists and runners call the "Bonk". That is why endurance athletes eat and drink frequently while training or racing. Common sense now, but back then I had no idea. I had not brought any food with me,since I was only planning to ride 30 miles or so. If I had known I would be riding 70 miles,I would of brought something. But I didn't,and I hadn't. Money? I had .75 for something to drink,which I promptly spent shortly after turning around,for I had already drank the contents of the water bottle carried on my bike.
Mile after mile I became steadily weaker to the point where I had to get off and walk up any hill that loomed ahead. I was becoming a bit concerned....how was I to get home in the state I was in? I had no money to make a phone call home, so I forced the pedals around with wobbly legs at no better than walking speed, agonizing over the fact that at that point I still had over 15 miles left to go. So I made a decision...I would ask a stranger for food.
By then I could barely walk. I hobbled up to a house and hatched my story,I would say I had lost my wallet,and was weak from hunger. If the person who answered the door looked kindly, I would then ask for a sandwich or some food of any sort. If the person looked questionable,I would move on. Story ready,I rang the doorbell.
Luckily for me,a middle aged woman answered the door,and I pleaded my case. She asked me to wait on the doorstep and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. I am sure she debated whether or not to help, but after 4 or 5 minutes the door opened and a paper plate with a sandwich appeared. She told me that it was all she could offer,and to help myself to water from the garden hose. I thanked her profusely and just about inhaled that sandwich. (bologna as I recall). I filled my water bottle,drank it all and refilled it for the ride home.
After inhaling the food I sat on the curb until I didn't feel so weak any longer,probably 30 minutes or so. I got back onto my bike and pedaled gingerly for a few hundred feet to see how I felt, and I felt pretty good. So I headed for home and a nice cool shower. I made it,and afterwards, as I flopped onto my bed I said a silent prayer of thanks for that good samaritan who,by the act of providing a simple sandwich and some water enabled me to get home on a hot Saturday afternoon.
Bicycle riding back then was not what you would call popular,certainly a far cry from today, where it is a socially acceptable and popular activity,and everyone (almost) has heard of Lance Armstrong and the Tour De France. In those days it was a major happening if I saw one other "serious" rider out on the roads.Information in the way of books and magazines was hard to come by, and mostly we riders had to rely on trial and error to discover what worked and what didn't.
I had a friend who also caught the bike "religion" and we would go off on Saturdays for 30 or 40 mile rides if the weather was good. Along the way we pretended we were famous European racers (Eddy Merckx,anyone?) fighting it out over the cobblestones of Belgium or France, and dreamed of actually doing it someday.
One such Saturday my friend informed me he couldn't go too far,as his Dad wanted him back home early to help with chores around the house. So after 10 miles he said he needed to turn around,telling me if I wanted to go further it was all right with him. It was a nice warm day,so I told him yes,I would like to go on alone. We said our good byes,and I pedaled off up the road. Ten minutes later a rider on an expensive bike came up alongside me, asking where I was headed. I told him I didn't really know, whereupon he said he was headed home to Aurora (about 34 miles from my home) and I was welcome to tag along. It sounded good to me and so off we went.
This rider was GOOD. He pedaled at a pace faster than I was accustomed to,but I hung in there while he explained about technique and training and diet and all those things one can easily read about today but were mysteries 35 years ago. So I listened and marveled to myself about my good fortune to be able to meet someone like him. Heck, for all I knew,he could of been a famous racer. What a day!
Aurora arrived,and my new buddy said he had to turn off the road we were on to get home. I said cool, since I felt I had gone far enough and thought I should head home too. I thanked him for all the advice, wished him well, and turned around for the ride back. Immediately I was greeted by what cyclists despise the most; a stiff wind blowing directly into my face.
Headwinds sap your strength, as you try to fight them you use more energy than normal,and if you don't replenish those energy stores,trouble ensues. The body depletes it's carbohydrate stores,thus running out of fuel, so to speak. The result is a weak,wobbly feeling that cyclists and runners call the "Bonk". That is why endurance athletes eat and drink frequently while training or racing. Common sense now, but back then I had no idea. I had not brought any food with me,since I was only planning to ride 30 miles or so. If I had known I would be riding 70 miles,I would of brought something. But I didn't,and I hadn't. Money? I had .75 for something to drink,which I promptly spent shortly after turning around,for I had already drank the contents of the water bottle carried on my bike.
Mile after mile I became steadily weaker to the point where I had to get off and walk up any hill that loomed ahead. I was becoming a bit concerned....how was I to get home in the state I was in? I had no money to make a phone call home, so I forced the pedals around with wobbly legs at no better than walking speed, agonizing over the fact that at that point I still had over 15 miles left to go. So I made a decision...I would ask a stranger for food.
By then I could barely walk. I hobbled up to a house and hatched my story,I would say I had lost my wallet,and was weak from hunger. If the person who answered the door looked kindly, I would then ask for a sandwich or some food of any sort. If the person looked questionable,I would move on. Story ready,I rang the doorbell.
Luckily for me,a middle aged woman answered the door,and I pleaded my case. She asked me to wait on the doorstep and went back into the house, closing the door behind her. I am sure she debated whether or not to help, but after 4 or 5 minutes the door opened and a paper plate with a sandwich appeared. She told me that it was all she could offer,and to help myself to water from the garden hose. I thanked her profusely and just about inhaled that sandwich. (bologna as I recall). I filled my water bottle,drank it all and refilled it for the ride home.
After inhaling the food I sat on the curb until I didn't feel so weak any longer,probably 30 minutes or so. I got back onto my bike and pedaled gingerly for a few hundred feet to see how I felt, and I felt pretty good. So I headed for home and a nice cool shower. I made it,and afterwards, as I flopped onto my bed I said a silent prayer of thanks for that good samaritan who,by the act of providing a simple sandwich and some water enabled me to get home on a hot Saturday afternoon.
Monday, January 9, 2012
"Bob Carlson,I Am Sorry"
As adolescents,we all do something that we later regret or are ashamed of. It is part of the process of growing up, and hopefully, we learn a valuable lesson from the experience.
Such was the case in my Freshman year at High School, a time filled with excitement and wonder as I left my childhood behind and began to make my way towards independence along with hundreds of other boys, all of us fueled by that wonderful hormone called Testosterone, which coursed through us with reckless abandon as it changed our minds and bodies.
Beneath all that burgeoning machismo lay healthy doses of insecurity,as we all wondered (privately,of course) if anyone else felt that way. So we boys did the "manly" thing, searching out others whom we perceived to be weaker than ourselves,thereby establishing a pecking order of sorts and so giving one a sense of superiority. Of course the need to fit in was (and still is) a strong one,so we tended to hang with the guys we believed were at the upper end of that pecking order,or if that wasn't possible, to at least agree with their way of seeing things so you were not thought of as weak; especially if you were,like me,a skinny 125 pounder. This is where Bob Carlson comes in.
Bob was one of those kids everyone made fun of,through no fault of his own. Probably he was as smart and witty as any of us thought we were,and perhaps even more so. Standing no more than 5 feet tall and weighing perhaps 80 pounds he had no defense against the onslaught of taunts and mockery directed his way. I don't recall him having any friends, and he rarely spoke. Mostly he withdrew into his world and tried to shut out the words hurled his way,counting the minutes until he could get out of High School hell and back to a gentler world at home,at least until the next day when he had to endure it all again.
Gym class can be a trying time for some people, as the less athletic are made fun of and shunned from teams picked by a coach hell-bent on favoring the best players. In that regard I was lucky. Though rather small,I was able to hold my own and garnered a few friends due to my skills. Hey,it felt good to be accepted and I looked forward to gym every day. Not so for Bob....in a class where everyone was supposed to be on a team,he was not picked ever and spent class off to the side with a couple other outcast boys, shooting baskets,tossing a ball or whatever.
Shunned from team sports,Bob probably felt ok since the others were too busy trying to impress the coaches or each other,but individual sports were another story. He had to participate in such disciplines as boxing and wrestling against kids way bigger and heavier,which led to a moment I still remember as if it was yesterday.
As I wrote in the above paragraph,we had such sports as boxing and wrestling in gym, and one afternoon at class we found ourselves gathered in the wrestling room for 2 weeks of sweaty fun trying to flip and pin an opponent. Fun if you were a bigger guy but misery if you were small. The coach tried to match opponents by weight,of course,but there was nobody who even came close to Bob's 80 pounds. Even I outweighed him by 45 pounds,and Bob knew he had no chance against anyone. We knew it too, and when the time came for his match against the next smallest kid (probably 110 pounds) excitement grew among the guys as they wanted to see Bob get beat badly. Even his opponent was excited,as this was his chance to feel "tough".
The chant "Cream him!" began slowly but increased as more kids picked it up,including me. The coach made no effort to shut us up,he only called the two boys to the circle on the mat and told them to assume the starting positions. By then,Bob was visually shaking, and as his opponent took position above him,Bob collapsed in tears. The coach berated Bob,yelling at him to "Stop being a wimp,get up and wrestle like a man". But Bob just lay there sobbing even more.
I felt bad for him,but joined anyway in the laughter that was now permeating the room. I wanted to yell out to the group to stop,but I was cowardly and thought that if I did, I would become a target for others to poke fun of, or even worse,to have some of the tougher boys gang up on me at a later time. So I laughed with the others as the coach picked Bob up and told him to go sit elsewhere and come back only when he stopped acting like a baby.
I don't know where Bob Carlson is today, I like to think he is a successful person in whatever he has chosen to do. Perhaps he has forgotten that day in 1974, I certainly hope so. As for me,I have not forgotten, so Bob,wherever you are today, I apologize. And I hope you accept it. If you do,you will have proven yourself to be a better person than anyone else was that day long ago,including me.
Such was the case in my Freshman year at High School, a time filled with excitement and wonder as I left my childhood behind and began to make my way towards independence along with hundreds of other boys, all of us fueled by that wonderful hormone called Testosterone, which coursed through us with reckless abandon as it changed our minds and bodies.
Beneath all that burgeoning machismo lay healthy doses of insecurity,as we all wondered (privately,of course) if anyone else felt that way. So we boys did the "manly" thing, searching out others whom we perceived to be weaker than ourselves,thereby establishing a pecking order of sorts and so giving one a sense of superiority. Of course the need to fit in was (and still is) a strong one,so we tended to hang with the guys we believed were at the upper end of that pecking order,or if that wasn't possible, to at least agree with their way of seeing things so you were not thought of as weak; especially if you were,like me,a skinny 125 pounder. This is where Bob Carlson comes in.
Bob was one of those kids everyone made fun of,through no fault of his own. Probably he was as smart and witty as any of us thought we were,and perhaps even more so. Standing no more than 5 feet tall and weighing perhaps 80 pounds he had no defense against the onslaught of taunts and mockery directed his way. I don't recall him having any friends, and he rarely spoke. Mostly he withdrew into his world and tried to shut out the words hurled his way,counting the minutes until he could get out of High School hell and back to a gentler world at home,at least until the next day when he had to endure it all again.
Gym class can be a trying time for some people, as the less athletic are made fun of and shunned from teams picked by a coach hell-bent on favoring the best players. In that regard I was lucky. Though rather small,I was able to hold my own and garnered a few friends due to my skills. Hey,it felt good to be accepted and I looked forward to gym every day. Not so for Bob....in a class where everyone was supposed to be on a team,he was not picked ever and spent class off to the side with a couple other outcast boys, shooting baskets,tossing a ball or whatever.
Shunned from team sports,Bob probably felt ok since the others were too busy trying to impress the coaches or each other,but individual sports were another story. He had to participate in such disciplines as boxing and wrestling against kids way bigger and heavier,which led to a moment I still remember as if it was yesterday.
As I wrote in the above paragraph,we had such sports as boxing and wrestling in gym, and one afternoon at class we found ourselves gathered in the wrestling room for 2 weeks of sweaty fun trying to flip and pin an opponent. Fun if you were a bigger guy but misery if you were small. The coach tried to match opponents by weight,of course,but there was nobody who even came close to Bob's 80 pounds. Even I outweighed him by 45 pounds,and Bob knew he had no chance against anyone. We knew it too, and when the time came for his match against the next smallest kid (probably 110 pounds) excitement grew among the guys as they wanted to see Bob get beat badly. Even his opponent was excited,as this was his chance to feel "tough".
The chant "Cream him!" began slowly but increased as more kids picked it up,including me. The coach made no effort to shut us up,he only called the two boys to the circle on the mat and told them to assume the starting positions. By then,Bob was visually shaking, and as his opponent took position above him,Bob collapsed in tears. The coach berated Bob,yelling at him to "Stop being a wimp,get up and wrestle like a man". But Bob just lay there sobbing even more.
I felt bad for him,but joined anyway in the laughter that was now permeating the room. I wanted to yell out to the group to stop,but I was cowardly and thought that if I did, I would become a target for others to poke fun of, or even worse,to have some of the tougher boys gang up on me at a later time. So I laughed with the others as the coach picked Bob up and told him to go sit elsewhere and come back only when he stopped acting like a baby.
I don't know where Bob Carlson is today, I like to think he is a successful person in whatever he has chosen to do. Perhaps he has forgotten that day in 1974, I certainly hope so. As for me,I have not forgotten, so Bob,wherever you are today, I apologize. And I hope you accept it. If you do,you will have proven yourself to be a better person than anyone else was that day long ago,including me.
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