After Officer Anderson had left, Miss Biggert finished her lecture on the law in America by pulling out a very large poster (of course, I was pretty small so the poster may not have been as large as I remember it) of a blind-folded woman with a large sword in one hand and a scale in the other. Miss Biggert explained that the blind-fold was to represent the people involved in making laws. The blind-fold represents the fact that they cannot tell if the people they are helping with their laws are rich or poor, black or white, big or little. Well, of course, the latter two conditions may still apply, but they have obviously developed a new kind of blind-fold so they can tell how much money the people have for whom they make the laws.
The sword represented, she explained, people like Officer Anderson and his invisible friend, Sparkie, who enforce the law. And the scale represented judges who interpret the law. She went on at great length about how they must very carefully weigh their arguments to make sure they are, what she called just, in the same way that a scales must be carefully adjusted to give accurate weight. I often think that it is too bad that more of our lawyers and judges could not have been in Miss Biggert's class and learned all about this. For example, our current Chief Justice of the State Supreme Court, Christine Durham, is want occasionally to lecture the other judges on the importance of being merciful. Of course, Honorable Justice Durham, at least from the pictures I have seen of her, is a bit on the heavy side and she probably thinks that if she could get a scales that told her she weighed, say 40 lbs less than she actually weighs, that this would be a merciful scales. She then would not feel so bad about taking an extra piece of pie and a double large scoop of ice cream, which, I suspect, she would see as the very essence of mercy; in fact, if she could get a scale so merciful that it took 60 lbs off her weight, she could go ahead and eat the whole pie. However, Miss Biggert, who was very thin (come to think of it, most of my women teachers were very thin--Miss Horseley, Miss Rowe, Miss Biggert, as already mentioned--she was really thin--Mrs. Larsen, Miss Ziebarth, Mrs. Vernon, they were all real thin, in contrast to the men teachers I would have in higher grades; they were also very old, in fact, as a general statement I think it is safe to say that my women teachers voted for Grover Cleveland and my men teachers looked like Grover Cleveland, but I digress) as I was saying, Miss Biggert would say, "Listen girl (I'm sure she was a lot older than Christine Durham), you don't need a merciful scale, you need an accurate scale." Which, I suspect, is true, but I have noticed as I have gone to my children's parent-teacher conferences, that many, if not most, of my children's teachers use the same kind of merciful scales recommended by Christine Durham, because it is pretty clear, that unlike Miss Biggert, they don't feel bad at all about taking an extra piece of pie.
Of course, all that was meant to be allegorical or metaphorical or similable or something like that, but I suspect that Miss Biggert might have pointed out that believing in being a merciful judge might have the same effect as the extra piece of pie, i. e. the crook who robs the bank and comes up with a merciful judge might feel that, since he got off so easy, he might as well rob another bank. The local paper did a story on drunk driving and told about a judge who told the drunk-driver offender facing him for the 18th time, that if he did it one more time, he (the judge) was really going to crack down on him (the drunk driver). This, I am sure Miss Biggert would point out, is rather like the 500 lb man stepping on the scales and reading 150 lb and being told that having 18 pies for dinner wouldn't hurt him but eating 19 would really do him in.
Of course, teachers nowadays never use the poster with the blind-folded lady with the sword and the scales, but I suspect one reason is that there aren't many teachers nowadays who are as thin as Miss Biggert.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
On the Death of Hser Nay Moo
Today I leave off my reminisces about growing up in Pocatello to reflect on the tragic death of Hser Nay Moo. This death touches us deeply because of the deep involvement of our son, Andrew, with her and the rest of the Karen people in our neighborhood. But I begin with a little about Andrew.
Andrew's four older brothers and older sister, like his mother and father before them, had served missions for the LDS church, but it seemed to me, at least, that Andrew was an unlikely candidate. It seemed to me that two necessary practices to qualify for such a calling were the habits of heartfelt prayer and diligent scripture study. Andrew seemed remiss on both counts. His prayers consisted typically of single sentences, and very short sentences at that, just to "get it over with". For example, when called upon to say the pray before meals his typical prayer was a quick, "bless the food that it will be good". His scripture problems stemmed from a deeper problem, that is, his dislike for academic subjects generally. He always said he wanted to study to be a lawyer--something I have always strongly discouraged in all my other children. With him I didn't say anything, feeling confident that there was no way it was going to happen. There were two or three things, however, that could be (and can be) said in his favor. He loves music, both singing and playing the piano, including, of course, the hymns, which he did at church meetings. The other was that he loved to perform community service. I doubt that in his whole life he has done ten dishes at home, but at scout and community activites, ten thousand dishes. Occasionally, even his academic performance would surprise us. He struggled in precalculus, but went ahead with AP calculus, where, of course, he also struggled. But in his AP art history he did very well. And whether he did poorly or well in a class he always got a high citizenship grade, for which we were, naturally, very grateful.
Last summer, or early fall, there was a lunar eclipse. He announced that he was going to get up at 4 AM to view the eclipse. Since he was difficult to arouse for school or work at much later hours, I felt confident that he would sleep through the eclipse, but, sure enough, at 4 AM he walked out the door and met his friend, Steve Burton, and went out to where they could get a good view of the eclipse. Little did we know how much that eclipse would change all our lives--especially his.
While viewing the eclipse he met some young men from Burma, Karen people who had recently come to this country as refugees. They were living in the South Parc apartments, about three blocks from our home. How or even why they bounded is beyond me. They could not speak more than a few words of our language and Andrew could not speak even one word of theirs, but bond they did. For the next seven months, right up until the night he left for his mission, he spent almost every free hour with the Karen people. After dinner he would head (usually, head back) to the South Parc apartments. I would always ask him when he would be home and he would almost always respond with "9 or 9:30". Sometimes he made it by 10, but more often than not, I would trudge over to the apartments and knock on the one door that I knew housed a Karen family. Sometimes he was there, most often he was not, but I would mutter the one word of English even the older people seemed to understand, "Andrew". There face would light up and they would get one of the younger children to take me to where he was. He never complained about my coming, but I complained about having to. Andrew took them to doctor's appointments, school functions, and to friends' homes that were in other parts of the valley. He was deeply involved with missionary work with some of them, but was never pushy about it.
On the night he was set apart as a missionary, I had to go with him to the apartment complex, because, of course, missionaries are required to have companions at all time, and I served as his. I will never forget the scene, 30 or 40 of their people gathered together in an apartment and they sang songs. Finally, in tears, they all came up to Andrew one by one and gave him a farewell hug.
Monday night at about 8:00 we were just starting Family Home Evening because my wife, Shauna had had to work at the Hale Center Theatre for the early show. We got a call from Eldon Farnsworth, telling us that one of the Burmese was missing and could our daughter, Rebecca, go help with the search, since, she had been over with Andrew on several occasions. We all went over and found that it was Hser Nay Moo who was missing. The other searchers, mostly people in our ward and the service missionaries assigned to work with the Burmese people, wanted to search the surrounding areas, but Shauna protested. "We need to go through every place in this complex." But she was assured (incorrectly, it turns out, tragically, that the police had already done that), so we went out looking over vacant areas and knocking on near-by doors. Had the apartments been searched she might have been saved, or at least, discovered much earlier. We live in convoluted times. The local police are very careful to follow Constitutional niceties, although, the Constitution was never intended to cover local affairs, and the federal officials--bureaucrats, executives, Congressmen, justices, are essentially oblivious to the Constitution unless they happen to notice how it might be used to give them some sort of political or economic advantage.
Shauna decided after a short while searching that she would call Andrew. This is, of course, considered a no-no because he was in the mission home, but after a lengthy explanation of why she was calling, she was allowed to talk to him. He knew exactly where she would go if she were not still in South Parc. There was a Burmese family, not Karen people, who lived just a block from us, who she had, he said, visited one time, because they had a daughter her age. She also visited with the daughter of a friend of one of the Burmese mothers, who also had a daughter her age. We immediately went to visit the Burmese family, only to discover that they had moved out (under duress) and left no forwarding address. We went to the other family and asked the mother to call her friend to see if perhaps they had come over and taken Hser Nay Moo home with them for a sleep-over wtih their daughter. Of course, they had not.
Like so many others, we are saddened that there are people in our society who will do what was done to Hser Nay Moo. There are now five men in custody who will be sent to jail at public expense for years. Because of cultural and language differences we will probably never really know why they have done this horrible thing, unless they, like so many of our own people, have picked up some of the unspeakable practices that plague our time. We can but pray for the family and their friends, so wonderful, so close to each other. Andrew often told us, "you know not all the Burmese are alike, they don't even like each other." For those he knew and loved, our hearts go out. For Andrew we can but assure that he is doing the one thing that can really eventually make a difference. We can only do that one heart and one soul at a time.
Andrew's four older brothers and older sister, like his mother and father before them, had served missions for the LDS church, but it seemed to me, at least, that Andrew was an unlikely candidate. It seemed to me that two necessary practices to qualify for such a calling were the habits of heartfelt prayer and diligent scripture study. Andrew seemed remiss on both counts. His prayers consisted typically of single sentences, and very short sentences at that, just to "get it over with". For example, when called upon to say the pray before meals his typical prayer was a quick, "bless the food that it will be good". His scripture problems stemmed from a deeper problem, that is, his dislike for academic subjects generally. He always said he wanted to study to be a lawyer--something I have always strongly discouraged in all my other children. With him I didn't say anything, feeling confident that there was no way it was going to happen. There were two or three things, however, that could be (and can be) said in his favor. He loves music, both singing and playing the piano, including, of course, the hymns, which he did at church meetings. The other was that he loved to perform community service. I doubt that in his whole life he has done ten dishes at home, but at scout and community activites, ten thousand dishes. Occasionally, even his academic performance would surprise us. He struggled in precalculus, but went ahead with AP calculus, where, of course, he also struggled. But in his AP art history he did very well. And whether he did poorly or well in a class he always got a high citizenship grade, for which we were, naturally, very grateful.
Last summer, or early fall, there was a lunar eclipse. He announced that he was going to get up at 4 AM to view the eclipse. Since he was difficult to arouse for school or work at much later hours, I felt confident that he would sleep through the eclipse, but, sure enough, at 4 AM he walked out the door and met his friend, Steve Burton, and went out to where they could get a good view of the eclipse. Little did we know how much that eclipse would change all our lives--especially his.
While viewing the eclipse he met some young men from Burma, Karen people who had recently come to this country as refugees. They were living in the South Parc apartments, about three blocks from our home. How or even why they bounded is beyond me. They could not speak more than a few words of our language and Andrew could not speak even one word of theirs, but bond they did. For the next seven months, right up until the night he left for his mission, he spent almost every free hour with the Karen people. After dinner he would head (usually, head back) to the South Parc apartments. I would always ask him when he would be home and he would almost always respond with "9 or 9:30". Sometimes he made it by 10, but more often than not, I would trudge over to the apartments and knock on the one door that I knew housed a Karen family. Sometimes he was there, most often he was not, but I would mutter the one word of English even the older people seemed to understand, "Andrew". There face would light up and they would get one of the younger children to take me to where he was. He never complained about my coming, but I complained about having to. Andrew took them to doctor's appointments, school functions, and to friends' homes that were in other parts of the valley. He was deeply involved with missionary work with some of them, but was never pushy about it.
On the night he was set apart as a missionary, I had to go with him to the apartment complex, because, of course, missionaries are required to have companions at all time, and I served as his. I will never forget the scene, 30 or 40 of their people gathered together in an apartment and they sang songs. Finally, in tears, they all came up to Andrew one by one and gave him a farewell hug.
Monday night at about 8:00 we were just starting Family Home Evening because my wife, Shauna had had to work at the Hale Center Theatre for the early show. We got a call from Eldon Farnsworth, telling us that one of the Burmese was missing and could our daughter, Rebecca, go help with the search, since, she had been over with Andrew on several occasions. We all went over and found that it was Hser Nay Moo who was missing. The other searchers, mostly people in our ward and the service missionaries assigned to work with the Burmese people, wanted to search the surrounding areas, but Shauna protested. "We need to go through every place in this complex." But she was assured (incorrectly, it turns out, tragically, that the police had already done that), so we went out looking over vacant areas and knocking on near-by doors. Had the apartments been searched she might have been saved, or at least, discovered much earlier. We live in convoluted times. The local police are very careful to follow Constitutional niceties, although, the Constitution was never intended to cover local affairs, and the federal officials--bureaucrats, executives, Congressmen, justices, are essentially oblivious to the Constitution unless they happen to notice how it might be used to give them some sort of political or economic advantage.
Shauna decided after a short while searching that she would call Andrew. This is, of course, considered a no-no because he was in the mission home, but after a lengthy explanation of why she was calling, she was allowed to talk to him. He knew exactly where she would go if she were not still in South Parc. There was a Burmese family, not Karen people, who lived just a block from us, who she had, he said, visited one time, because they had a daughter her age. She also visited with the daughter of a friend of one of the Burmese mothers, who also had a daughter her age. We immediately went to visit the Burmese family, only to discover that they had moved out (under duress) and left no forwarding address. We went to the other family and asked the mother to call her friend to see if perhaps they had come over and taken Hser Nay Moo home with them for a sleep-over wtih their daughter. Of course, they had not.
Like so many others, we are saddened that there are people in our society who will do what was done to Hser Nay Moo. There are now five men in custody who will be sent to jail at public expense for years. Because of cultural and language differences we will probably never really know why they have done this horrible thing, unless they, like so many of our own people, have picked up some of the unspeakable practices that plague our time. We can but pray for the family and their friends, so wonderful, so close to each other. Andrew often told us, "you know not all the Burmese are alike, they don't even like each other." For those he knew and loved, our hearts go out. For Andrew we can but assure that he is doing the one thing that can really eventually make a difference. We can only do that one heart and one soul at a time.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Miss Biggert Lays Down the Law Part I
My 4th grade teacher was Miss Biggert. Just as Mrs. Rowe focused on the multiplication tables, so Miss Biggert was big on history. "My students know their American history", she boasted to my mom, and, by and large, it was no idle boast.
My parets bought me a series of "Landmark" books about American history to help me in her class. I actually read and reported on the ones on Paul Revere and Lewis and Clark, but I told everyone that I had read three (and I think I actually did a short report on the third one). It was the one on the Making of the Constitution, but it was so difficult that I counted it as having read the whole thing after I read the first two chapters.
Besides history, Miss Biggert liked to talk about law and politics. Like everyone else in Pocatello, she was a Democrat and was very proud of the fact. But looking back on her attitudes I think she was, partially due to her age, a Grover Cleveland type Democrat, which, as everyone knows, is a far cry from a Nancy Pelosi Democrat. I mention this because her formal lecture I remember best was her lecture on the law. She started the lecture by inviting Officer Anderson (I think that was his name), to do his presentation. Officer Anderson was far and away the most popular policeman in Pocatello, probably in the whole state of Idaho. He loved to speak to grade schools, and grade school kids, including myself, loved to hear his presentation--which I did at least twice, maybe three times in the course of my early school years. He was a ventriloquist whose "dummy" was an invisible character named "Sparkie". Sparkie would speak out of closets, the teacher's desk, and anywhere else in a classroom that was big enough to hide a little kid. And I must say, it sure sounded to me like Sparkie's voice was acutally coming from the closet, desk, etc.
Officer Anderson always began his presentation by asking Sparkie if he has hiding because he was afraid of a policeman, to which Sparkie replied indignantly that no law abiding citizen ever need be afraid of a policeman. Why was he hiding then? Sparkie responded that he was hiding because he was afraid of us (the kids) because we looked pretty tough. This, naturally, caused a good deal of laughter. There followed a good deal of banter as Sparkie jumped from one location in the room to another. The gist of Sparkie's dialogue was (1)America is a land ruled by laws and not rulers, (2) those we think of as rulers of sorts like the president and the police are really servants, (3)the police have no power that an ordinary citizen does not have--if they did, America would be a police state like Germany or Italy in the recent war, and (4)--and he stressed this at some length--an ordinary citizen can arrest someone if they know he is or has committed a crime--this was called a citizen's arrest.
When he asked if there were any questions, Randy Harris, who was a bit of a talker, (and sometimes more than a bit) asked, "You mean if I went into a store where there was a hold-up, that I could arrest the guys?"
Officer Anderson got so excited that he started to answer himself, but Sparkie interrupted him, and said simply that, while it was true that an ordinary citizen could make an arrest, he should leave the tough criminals, who might very well be armed with guns and knives, to the police who, Sparkie was careful to point out, had no special rights, but did have special training in handling mean criminals. We should only arrest criminals when we were sure we could handle them without danger and were sure that they didn't have any guns or knives. For the next several days most of us guys were on the lookout for first and second graders--guys we were pretty sure we could handle--who were stealing marbles or yo-yos or such like, so we could arrest them.
Of course, the Supreme Court, because they never had a chance to hear from Sparkie, have long since wiped all that stuff out. They made it the law that whenever you arrest someone you have to explain to them all about Miranda's rights. I doubt that one American in a thousand, probably not one in a million, even knows who Miranda is, much less what her rights are and why you should have to explain all about them before you can arrest someone for stealing marbles. But, of course, the worst part is, that if you do arrest them and you forget (or never knew) about Miranda and her rights, then instead of the marble-stealer, you go to jail for making an improper arrest. But, sadly, it gets even worse, as we shall see when we get the rest of Miss Biggert's lecture on law.
My parets bought me a series of "Landmark" books about American history to help me in her class. I actually read and reported on the ones on Paul Revere and Lewis and Clark, but I told everyone that I had read three (and I think I actually did a short report on the third one). It was the one on the Making of the Constitution, but it was so difficult that I counted it as having read the whole thing after I read the first two chapters.
Besides history, Miss Biggert liked to talk about law and politics. Like everyone else in Pocatello, she was a Democrat and was very proud of the fact. But looking back on her attitudes I think she was, partially due to her age, a Grover Cleveland type Democrat, which, as everyone knows, is a far cry from a Nancy Pelosi Democrat. I mention this because her formal lecture I remember best was her lecture on the law. She started the lecture by inviting Officer Anderson (I think that was his name), to do his presentation. Officer Anderson was far and away the most popular policeman in Pocatello, probably in the whole state of Idaho. He loved to speak to grade schools, and grade school kids, including myself, loved to hear his presentation--which I did at least twice, maybe three times in the course of my early school years. He was a ventriloquist whose "dummy" was an invisible character named "Sparkie". Sparkie would speak out of closets, the teacher's desk, and anywhere else in a classroom that was big enough to hide a little kid. And I must say, it sure sounded to me like Sparkie's voice was acutally coming from the closet, desk, etc.
Officer Anderson always began his presentation by asking Sparkie if he has hiding because he was afraid of a policeman, to which Sparkie replied indignantly that no law abiding citizen ever need be afraid of a policeman. Why was he hiding then? Sparkie responded that he was hiding because he was afraid of us (the kids) because we looked pretty tough. This, naturally, caused a good deal of laughter. There followed a good deal of banter as Sparkie jumped from one location in the room to another. The gist of Sparkie's dialogue was (1)America is a land ruled by laws and not rulers, (2) those we think of as rulers of sorts like the president and the police are really servants, (3)the police have no power that an ordinary citizen does not have--if they did, America would be a police state like Germany or Italy in the recent war, and (4)--and he stressed this at some length--an ordinary citizen can arrest someone if they know he is or has committed a crime--this was called a citizen's arrest.
When he asked if there were any questions, Randy Harris, who was a bit of a talker, (and sometimes more than a bit) asked, "You mean if I went into a store where there was a hold-up, that I could arrest the guys?"
Officer Anderson got so excited that he started to answer himself, but Sparkie interrupted him, and said simply that, while it was true that an ordinary citizen could make an arrest, he should leave the tough criminals, who might very well be armed with guns and knives, to the police who, Sparkie was careful to point out, had no special rights, but did have special training in handling mean criminals. We should only arrest criminals when we were sure we could handle them without danger and were sure that they didn't have any guns or knives. For the next several days most of us guys were on the lookout for first and second graders--guys we were pretty sure we could handle--who were stealing marbles or yo-yos or such like, so we could arrest them.
Of course, the Supreme Court, because they never had a chance to hear from Sparkie, have long since wiped all that stuff out. They made it the law that whenever you arrest someone you have to explain to them all about Miranda's rights. I doubt that one American in a thousand, probably not one in a million, even knows who Miranda is, much less what her rights are and why you should have to explain all about them before you can arrest someone for stealing marbles. But, of course, the worst part is, that if you do arrest them and you forget (or never knew) about Miranda and her rights, then instead of the marble-stealer, you go to jail for making an improper arrest. But, sadly, it gets even worse, as we shall see when we get the rest of Miss Biggert's lecture on law.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
I Learn the Multiplication Tables
While in Mrs. Rowe's third grade class I learned the multiplication tables. Actually, she announced that we would right at the first of the year. She further stated right up front, that while most teachers only teach the multiplication tables through the 9's, she required her pupils to learn them through the 12's. Many of my modern readers will doubtlessly wonder, "How could she get away with that?" Most of us probably wondered it too, but we were at a complete loss as to what to do about it. After all, this was Pocatello--what did we know about children's rights?--especially back then. She did have one thing going for her that kept us from looking actively for some kind of redress--her son was the star player--or at least, if not the star, on the first string, of the Idaho State College Basketball team. We all assumed (by "we all", I mean, of course, the boys in the class--who knows what the girls assumed?) that her son's prowess on the basketball court was due, if not entirely, at least in large measure, to the fact that his mother had made him learn his multiplication tables clear through the 12's.
And I must say that Mrs. Rowe really drilled us on them. So much so that I remember them pretty much to this day, although, admittedly I do occasionally stumble on some of the tough ones like 7X8 and 11X12. But she really hammered them home. I know that, because sometimes when I'm worried and I can't sleep, instead of counting sheep (or--as Irving Berlin suggested--blessing--counting blessings takes all the fun out of worrying) I try to extend my knowledge of the multiplication tables to the 20s. Since I tend to worry a great deal, it is not unusual for me to get well into my 19s before I finally fall asleep. But the next day, if for some reason I need to know, for example, 7X12 (for those of you who did not study under Mrs. Rowe and do not have a calculator handy, it is 84--and I want you to know that I did that very quickly without the help of a calculator), I know it instantly, but, if I need to know, for example, 16X19, I stumble, I mutter, I pause, and finally, in embarrassment I pull out a pencil and on the back of a credit card where I was supposed to write my signature, I work it out, or I go to my dresser drawer in search of a calculator. Such was the thoroughness of Mrs. Rowe's multiplication drills.
In reflection, I wish that my first and second grade teachers had been as thorough in teaching me addition and subraction--I use them almost every day. Multiplication I use probably a couple of times a week, and calculus and beyond, which I spent so much time and money learning in college, I have used a couple of times in my whole life. Upon mature evaluation, I realize that I would probably have been much better served if I had had Mrs. Rowe teach me partial differential equations and Dr. Harrison teach me the multiplication tables.
While I was in the third grade I had one of the choice experiences of my youth, Dad took me to see the Harlem Globe Trotters. Dad was so busy trying to get his practice established that I hardly saw him for the first years in Pocatello, so what few times we did have together were very memorable. The Harlem Globe Trotter experience was also memorable because my Sunday School teacher's husband was on the team opposing the Globe Trotter's. When I asked Dad why he was there, he explained that Br. Smith was on the local Chamber of Commerce team.
"Why would they have the Chamber of Commerce team oppose the Harlem Globe Trotters?" I asked genuinely puzzled.
"Oh they had to beat some really top notch teams in order to be chosen for the honor." Dad went on. "They had to beat out the Post Office Workers team, the Railroad Union team, the Garret Freight Lines team, and even the Hawkes Brothers Moving and Storage team. No Br. Smith and the others really had to work hard to be chosen."
Since Br. Smith's team was not doing well at all, I finally said, "Dad, they're not doing to well. Why didn't they get Mrs. Rowe's son's team to play them?"
"Mrs. Rowe's son's team!" Dad exclaimed incredulously, "They would never do that. That's the college team. They might very well beat the Globe Trotters. No, they definitely wouldn't do that."
"Beat the Globe Trotters!" it was my turn to exclaim incredulously, "I thought you said that the Harlem Globe Trotters were the best team in the whole world."
"Oh, they are," Dad explained, "for their game, but their game is not exactly basketball." Which, of course, was true. They drop-kicked the ball into the basket a couple of times. And one time I remember, one of the held Br. Smith at arms length with his hand in Br. Smith's face while the latter tried in vain to steal the ball. After a minute or so of that, the referee called a foul, and the Globe Trotter protested loud and long about the "unfair call". I decided that Dad was right. They were very good at what they did, but it wasn't exactly basketball and I very much doubted that they knew their multiplication tables through the 12s.
And I must say that Mrs. Rowe really drilled us on them. So much so that I remember them pretty much to this day, although, admittedly I do occasionally stumble on some of the tough ones like 7X8 and 11X12. But she really hammered them home. I know that, because sometimes when I'm worried and I can't sleep, instead of counting sheep (or--as Irving Berlin suggested--blessing--counting blessings takes all the fun out of worrying) I try to extend my knowledge of the multiplication tables to the 20s. Since I tend to worry a great deal, it is not unusual for me to get well into my 19s before I finally fall asleep. But the next day, if for some reason I need to know, for example, 7X12 (for those of you who did not study under Mrs. Rowe and do not have a calculator handy, it is 84--and I want you to know that I did that very quickly without the help of a calculator), I know it instantly, but, if I need to know, for example, 16X19, I stumble, I mutter, I pause, and finally, in embarrassment I pull out a pencil and on the back of a credit card where I was supposed to write my signature, I work it out, or I go to my dresser drawer in search of a calculator. Such was the thoroughness of Mrs. Rowe's multiplication drills.
In reflection, I wish that my first and second grade teachers had been as thorough in teaching me addition and subraction--I use them almost every day. Multiplication I use probably a couple of times a week, and calculus and beyond, which I spent so much time and money learning in college, I have used a couple of times in my whole life. Upon mature evaluation, I realize that I would probably have been much better served if I had had Mrs. Rowe teach me partial differential equations and Dr. Harrison teach me the multiplication tables.
While I was in the third grade I had one of the choice experiences of my youth, Dad took me to see the Harlem Globe Trotters. Dad was so busy trying to get his practice established that I hardly saw him for the first years in Pocatello, so what few times we did have together were very memorable. The Harlem Globe Trotter experience was also memorable because my Sunday School teacher's husband was on the team opposing the Globe Trotter's. When I asked Dad why he was there, he explained that Br. Smith was on the local Chamber of Commerce team.
"Why would they have the Chamber of Commerce team oppose the Harlem Globe Trotters?" I asked genuinely puzzled.
"Oh they had to beat some really top notch teams in order to be chosen for the honor." Dad went on. "They had to beat out the Post Office Workers team, the Railroad Union team, the Garret Freight Lines team, and even the Hawkes Brothers Moving and Storage team. No Br. Smith and the others really had to work hard to be chosen."
Since Br. Smith's team was not doing well at all, I finally said, "Dad, they're not doing to well. Why didn't they get Mrs. Rowe's son's team to play them?"
"Mrs. Rowe's son's team!" Dad exclaimed incredulously, "They would never do that. That's the college team. They might very well beat the Globe Trotters. No, they definitely wouldn't do that."
"Beat the Globe Trotters!" it was my turn to exclaim incredulously, "I thought you said that the Harlem Globe Trotters were the best team in the whole world."
"Oh, they are," Dad explained, "for their game, but their game is not exactly basketball." Which, of course, was true. They drop-kicked the ball into the basket a couple of times. And one time I remember, one of the held Br. Smith at arms length with his hand in Br. Smith's face while the latter tried in vain to steal the ball. After a minute or so of that, the referee called a foul, and the Globe Trotter protested loud and long about the "unfair call". I decided that Dad was right. They were very good at what they did, but it wasn't exactly basketball and I very much doubted that they knew their multiplication tables through the 12s.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
The First Kiss
After our family got back from Germany, I started school. I attended the first and second grade at the old Bonneville Elementary. After my second grade year it was torn down and I switched to the Washington Elementary. I really liked the Bonneville elementary, especially the second grade. My second grade class consisted of three rows of second graders and two rows of third graders, which made those of us in the second grade feel really important, since we told everyone that we were in Mrs. R's (she had a funny German name that I can't remember and I couldn't pronounce even back then), third grade class. Dad said he didn't like me going to the school since he was afraid it would fall down, but I never noticed anything falling. Everyone said that it had been built right after the war, but they couldn't remember whether it was the Civil or the Spanish American. At any rate, because it was torn down, I had to go to Washington Elementary, which was, admittedly much newer. I was in Mrs. Rowe's third grade class and it was there that I learned one of life's hardest lessons, because I fell madly, hopelessly in love.
The girl's name was Virginia, and she was beautiful. I knew almost from the moment I met her that we were destined to be married to each other, but I was also wise enough to realize that I would have to wait a few years. I even asked my dad how old you had to be to get married which resulted in his launching into a tirade about Idaho's crazy marriage laws which allowed people as young as 14 to get married. This meant, of course, that I would have to wait six full years before Virginia and I could get married--maybe even longer, because Dad was careful to point out that marriage at 14 required parental approval, something that I suspected my dad would not readily give, although, I was more hopeful of Mom--she seemed to approve of almost everything I did. At any rate, I began courting Virginia. I walked home with her, played with her at recess, and sat by her at noon as often as seemed practical without making it too obvious that I was after her. After all, ours was going to be, of necessity, an extended courtship, and there was no reason to rush. But it was tough. When a fellow has found the girl he wants to marry it becomes irksome to go through all the formalities society expects before they can be properly united.
I said I walked home with her, but only on those days when we weren't having a ball game, a marbles championship, a yo-yo contest or similar doings that absolutely required my presence. During the fall, therefore, my chances to spend a lot of time with Virginia were acturally pretty limited, so limited, in fact, that she might have passed out of my heart altogether had I not been forced to sit near her during school, thus having my passion constantly rekindled. Toward the end of November, however, the weather became of a nature as to make marbles, baseball, and even yo-yoing impractical--or at least, uncomfortable. I, therefore, began excorting her home regularly and equally regularly ate my lunch with her. I was greatly rejoiced to notice that I received much encouragement from her. The only real fly in the ointment was Virginia's girl friend, Carey, for whom she seemed to have a much greater affection then myself. They were inseparable. Unfortunately, Carey reacted with equal grace and enthusiasm to all my advances, and I began to fear that she thought many of my efforts were directed toward her.
As we moved into December my conviction that Virginia was the one and only girl for me became stronger. She was perfect in every way (except spelling, in which she was very poor indeed). I became more and more eager to find ways to disply my true feeling. Sonehow the usual ways of showing affection (putting snow down her back, throwing snowballs, pulling her hair, etc) did not seem adequate to express the growing passion I felt for her.
One day as Christmas was approaching, we were all sitting in the classroom being as noisy as possible because the teacher had been called out of the room.
"Hey," the kid a behind me whispered loudly, "I'll sell you a sprig of mistletoe for a nickel." He held out a branch with some prickly green leaves on it.
"Why would I want to buy an old branch or whatever you called it?" I asked.
"Man, haven't you heard of mistletoe before?'
"No." I admitted sheepishly. "What's so special about this mistletoe stuff?'
"Are you sure you never heard of mistletoe before? I thought everyone had heard of mistletoe. You just hold it over a girl's head and then you kiss them." He went on to explain.
"I never heard of that before," I said quite truthfully, then added skeptically, "Are you sure that its all right to kiss a girl if you hold this stuff over her head? I mean, what if she didn't want you to?"
"Why man," he laughed assuredly, "what can she say? It's an old custom and if you hold real mistletoe over their heads, they have to let you kiss'em whether they want you to or not."
"You sure about that?"
"Of course, ask anybody. You're the first kid I ever knew who don't know about mistletoe."
I have always heard, and since this time, I believe it to be true, that if you hear something that is too good to be true, count to ten, or even one hundred, before you act on it, because it probably is--too good to be true, that is. But I hadn't heard that yet, so I gave the kid a nickel, he gave me his mistletoe and I made a bee-line for Virginia.
Some instinct must have told her that something was amiss because when she saw me coming she jumped from her seat and began running. I chased her around the room once and finally caught her at the front of the room. I grabbed her and held the mistletoe over her head. I expected immediate submission and was extremely surprised when she continued to struggle to get away. Since I was in front of the entire class and my honor was at stake, I lightly kissed her on the cheek and then let her go, beaming proudly at my accomplishment. My self-satisfied grin came to a sudden, and very painful, end when, in a fit of rage, Virginia slapped me across the face twice. She was obviously furious--as furious as I was surprised and stunned. It finally dawned on me that maybe she didn't know about mistletoe either. Both of us went to our seats, almost in tears. "Merrill Gee, I never want to see you again as long as I live," she muttered loudly as we went.
The incident made me a hero to my peers. It turns out that most of them had heard about mistletoe but none of them had ever dared use it. In fact, any that had seen it used had seen it done by their aunts on them. The glory was hard-won. The incident put an end to my infatuation with Virginia. In nursing my broken heart I took to yo-yoing, despite the cold. I even asked some friends if they wanted to play marbles. "Are you nuts," they responded, "can't you see the snow? We'd lose most of our marbles." That taught me one of life's great lessons--having your heart broken is a great tragedy, but its not nearly so bad as losing you marbles.
The girl's name was Virginia, and she was beautiful. I knew almost from the moment I met her that we were destined to be married to each other, but I was also wise enough to realize that I would have to wait a few years. I even asked my dad how old you had to be to get married which resulted in his launching into a tirade about Idaho's crazy marriage laws which allowed people as young as 14 to get married. This meant, of course, that I would have to wait six full years before Virginia and I could get married--maybe even longer, because Dad was careful to point out that marriage at 14 required parental approval, something that I suspected my dad would not readily give, although, I was more hopeful of Mom--she seemed to approve of almost everything I did. At any rate, I began courting Virginia. I walked home with her, played with her at recess, and sat by her at noon as often as seemed practical without making it too obvious that I was after her. After all, ours was going to be, of necessity, an extended courtship, and there was no reason to rush. But it was tough. When a fellow has found the girl he wants to marry it becomes irksome to go through all the formalities society expects before they can be properly united.
I said I walked home with her, but only on those days when we weren't having a ball game, a marbles championship, a yo-yo contest or similar doings that absolutely required my presence. During the fall, therefore, my chances to spend a lot of time with Virginia were acturally pretty limited, so limited, in fact, that she might have passed out of my heart altogether had I not been forced to sit near her during school, thus having my passion constantly rekindled. Toward the end of November, however, the weather became of a nature as to make marbles, baseball, and even yo-yoing impractical--or at least, uncomfortable. I, therefore, began excorting her home regularly and equally regularly ate my lunch with her. I was greatly rejoiced to notice that I received much encouragement from her. The only real fly in the ointment was Virginia's girl friend, Carey, for whom she seemed to have a much greater affection then myself. They were inseparable. Unfortunately, Carey reacted with equal grace and enthusiasm to all my advances, and I began to fear that she thought many of my efforts were directed toward her.
As we moved into December my conviction that Virginia was the one and only girl for me became stronger. She was perfect in every way (except spelling, in which she was very poor indeed). I became more and more eager to find ways to disply my true feeling. Sonehow the usual ways of showing affection (putting snow down her back, throwing snowballs, pulling her hair, etc) did not seem adequate to express the growing passion I felt for her.
One day as Christmas was approaching, we were all sitting in the classroom being as noisy as possible because the teacher had been called out of the room.
"Hey," the kid a behind me whispered loudly, "I'll sell you a sprig of mistletoe for a nickel." He held out a branch with some prickly green leaves on it.
"Why would I want to buy an old branch or whatever you called it?" I asked.
"Man, haven't you heard of mistletoe before?'
"No." I admitted sheepishly. "What's so special about this mistletoe stuff?'
"Are you sure you never heard of mistletoe before? I thought everyone had heard of mistletoe. You just hold it over a girl's head and then you kiss them." He went on to explain.
"I never heard of that before," I said quite truthfully, then added skeptically, "Are you sure that its all right to kiss a girl if you hold this stuff over her head? I mean, what if she didn't want you to?"
"Why man," he laughed assuredly, "what can she say? It's an old custom and if you hold real mistletoe over their heads, they have to let you kiss'em whether they want you to or not."
"You sure about that?"
"Of course, ask anybody. You're the first kid I ever knew who don't know about mistletoe."
I have always heard, and since this time, I believe it to be true, that if you hear something that is too good to be true, count to ten, or even one hundred, before you act on it, because it probably is--too good to be true, that is. But I hadn't heard that yet, so I gave the kid a nickel, he gave me his mistletoe and I made a bee-line for Virginia.
Some instinct must have told her that something was amiss because when she saw me coming she jumped from her seat and began running. I chased her around the room once and finally caught her at the front of the room. I grabbed her and held the mistletoe over her head. I expected immediate submission and was extremely surprised when she continued to struggle to get away. Since I was in front of the entire class and my honor was at stake, I lightly kissed her on the cheek and then let her go, beaming proudly at my accomplishment. My self-satisfied grin came to a sudden, and very painful, end when, in a fit of rage, Virginia slapped me across the face twice. She was obviously furious--as furious as I was surprised and stunned. It finally dawned on me that maybe she didn't know about mistletoe either. Both of us went to our seats, almost in tears. "Merrill Gee, I never want to see you again as long as I live," she muttered loudly as we went.
The incident made me a hero to my peers. It turns out that most of them had heard about mistletoe but none of them had ever dared use it. In fact, any that had seen it used had seen it done by their aunts on them. The glory was hard-won. The incident put an end to my infatuation with Virginia. In nursing my broken heart I took to yo-yoing, despite the cold. I even asked some friends if they wanted to play marbles. "Are you nuts," they responded, "can't you see the snow? We'd lose most of our marbles." That taught me one of life's great lessons--having your heart broken is a great tragedy, but its not nearly so bad as losing you marbles.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
How I Came to Grow Up in Pocatello
I was born in Pocatello, but, of course, that is not how I came to grow up there. My father had attended high school and college in Pocatello, but, like so many others, he had been driven by the Depression to seek greener pastures. The greener pastures were for him, as for many others, to be found in Washington D.C. He had gone there to work and get a law degree, which he did at George Washington University. He had in the process also managed to find a wife, my mother, who had been driven from Preston, Idaho by the very same Depression. After getting his degree, Dad had returned to Pocatello as the regional director of Social Security. While there, I and my sister Loni were born. If he had stayed on in Pocatello, he might have had a very large family, but shortly after having Loni, he moved to Boise to become the assistant Federal attorney for Idaho. It turns out, for some reason known only to people who know about such things, that my parents could only have children in Pocatello.
After WWII ended, Dad jumped at the chance to become involved with the Nazi War Crimes Trials, so we moved to Germany where we lived for two years. After the trials ended, Dad reported back to Washington, thinking that the powers that be would give him back his old job as assistant Federal attorney, or maybe even, considering that he had so much experience prosecuting ne'er do wells in the Nazi trials, make him the full fledged Federal attorney for Idaho, but, it turns out, the Nazi trials had become very unpopular and to have participated in them was to be branded as a sort of ne'er do well yourself. So instead of being promoted or even allowed to return to his old job as regional director for Social Security, Dad was told he would have to lay low in Washington D.C. hiding out in some large government building, receiving a salary, of course, but doing what everyone else who is hiding out in large government buildings in Washington D.C. is doing, viz. nothing. Of course, Dad was assured that after several years, the fact of his having been involved with the Nazi trials was bound to more or less blow over and he might be allowed to return to the field.
Dad told me (years later) that after getting that piece of news, he wandered around Washington--more or less looked the place over--and decided that he could not raise a family there. So he did what almost nobody ever does. He quit his safe, secure government job, and returned to his home town to set up a private practice, hoping, no doubt, that if things got really bad, that his dad would pass along a loaf of bread or two and let him use the family tent. Fortunately, it never came to that, but to hear him talk, it came close in the first few years.
Anyway, that is how I came to grow up in Pocatello.
After WWII ended, Dad jumped at the chance to become involved with the Nazi War Crimes Trials, so we moved to Germany where we lived for two years. After the trials ended, Dad reported back to Washington, thinking that the powers that be would give him back his old job as assistant Federal attorney, or maybe even, considering that he had so much experience prosecuting ne'er do wells in the Nazi trials, make him the full fledged Federal attorney for Idaho, but, it turns out, the Nazi trials had become very unpopular and to have participated in them was to be branded as a sort of ne'er do well yourself. So instead of being promoted or even allowed to return to his old job as regional director for Social Security, Dad was told he would have to lay low in Washington D.C. hiding out in some large government building, receiving a salary, of course, but doing what everyone else who is hiding out in large government buildings in Washington D.C. is doing, viz. nothing. Of course, Dad was assured that after several years, the fact of his having been involved with the Nazi trials was bound to more or less blow over and he might be allowed to return to the field.
Dad told me (years later) that after getting that piece of news, he wandered around Washington--more or less looked the place over--and decided that he could not raise a family there. So he did what almost nobody ever does. He quit his safe, secure government job, and returned to his home town to set up a private practice, hoping, no doubt, that if things got really bad, that his dad would pass along a loaf of bread or two and let him use the family tent. Fortunately, it never came to that, but to hear him talk, it came close in the first few years.
Anyway, that is how I came to grow up in Pocatello.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Growing up in Pocatello
In the next several days I will be writing some biographical essays about my experiences growing up in Pocatello, Idaho.
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