"All I Know is What I Read in the Newspaper"...Will Rogers

Hey, sorry about the disappearance; my outside telephone line- feed to computer was 'hit' by lightning and AT & T is slow to admit errors at their end...anyway, I was about to say...

These retirement years offer more time to read newspapers. I usually read the local Decatur Herald-Review and the USA Today; when traveling on the speaker's circuit, I enjoy whatever local print is available. Reading two newspapers each morning is about a 35-minute and three cups of coffee commitment. I have never read the comic section of the newspaper. I spend the least amount of time reading the celebrity birthday list because with each passing year, I seem to know fewer celebrities. I notice that I read the obituaries more carefully and perhaps I am subconsciously doing the 'math-equations' while reading obits. The sport page always fascinates me but I also find myself becoming more cynical of these pro-athletes who have become more greedy and self-centered. The front page is usually a re-hash of the television news the previous night.

I have developed newer newspaper reading interests over the past 10 years; I enjoy the editorial offerings and the 'Letters-to-Editors.' These writings suggest what people are 'thinking' and I like that notion. The medical advice column allows me to ponder similar symptoms while the personal advice articles replaces the omitted comic-section giving me the laughable diversion.

Some newspapers have those call-in sections where readers can give an opinion and often criticize some thing or some one without signing their name. I find that practice in a class lower than the general 'yellow-journalism' that we understand. It would seem somewhat contradictory for a newspaper to demand its reporters to double check sources, on the one hand and turn around and print anonymous comments. Boggles the mind.

 I am always appalled by back-biters, critics and 'mud-slingers' who hide behind anonymity! Likewise, I am disgusted with folks who desire change or wish to right a wrong but refuse to stand-up 'publicly' for the cause or position. Both aforementioned types are cowards.

Take the Time, Make the Call and Rejoice Forever

Had my mother, Lucille lived, she would have been 94 years old on June 23. I miss her voice. I spoke with her at least four times each week during the last fifteen years of her life; I miss her voice. I was about ten years old when I first realized how soothing was her voice and how easy it was to fall asleep as my mother talked with others in a nearby room.  I just thought of something...my heavenly eternity would be hearing my mother's voice in the other room and eternal hell would be hearing Rush Limbaugh's voice.

I urge each reader to consider making that telephone call to a special love one on a regular basis. Text messages may be a method of 'staying-in-touch' but it cannot soothe the soul like the sound of a dear love one's voice.

Recently, I have struggled with feelings of depression. I understand the catalyst for this melancholy mood; I am seventy-four years old and I count far more relatives who have passed than those who remain. This coming Sunday, the Roustio Clan will gather at Shilo, Illinois for the 64th Annual Roustio Family Reunion. Do the math, I attended most of those reunions beginning at age ten. Oh my, the changing faces boggles the mind.

I can usually shake these emotional lows when I ponder upon the strength of my late mother-in law (Vi Bischof) who buried her husband at 54, and lost two sons when they were in their early forties; what strength this woman displayed over the thirty-plus years she carried those heartaches. I also gain an uplifted feeling when I remember that my own mother had to 'push-on' without her sweetheart (my father) the last nineteen years before her death. And every day, I am mindful of three wonderful lady friends in Jacksonville who lost their husbands prematurely and each day they demonstrate joyous spirits. I thank each of them for serving as models and I pray for similar strength.

Happy birthday, Mom.

See Ya Under the Corner Street Light

Last evening, I was enjoying the gentle cool summer breeze while perched upon the backyard swing when I suddenly recalled memories of those youthful summers gone by.  There are many constant themes that transcends the years. The smell of newly mowed grass, the sounds of birds scurrying to find their night time roost and the aroma of a neighbor's grilling supper. As I sat in the swing and darkness began to have its way, I thought that there is something amiss. The streetlight behind me began its mercury vapor illumination and on cue, I suddenly remembered what was missing; there are no children sounds playing on the streets or in nearby yards.

Where are the summer games and accompanying noises? I never see hop-scotch markings on sidewalks. The is not one hiding eyes at the lamp post while friends find hiding places. The sound of a baseball bat falling to the pavement as boys play 3-flies-in in foreign to this adolescent generation. I cannot recall the last time I heard a child say, "You didn't say Mother may I." There is no can being kicked and no one shouts, "1, 2, 3 on Terry behind Miss Leroy's garage." My God, where are the children?

Don't kids realize that they could stay out doors and tell stories, catch lightning bugs or pester the girls down the block? Where are the kids?

Perhaps the climate-control home comfort environment and the fascination with computers and what someone posted on 'facebook trumps those childhood games of days gone by. Maybe this generation of kids will grow up stronger and healthy but should they be a tad bit obese with some health issues, I am sure modern medicine will fix it. Perhaps the children will be void of social skills but what the hell most will work in tiny cubicles and have little need for human interaction. And just maybe the children will lack imagination but surely they can 'google' and read about others' imaginations.

In all fairness, as a 1949 adolescent, I did not have air conditioning in my house, there was no television until 1950 and it only carried three channels; going outside after the supper hour was the natural choice.

I Wish I Knew Not THEIR NAMES

In recent years, attending sporting events, I have different thoughts running through my head while standing and singing the National Anthem. Oh, I still get 'goose-bumps' occasionally when a performer does a particularly fine rendition of that most difficult song. That said, I am beginning to wonder about the true toughness of our nation. Personally, I believe young people are much smarter than those of my generation and my parents, however I think that we have a helluva lot more wimp-ass sissies; No let me re-phrase that thought, I KNOW we have more wimp-ass sissies and the number will be growing.

Jacksonville high school has fired two (2) coaches over the previous three years and both were dismissed because they were 'HARD' with expectations and demands upon their athletes. I have told you before that parents dislike teachers who give a lot of homework and coaches who 'yell.' The entire circumstance firings at Jacksonville are so very transparent that after  three telephone calls, I can now give you names of the parents who 'got' the firing done!! There are no surprises.

I am not picking on Jacksonville high school. Six years ago, I was invited to speak to athletes and parents at an exclusive private high school in the greater Boston metropolitan area. The yearly tuition at this school was $27,000.00 and it was not a school that housed and fed students; nope, just an 8-to-3 attendance school. After my presentation, I joined parents for a reception and question/answer session. One well-educated couple, in their mid-fifties, asked me this question: "Do you think it is okay for us to ask our son's football coach to do more to publicly acknowledge our son and other teammates who are second-team players who get little press recognition.?" I followed with this question before offering my answer: "How old and what grade is your son?" They answered, "He is a 20-year old sophomore at Holy Cross College." I thought but did NOT SAY, 'Are you shitting me?'

The most recent coach fired at Jacksonville high school has a strong won-loss record and during his eight year tenure he claims one IHSA Regional Championship and a shared conference title. Players stated that this coach had high expectations and demands on his players. Funny how we champion the military and its rigorous training. Even stranger how we blow smoke up our own ass talking about how sport can build character and hone survival skills/traits, which are applicable to later life challenges. This is true for fewer each year; more and more wimp-ass kids will be forever dependent upon their crippling parents.

This 'helicoptering-parenting onslaught' is not limited to the sport arena. A few years ago, parents locked horns with the Jacksonville school administration over students being allowed to have cell phones on their person while in the classroom. The parents also held a opposite view regarding wearing hats in the building; the administration changed those 'rules' to accommodate the parents who wish to please their children's wishes.. Therefore, today, should a P E teacher ask some fat-ass kid to do calisthenics and sweat, the kid can immediately text or cell phone his Mommy or Daddy and get that shit straightened out.

If things keep going in this direction, you can expect one day our Nation's WALL guarded by orphans ONLY!

Thanks Dad

I gained my sport competitiveness through my early-youth relationship with my Dad. I was always bugging him to shoot baskets or play catch; naturally, I wanted to impress my Dad and of course I wanted to 'out-do' him if possible. Perhaps from the time I was six years old until I was eleven, I jumped at every opportunity to foot-race my Dad down our side street to a telephone pole and back to our drive way...the experience changed one day. I awakened several years ago, in the mid-night hours thinking about 'THAT' day it  changed and I penned these words:

                                                                               CATCHING UP WITH DAD

I raced down the alley to the telephone pole,
I gave it my all seeking a coveted goal.

My opponent, my Father, my hero no doubt,
Would this be the time I win and then shout?

The races, shooting baskets and backyard games,
I competed against my model to desire the same.

Just once to win against the giant of a man,
To prove to Dad, I will and I can.

One time close and another so near,
Was the edge his age or perhaps in my fear?

Then one day it happened, victory over Dad,
Though the sweetness came laced with the sad.

Many years have gone by and I race no more,
My Father is gone; no need to keep score.

Now I stroll through the park noting others at play,
I watch the young father and son on this day.

They huddle and chat then point to a sign,
'Ready Set,' then they are off to that line.

The lad tries so hard but not up to the task,
Time will change and soon Dad places last.

Oh, these changing roles all part of the plan,
The secret, you know, is to 'race' while you can.

Happy Father's Day; enjoy past memories as you pay-it-forward.

(December 2003...Moja)

                                                                                           

Fleeting; Don't Miss Chances

 I suppose it's natural, this time of year, to reflect on one's parents; Mother's Day is fresh in our rear view mirror and this weekend we salute Fathers. Perhaps when parents are no longer with us, our reflections are even more intense. I always had a loving relationship with my parents. That said, they did not necessarily identify with what or who I became once I left the crib. I did not gravitate into the blue-collar East St. Louis Union Tradesman brotherhood and I would not make a living with manual skills. My father, brothers and most men in our families were blue-collar guys; I was not. Don't misunderstand my position. I worked many summers in  the St. Louis and Peoria factories to supplement my teaching/coaching pay but I did not 'make' my primary livelihood-income from that Trades-employment field.. Nevertheless, I always respected and admired those in my family who developed trade-skills.

On my personal note, I had little to say about the direction I would take in life regarding a 'work-profession.' It was because of sport skills in baseball and basketball that caused me to eventually 'get' a college degree and enter the teaching/coaching profession.  I was the first in our family to receive the college degree and that which I became was 'foreign' to my blue-collar family thinking.

 I felt love from my family but I also sensed their suspicious view of this more 'liberal' thinking offspring. My Dad would often say, especially in the presence of his friends or our family, "You still playing games; when are you going to get a real job?" It was his jab-joke at me. I suspect it was difficult for some to imagine 'making-a-living' coaching children playing games. That said,I know deep inside that he and mom held a pride for all three of their sons.

I have absolutely no regrets  regarding my relationships with parents, grandparents and aunts and uncles. I always gave respect and I always showed love and appreciation to family; no lingering 'woulda-coulda' moments for this fella. I constantly remind my grandchildren to seize every relationship opportunity moment and apply mutual respect as they embrace the family love. I am also quick to encourage those grandkids to follow their dreams and work-desires refusing to be manipulated by others.

It's Anchored By Our MUSIC

Yesterday, June 11, was our 53rd wedding anniversary; much of the credit goes to my wife, Gerry. She was the consummate supporter for a husband's career and let me tell you, a 39-year journey coaching high school athletes certainly is problematic for the coach's spouse. Likewise, my wife was a terrific in-law to my parents and family members. She shouldered the bulk of child rearing because coach-daddy was often practicing, scouting or breaking down scouting reports with staff. I have long ago apologized to her and my children for my absenteeism-fatherhood as I gave my time to others' children. Gerry and I became sweethearts when she was but an 8th grader and I was a ninth grader. We total sixty years together!

"...a million to one that's they say about this love of ours; a million to one," sang Jimmy Charles on his 1960 hit recording. Those lyrics resonated back to the year 1953 when the dark-haired petite girl from the large Catholic family became the object-of-affection of the lanky, skinny blond from the more conservative Methodist roots. The little girl was always 'open,' trusting and unabridged. Her  complete opposite would easily withhold trust, turn on a dime and become aloof and distant. All traits survived to this day!

Nevertheless, as much as the 13-year girl and 14-year old boy differed, they held a commonality of laughter and the acquired romanticism of the fifties made it easy, over a seven year courtship to meld similar hopes and dreams. We would take long walks through the park to find moments alone on a bench near the Jones' Park lagoon. We shared endless conversations about family, religion, parenting and personal desires. Movie moments at the St. Louis Fox Theater, French Village Drive In, football dances, horse back riding and Mississippi Admiral excursion boat ventures accentuated and celebrated the passage of our youthful times.

To this very day, I recall it all even her address: 1632 North 43rd Street, telephone number: Upton 4-3282 and 'special things' that only two people know. The Four Lads sang it best, "January to December, we'll have Moments to Remember..."