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| I still get a thrill each time I see Lambeau Field, home of the Green Bay Packers |
61 degrees/clear skies/calm winds
Pentoga Road
It's true. Lambeau Field, either up close or from a distance, gives me an almost child-like feeling. The Packers have been my team since I can remember.
Of course, if the kneeling begins during our National Anthem, my NFL season will be a short one.
They don't seem to understand. It's:
God
Family
Country
Sorry NFL, you rank WAY down the list of life's priorities, just above celebrating my fiftieth high school class reunion.
Wow, I was just thinking. It has been fifty years last month since I graduated from Pekin High School, Home of the Chinks. Yep, our mascot was the Pekin Chink. If you don't believe me, the proof's in the print.
Our mascot, an affable Chinese fellow who, along with a "Chinklet", performed an opening ceremony before each major athletic contest.
Of course, the mascot was found offensive and in 1980, against the wishes of the town, alumni, and most students at the time, the mascot was changed to the dragon.
In reading over the above, I'll bet that someone will find this narrative offensive. Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just reporting history here.
Anyway, it's been fifty years since I eeked out a high school diploma and moved onto the university. Had I failed on my fourth attempt to pass the required sophomore geometry the last semester of my senior year, I'd have been on the five year high school graduation plan.
By that time, I really didn't care. Vietnam was looking like a plausible alternative to high school.
I not only disliked grades nine through twelve, I hated them. Being is the lower half (academically) of my class, I was placed in the non college bound group, insulated far away from the higher achievers in the upper half, those who would go on to become bankers, doctors, teachers, and leaders in the local community.
Meanwhile, the rest of us were expected to go to Vietnam and if we survived, might come back and spend the rest of our years working at either Corn Products, a local factory, or if we were really lucky, land a job at Caterpillar Tractor in East Peoria, Illinois.
Even my high school counselor, Mrs. Strauch, told me not to bother to apply to a college, that it would be a waste of their time and mine. In fact, she was the whole reason I became a teacher. I figured if I did everything exactly opposite of her deep love, concern, and support, I was bound to be a successful educator.
It was my band director, Mr. Fogelberg, a former Olympian and by far, the most demanding and best educator I've ever known, who encouraged me to get out of town, to spread my wings and fly, and to make the most out the talent God had given me.
It was the beginning of my junior year. I was in his office when he grabbed my collar, held me against the wall, and told me that despite myself, I was going to shape up and be successful. Now that got my attention.
With Mr. Fogelberg's help, I auditioned my way into the university (certainly not on my academic high school class ranking) as a music education major and surprised my friends and family four years later by graduating Magna Cum Laude. (As Dad later said at the graduation ceremony, I should have done well. Upon entering the university, my brain had never been used. It was like brand new.)
Our fiftieth high school class reunion this year? Let all those cheer leaders and jocks, many who still live not more than ten miles from their alma mater, attend and revisit the good old times.
As for me, I don't remember too many. Have fun, kids.
Whew, where did that diatribe come from? Lambeau Field to Pekin High School fiftieth class reunion... all in one big breath. Now that takes some doing.
The temperature on Thursday was HOT. HOT HOT HOT. In our fourth day of 90 degree readings with the humidity reaching almost the same, it's just plain miserable. The forecast into next week calls for the same.
Our trip to Green Bay was a fun one, but uneventful. As usual, we sang our way down and back in the comfort of the air conditioning, something we don't have on Pentoga Road.
Groceries and household supplies purchased, we stuffed the vegetables and dairy products into insulated freezer bags packed with ice and headed back north.
The house stays fairly comfortable during the day, but becomes almost stifling in the evening. Sargie and I spent part of last evening sitting on the deck until the mosquitoes ran us inside. The blood sucking insects were relentless even with the citronella torches burning.
Of course, the mascot was found offensive and in 1980, against the wishes of the town, alumni, and most students at the time, the mascot was changed to the dragon.
In reading over the above, I'll bet that someone will find this narrative offensive. Hey, don't shoot the messenger. I'm just reporting history here.
Anyway, it's been fifty years since I eeked out a high school diploma and moved onto the university. Had I failed on my fourth attempt to pass the required sophomore geometry the last semester of my senior year, I'd have been on the five year high school graduation plan.
By that time, I really didn't care. Vietnam was looking like a plausible alternative to high school.
I not only disliked grades nine through twelve, I hated them. Being is the lower half (academically) of my class, I was placed in the non college bound group, insulated far away from the higher achievers in the upper half, those who would go on to become bankers, doctors, teachers, and leaders in the local community.
Meanwhile, the rest of us were expected to go to Vietnam and if we survived, might come back and spend the rest of our years working at either Corn Products, a local factory, or if we were really lucky, land a job at Caterpillar Tractor in East Peoria, Illinois.
Even my high school counselor, Mrs. Strauch, told me not to bother to apply to a college, that it would be a waste of their time and mine. In fact, she was the whole reason I became a teacher. I figured if I did everything exactly opposite of her deep love, concern, and support, I was bound to be a successful educator.
It was my band director, Mr. Fogelberg, a former Olympian and by far, the most demanding and best educator I've ever known, who encouraged me to get out of town, to spread my wings and fly, and to make the most out the talent God had given me.
It was the beginning of my junior year. I was in his office when he grabbed my collar, held me against the wall, and told me that despite myself, I was going to shape up and be successful. Now that got my attention.
With Mr. Fogelberg's help, I auditioned my way into the university (certainly not on my academic high school class ranking) as a music education major and surprised my friends and family four years later by graduating Magna Cum Laude. (As Dad later said at the graduation ceremony, I should have done well. Upon entering the university, my brain had never been used. It was like brand new.)
Our fiftieth high school class reunion this year? Let all those cheer leaders and jocks, many who still live not more than ten miles from their alma mater, attend and revisit the good old times.
As for me, I don't remember too many. Have fun, kids.
Whew, where did that diatribe come from? Lambeau Field to Pekin High School fiftieth class reunion... all in one big breath. Now that takes some doing.
The temperature on Thursday was HOT. HOT HOT HOT. In our fourth day of 90 degree readings with the humidity reaching almost the same, it's just plain miserable. The forecast into next week calls for the same.
Our trip to Green Bay was a fun one, but uneventful. As usual, we sang our way down and back in the comfort of the air conditioning, something we don't have on Pentoga Road.
Groceries and household supplies purchased, we stuffed the vegetables and dairy products into insulated freezer bags packed with ice and headed back north.
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| We drove through rain and cooler temperatures on the way home. Unfortunately, neither followed us to the UP. |
Thankfully, our bedroom quickly cools down after dark and Sargie and I, both, slept well last night.
I'm going for my walk in a bit then want to work on the garden house for a while this morning until it becomes too warm. After that, I'll retire to the shop and see what trouble I can find there.
After all, a man's work is never done.
So are the tales from Pentoga Road...
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| In central Indiana, my brother-in-law, John, with his giant tomato plants. I think he's auditioning for a sequel to Jack and the Beanstock. Hmmm, John and the tomato plant? Never mind. (Hey, just looking closer at the picture, I'm not the only one in the family with tall socks and pretty legs.) |
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