Tag: Memories

Mid-day fireworks

Photo by Steve Martaindale

We were cruising in a two-seater aircraft, the pilot in front and me behind. A Fourth of July afternoon in central Texas, it was hot, and the pilot explained he was searching the rural area for an open field that would create strong thermals – an upward current of warm air used by birds and flying machines for lift.

I was relaxed, enjoying the view.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Suddenly, the cockpit – indeed, the entire plane – went into a snap roll where the plane continued flying straight but did a 360-degree revolution.

I thought I just might throw up. I also thought this little trip might end sooner than we expected.

I then heard the pilot through my headset. Yeah, maybe he was laughing.

He apologized for surprising me with the move and promised to inform me of upcoming maneuvers. That was all I needed. Once I knew what was about to happen, my stomach had no problem handling it.

One of the neat things about a journalism career is the opportunity to get a close look at a variety of things, such as a by-the-seat-of-the-pants experience in an aerobatic plane.

In 1978 or ’79, Leah and I made the short drive from Brenham, Texas, to Chappell Hill to watch the Independence Day Parade down the small town’s main street. The highlight of the parade was what was billed as the “World Famous Marching Kazoo Band,” made up of anyone willing to grab a kazoo and hum along. Apparently, the band is still featured in the parade.

Come to find out, another highlight that year was an aerobatic pilot.

Neat, right?

The photographer from our newspaper, a fellow who said he had flown in the past, got a word with the pilot and asked if he would take up one of our reporters. That, of course, would be me. The pilot agreed and we planned to meet a while after his show.

We found him in a field outside town and, before you know it, he and I were bouncing down a grass “runway” and reaching for the skies.

After the snap roll, there were several other maneuvers, but one stands out most vividly.

He pointed the plane straight up and powered the plane toward the heavens … higher and higher. Then, he killed the engine and gravity gradually brought the plane to a stop. Most impressive was the stillness and quiet during that brief time we were hardly moving. We tilted to the right and started back down, rapidly picking up speed and still without the engine running.

According to the photographer, Leah maybe expressed a bit of concern as they watched from down below.

Finally, the pilot started the engine and powered through another move as he pulled us from our death plunge.

A great memory … but I could have done without the surprise snap roll.

Dad’s Day

Erin and I at Niagara Falls in 2015.

It’s Father’s Day morning and Leah made pancakes and scrambled eggs for breakfast. So, naturally, when I sat down to write a Memories piece, paternal thoughts rose to the top. This time, though, they drifted toward “being” a father, and the child who made that possible.

Hence, some wandering memories, presented chronologically…

An early bonding activity with Erin grew out of overnight bouts with colic. We spent many hours with me walking up and down the hallway and around the living room utilizing a walking/rocking/cuddling technique she helped me develop. This was also during the infancy of ESPN and often occurred during broadcasts of Australian Rules Football or repeats of the previous evening’s Sports Center.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Three years later, Leah had emergency surgery and was looking at several days of recovery. Her parents made the eight-hour drive from northern Texas to the coast and, when Leah was released from the hospital, they took Erin home with them. After a couple of weeks, I met them about halfway, meeting at a Dairy Queen. When they arrived, Erin wrapped herself around my left arm while we sat at the table. On the drive home, she remained wrapped around my right arm for much of the drive.

Girls’ basketball was big in Erin’s school, and she started playing early. I bought a goal for the driveway and the two of us played on it for years. Fortunately, my work was such that I could almost always attend her games. Perhaps my proudest moment was during a junior high game on the road. At one point, she was somehow hit in the face but popped up and kept playing. During the drive home, she confessed that her lip had been bleeding. “I knew if they saw blood that I would have to leave the game, so I just sucked on it until it stopped.”

The three of us saw the movie “Twister” in 1996 in Erie, Penn. We left the mall after the matinee showing and found a storm rolling in off Lake Erie. If you know that movie, you understand how such a sight gave us a temporary pause. Maybe that’s why we adopted “Twister,” often watching it on Sunday nights with popcorn and/or fudge. I think Erin pretty much memorized the movie; I was able to toss around enough lines to keep it entertaining. Leah would roll her eyes, but not like the waitress did in the diner scene. To this day, Erin and I will trade one-liners from the movie through texts, like, “When you used to tell me that you chase tornadoes, deep down I always just thought it was a metaphor.”

She has always enjoyed sports and baseball eventually found its way into her heart, something that I might have encouraged. I had covered a lot of high school and junior college games, had covered Texas A&M for the student newspaper when the Aggies won the Southwest Conference in 1977, and had attended several Houston Astros and a few Texas Rangers games, but in the late 1990s had never been to a minor league game, partly because we never lived near a team. Erin decided to rectify that, and we made an overnight trip to Alexandria, La., some 350 miles each way, to watch the Aces. As a bonus, we found the San Diego Chicken entertaining the crowd that night.

The morning of Tuesday, Sept. 11, 2001, I drove through the Whataburger in Port Aransas for a couple of taquitos and parked looking over the Corpus Christi Channel to watch ships while eating. I turned on the radio and, instead of oldies music, there was confused talk about a plane crash in New York City. I promptly drove home and turned on the TV. Erin was a sophomore at Texas A&M. Shortly after I got home, she called. I’ll never forget her saying, “Daddy, what’s going on?”

These days, we’re still in close contact. At any time one of us will message or call the other with a funny observation, an interesting sports item, a question, whatever. I’ve been blessed. Father’s Day can be any day on the calendar.

Strike Three!

A baseball complex in Ogallala, Neb. Photo by Steve Martaindale

Sports had no real meaning for me until spring of the third grade. My parents picked me up from school and had a surprise for me, my own baseball glove, something we had never discussed.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Right there, in that sentence, real baseball players just blew a fuse: “Nobody can buy a baseball glove for another person!” I totally understand, but the rules are a little different for a 9-year-old who has never caught or properly thrown a ball before.

To make my story sadder still, they had signed me up for Little League baseball.

Wait. The sad part was that it was too late to go through tryouts. As I understood it, kids would show off their skills and teams would pick them. It sounded just like the schoolyard stories of kids who were always picked last.

Considering I had never caught a ball with a glove or swung a bat at a pitch or attempted a genuine throw … I recognized right off that missing the tryouts might have been a blessing.

In absentia, I was drafted by the Apaches.

Highlight reel

I played two years with the Apaches and two with their older league team, the Warriors (different times, all right?), with little distinction. In fact, only my second year had anything memorable to it.

My batting average that year was something like .276 … nothing stupendous but respectable enough. I think that was the year I hit a double. That’s right, in four years I had only one extra-base hit, knocking one to the left-centerfield fence off one of the league’s best pitchers. Bottom line, he threw hard enough that me just getting a bat on it put the ball to the fence.

But the real highlight came on defense.

I was playing right field, which, I swear, was not my usual position. A fly ball headed to the gap between me and centerfield, which happened to be covered by my brother, Ward. We both raced toward it, I made a leap, stretching my glove across my body and as high as I could.

Thud!

I came down with the ball. Everything seemed to be spinning, but I saw our second baseman – Chuck, I believe – coming out to me and I thew it in. Ward congratulated me and I shook it off … no big deal; this is why we’re here.

But I knew this game was special.

A local radio station aired several ball games each year, making it a point to cover every team at least once. I remember the schedule printout noted on it which games would be on radio.

This was our game.

But the reason that was important to me was the hope my grandmother was listening.

All the way through high school, Ward and I tried to talk Mama Martaindale into coming to one of our baseball or football games. She was steadfast, though, claiming she was afraid she’d see one of us injured.

That night, she could see it on the radio. No injuries.

Out!

Then there was the time I struck out, looking at a called third strike.

I was crushed. There may have been a tear. I mean, I knew that pitch was a ball.

After the game, we were headed to the car when the home plate umpire caught up with me. I knew him through my dad.

He apologized, telling me he blew the call. That should have been a ball, he said, but he felt that once he made the call, he couldn’t really change it.

I understood … I really did.

I also knew that he didn’t have to track me down to make that confession.

There were many lessons wrapped up in that experience.

Sweet Mother’s Day

Happy Mother’s Day.

The past couple of years, Leah has asked for doughnuts for her Mother’s Day treat.

This morning, we headed toward one of the Buffalo, N.Y., suburbs near us for a doughnut shop with a good online reputation. As I angled into the parking lot, commenting on the number of cars, Leah said, “There’s a line out the door. I don’t need a doughnut from here that badly.”

On her recommendation, I redirected to the nearest Tops Friendly Market, our go-to grocery store while we’re working in upstate New York. There, I parked on the edge of the lot, we purchased our favorite doughnuts, retreated to the pickup, sat there and enjoyed our goodies.

Happy Mother’s Day!

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Meanwhile, my thoughts turned to … not Mother’s Day … but doughnuts.

When I was growing up, doughnuts were a big-time treat for our family. To begin with, there were not doughnut shops every half-mile as it often seems to be today. There were likely others at the time, but the only shop we ever patronized, the only one I knew of, was Jamie’s Doughnuts on East Methvin Street near downtown Longview, Texas.

It wasn’t just a run to the nearest convenience store. From where we lived near East Mountain, it was at least a 20-minute drive, so it was a big deal. And that’s where my memories kick in.

One of us kids would be allowed to ride along to pick up the doughnuts. It was always a Sunday morning, as I recall. Upon arriving, we’d enter the small reception area in front of the display cases. I do not remember there being inside eating areas, but maybe that’s because we never did so. There was, however, almost always a line, though never too long to wait for the treat.

Speaking of treat, one reason for wanting to ride shotgun on the run was the proprietors always offered a free doughnut hole for kids. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Two other memories were signs on the wall near the register:

“In God We Trust; All Others Pay Cash” and something like,

“We Gladly Extend Credit to Any Customers at Least 90 Years Old … When Accompanied by Their Parents.”

As a youngster, I thought those were hilarious.

The order was placed and the 45-minute drive home commenced. It was borderline torture to have to watch a box of freshly made doughnuts during a 2-hour drive home. Therefore, the attending kid, his appetite already whetted by a free doughnut hole, was allowed to eat one whole doughnut while carefully guarding the rest.

That made it worth getting up early on a Sunday morning.

First memories

Photo by Steve Martaindale

I’ve changed homes – and often hometowns – just enough to have developed that as a crutch for helping remember when certain events occurred.

For instance, Leah might ask when it was that we first met Scott and LuAnn. “Well,” I’d say, stroking my chin in a pensive manner, “it wasn’t too long after we moved to Port Aransas in summer 2000. So, I’d say sometime between then and 2001.”

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Growing up, my memories are split between three Texas homes – Forest Park Drive in the Greggton area of Longview, Viewcrest Drive in the same area, and a country home on FM 1845 about a mile and a half south of East Mountain.

My first home was where I was born in New Mexico, followed by at least one other place in Longview that I do not remember. So, my earliest memories are from the one-block-long, dead-end street called Forest Park Drive, a name that lends itself to much grander images than what was reality in those days. We moved from here the June after I finished first grade.

The two-bedroom, one-bath house wasn’t the nicest on the block. The neighborhood lacked appeal so severely that one time my mother found at the entry to the street a bag full of laundry soap samples that someone was paid to distribute house-to-house but decided to just drop the bag and move along.

It was also a petri dish highly conducive to forming childhood memories.

Our house was less than a hundred yards from the wooded dead end and only another hundred yards from the small Harris Creek. Today, Child Protective Services would probably be called in due to the amount of freedom my brother and I were allowed in those woods and the creek.

My favorite memory there is floating small blocks of lumber down the creek. My dad had a tiny workbench where we were allowed to pound nails into scrap two-by-fours. Ultimately, we’d nail a small block to a larger one to represent a boat. Nails left sticking out were gun barrels for a massive battleship. We eventually took our masterpiece to the creek and watched it turn upside down from being too top-heavy.

Any time we were running around outside – and we spent very little time inside when the weather was nice – we wore nothing but underwear and a pair of white short pants. No shoes, no shirts, no cares.

One day, Ward and I were playing soldiers. Down the street a way, in an open area near the fence surrounding some storage yard, was a large pile of dirt, probably left from some project. We crawled up the mound and peered over the top at some imaginary combatants, firing off round after round of unlimited ammo. Whether we utilized toy gun or sticks, I do not recall.

The weather was nice enough, but we spotted a dark cloud to the west. Out of the bottom slowly dropped a funnel. We ran to the house and called our mother outside.

“Look, a tornado!”

“No, it’s not,” she said. “Get inside.”

Our dad happened to be out on a rare day fishing. Mother promptly gathered us up and went down the street to a friend’s house. That located us only nearer the tornado, which roughly moved down Highway 80, causing little damage other than to television antennae. The place where we sought refuge suffered a broken tree limb in the back yard.

There was the time a neighbor’s German shepherd jumped the fence to do battle with the lovable mutt of a dog we called Pete. Our affable four-legged partner tore into the intruder to protect us boys. Mother came running out the back door wielding a broom and chased the bad dog back across the fence. I don’t recall him living there very long.

Once, a small grass fire started in the field behind us. I swear, I had nothing to do with this one. Our dad was one of two full-time firefighters at the Greggton station. This was before Longview incorporated the community and started providing services.

Driving the truck dedicated to fighting grass fires, Daddy pulled up in front of our house en route to the fire and asked Ward and me if we wanted to ride along. (Yet another example of how things have changed.) Ward hopped on. As for me, this might be my earliest memory of allowing my hesitance to create disappointment. I stayed home and watched the action from the back yard.

Let’s see. There’s also the big Christmas snow. The time I almost shot out my eye by trying to start the pushbutton washing machine with a BB rifle. Having an older neighbor boy squeal to my mother I was changing seats on the school bus while it was moving, something he did with regularity. The time my brother’s pajama bottoms caught fire while he was standing next to the gas heater. (To be honest, this is one of several memories through the years that I cannot clearly recall as happening to Ward or to me.)

There was the time we got caught throwing rocks on the roof of the abandoned and falling apart house next door. Oh, yeah, it seemed that our aim was terrible, and we “accidently” broke a couple of windows that were already broken. This cost us the penalty of being grounded for a period of time and losing our 25-cents-a-week allowance.

Other memories remain … thank goodness … but this has gone on longer than I intended already.

I pray my recollections help guide you to memories of your own. And we’d all love it if you shared one or more in the comment section below.

The Peanut Man

I cannot say I really knew Hubert Gregg. However, it seemed almost everyone in Longview, Texas, recognized the Peanut Man.

He first came into my sphere when I was playing Little League baseball during grades 3-6 in the Greggton area of Longview. With some regularity, Mr. Gregg would travel to this outer edge of town to hawk his famous roasted peanuts.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Now, it didn’t occur to me at the time to wonder how a blind man traveled like he did, and I still don’t know the answer today.

Yet, there he was, with some regularity, as I said, working the crowd. He always wore blacked out glasses and was led by a guide dog. As I recall, he wore a white apron with his name embroidered on it, I believe in red thread.

He pulled a red wagon filled with bags of peanuts. When he accepted money, he would finger the coins to determine the denomination. If someone gave him paper money more than one dollar, he might ask someone else to verify it. For elementary-aged boys, there was a lot to take in.

Time passed and, several years later, I was working the evening shift as a sportswriter for the Longview Daily News and Morning Journal. On occasion, Mr. Gregg came walking through the newsroom, following his dog, looking to unload a few more bags of peanuts before calling it a night. At the time, he would have been about 75 years old and did not seem to have lost a step.

Again, I did not know him, but I did admire him. And I believe most people did appreciate and respect him.

A tribute to this local legend written by the late Van Craddock, an East Texas institution in his own right, can be found here.

A look at the memorial plaque Van mentions can be found here.

Respect

When Leah and I were visiting in Spain this winter, our host made some comment about how elderly people in the area were generally treated with respect. I came to recognize that, such as offering a seat or yielding at a doorway.

You still see it here, too, but not to the degree I remember … but, then again, that memory is nowadays being called into question, so …

Take the story of Hubert Gregg to heart. Find a way to brighten the day and/or lessen the load for one of our aging neighbors. The easiest path to doing that is to get to know them, to ask questions, to listen to their stories.

And buy their peanuts.

Oil by the case

There are car people – those who talk of cubic centimeters, cams, suspensions, torque, etc., and who can recite all the variables for different cars, and who can recognize a particular make and model simply from the taillights at night – and then there are people like me.

I love driving and have done so in every state and on four continents. My greatest escapes generally involve getting behind a wheel and pointing my vehicle down a road, often with little notice, sometimes without a firm destination in mind.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

However, I develop little relationship with the vehicle itself.

Little … but not none.

Take for instance my first car, a 1964 Dodge Dart.

Allow me to interject here an explanation. From my mid-junior high school years until after high school, both my brother and I only worked at our father’s grocery store. We were never paid for hours worked, were not on a set “allowance,” but our needs and wants were taken care of. Daddy provided us with a car (one to share, of course) and even running around money. He was always a first-class horse trader, swapping everything from antiques to cars and even, yes, horses, so we never knew what we might be driving.

This article on hotcars.com says, “The 1964 Dodge Dart GT is a nearly perfect American classic compact with gorgeous looks and enticing driving dynamics.”

That being said, I doubt I was driving a GT model. More likely, it was the entry-level Dart 170. No, the thing that most stands out in my memory wasn’t “enticing driving dynamics” but was the push-button transmission.

On the left side of the steering wheel, on the dash, was a single row of round buttons. From the top down, they were labeled R for reverse, N for neutral, D for drive, 2 for second gear, 1 for first gear. What’s missing? Park, of course.

For park, you pushed in the neutral button and slid the neighboring knob down about three inches to lock it into place. Slide it up when you’re ready to drive again.

I’m not here to say whether the push-button transmission was good or bad … but it was distinctive. I’ve become aware that quite a few cars had them back in the day, but this is the only one I’ve driven.

My other memories about the Dart involved motor oil, which we bought by the case because the car burned through it so rapidly.

Also, it must have been missing a baffle in the oil pan because every time I braked, the large, bright red oil warning light would illuminate.

“Nearly perfect?” I’m not one to say. However, it made a perfect starter car for me more than 52 years ago.

Life in a box

I have seen incredibly few concerts and shows through the years.

The first was in probably the eighth or ninth grade, a group billed as Dawn played all the hits of Tony Orlando and Dawn in an empty building at the Gregg County Fairgrounds. I don’t know if they were actually related to the real group. In college, I saw Nitty Gritty Dirt Band in G. Rollie White Coliseum and, yes, they played “Mr. Bojangles.” Only the latter performance was to a crowd. There weren’t many others except for The Crickets, the surviving members of Buddy Holly’s band, which also performed before a sparse gathering.

Notable exceptions have been theatrical performances by college and community groups.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

And … in the spring of 1976 at Texas A&M University … I saw Marcel Marceau exhibit his genre-defining mime performances, what he called “the art of silence.”

It was perhaps the most dominating showcase of an art form one could see. OK, I’m really not qualified to make such an evaluation, but he moved me to that degree … 47 years ago.

Yesterday, March 22, would have been Marceau’s 100th birthday. He died in September 2007 at 84 years old, after more than 60 years of performing around the globe. (Think, he never had to worry about language barriers!)

But I’ve learned his stake in history runs deeper than entertainment.

As a young Jewish man, he lived in hiding and worked with the French Resistance during much of World War II. As a member of the Jewish Resistance in France, he helped rescue Jews during the Holocaust. In 1944, his father was captured by the Germans and sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp, where he was killed. Marcel Marceau and his older brother, Alain, helped rescue numerous children during the war, according to this Wikipedia article. Finally, after joining the French army and being fluent in French, English and German, he worked as a liaison officer with U.S. Gen. George Patton’s Third Army.

Yeah, like most people, his background included more than the casual observer could discern.

The raw emotions he loudly illustrated in silence were likely familiar topics for him, but he used them to create beautiful messages for the rest of us.

Happy birthday, Monsieur Marceau.

Out cold

Photo by Steve Martaindale

I’ve participated in sports from Little League through high school football and a round of intramural wrestling in college and softball into my late 50s. I crashed my bicycle a few times, tumbled down a mountain in western Texas, was threatened to have my head bashed in by a mugger, and so on.

There have been a couple of broken bones, numerous stitches, and countless bruises and pulled muscles.

But the only time I’ve been knocked unconscious, it was while playing on my knees with my baby sister.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

I was in the fourth grade, so I’m guessing Brenda was 2. The house we lived in at the time was new, built by my mother’s uncle with the assistance of my father. It was the only house we ever lived in with a concrete foundation.

It was roomier than we actually needed, I guess, because I cannot recall them ever putting any real furniture in the front living room, so we often used it for play. I particularly remember bouncing all over the room while batting multiple balloons into the air.

The time I was knocked out, however, there was no wild activity going on. Brenda was sitting, as I picture it, and I was kneeling. We were rolling a ball back and forth. And I’m pretty sure I remember losing my balance while reaching for the ball and falling forward.

This is where the foundation is important. The living room had a not-too-thick carpet installed over the concrete floor … no real cushion.

The next thing I was aware of was waking up on the sofa in the den with all kinds of hubbub occurring above me. I later heard the rest of the story.

Page 2

We kids were home alone at the time, which wasn’t a big deal. My brother, Ward, and I were about 9 and 10 and were quite responsible, including taking care of Brenda. Plus, this was in the day people knew their neighbors, including the Pace family to our right and the Smiths to our left, the latter also being an adult cousin of ours, Yvonne.

Somehow, Ward found me knocked out on the living room floor. I’m not sure if Brenda alerted him in some way. He ran next door to get Yvonne. As they turned into the carport, I was walking out the door and started falling again. The story I got was she caught me just before my head met the concrete again.

My parents had only gone down the road to Mr. Norman’s 7-Eleven store, a place my dad sometimes worked when he wasn’t at the fire station. The store’s five-digit number was, for that reason, posted above the phone.

Yvonne first called the fire department. For the younger readers tuned in, we didn’t have emergency medical services anything like what you see now. The only ambulance in our city – and this wasn’t uncommon – was operated by the local funeral home. No, you wouldn’t be the first to recognize the potential for a conflict of interest.

Her next call was to the grocery store, only two blocks from the fire station. By the time my parents got to the car, the fire truck was passing by; they followed it the half mile to our home. The part of the story my dad always like to tell was that Mother was still clenching the Coca-Cola bottle from the store. However, when she hopped out of the car, she flung it and almost hit one of the firefighters. (I’ll remind you, my dad worked in that fire house, so these were all buddies of his.)

So, that was the hubbub that greeted me once I came to. Instead of playing with my baby sister on the floor, I was looking up at my parents, a couple of firefighters, my cousin and my siblings. And who knows how many neighbors were by then gathering outside to see what was going on.

“Nothing to see here, folks, just a kid playing ball with his baby sister.”

Survivor

Sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean. Photo by Steve Martaindale

In the fall of 2011, I acquired a designation nobody really wants … until they become eligible for it and then greatly desire it: cancer survivor.

To be honest, I long hesitated claiming the label because my bladder cancer was caught early, was completely removed, and we’re able to easily monitor it in order to catch any recurrences.

My approach shifted somewhat during a cruise in the spring of 2018. Holland America Line features a fund-raising 5k walk around the promenade deck on each cruise. Monies raised are passed to five cancer organizations in five different countries.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here

Joining Leah and me were our cruising buddies, Deb and Steve. I was, at this time, more than six years cancer-free, but Deb had only recently won her first battle with breast cancer. The four of us found a crowd of participants waiting for the walk to begin, but those running things called for all cancer survivors to come forward.

It was incredibly moving to be cheered by everyone, made even more powerful because the number of survivors was not nearly as large as I expected.

Our little group was then asked to lead off the walk. Leah and Steve never caught up with Deb and I as we circled the deck some 10 times. We talked about many things, I’m sure, but we especially shared memories and experiences about our respective cancer ordeals.

Bottom line, I came out of that morning stroll in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean feeling permission to refer to myself as a cancer survivor.

On cancer watch

First of all, allow me to refer you to a compilation of my experiences. I wrote about what happened in some detail and it’s still available online by clicking here. My purpose was and remains to, first, spread the word that spotting urine in one’s blood is a call to check it out, not just hope it goes away. Second, I hope to make it easier for someone dealing with bladder cancer by explaining what I went through.

I don’t think any cancer survivor feels much confidence they have totally and decidedly defeated the disease. It was made clear to me even before the first surgery that there is a good chance the cancer will return. To combat that possibility, I’ve been going in regularly – annually for the past several years – for a cystoscopy, where a camera is inserted into my bladder through the urethra and the fleshy walls are examined for anything suspicious.

My original urologist retired some years ago. My new doctor added a biennial MRI (or CT scan … why can I not keep those straight?)

Last September, the scan was clear, and we began the visual inspection primed to declare me “11 years cancer-free.”

But there was something a little different. A small area of the bladder wall had a red discoloration, much akin to a rash in my interpretation. The urologist said she was confident it was nothing serious but wanted to get a biopsy to make sure. After all, that’s why we do these every year.

I was about to begin a 10-week job near Houston, so we put it off. Holidays and then our trip to Spain pushed it back some more until March 8.

Of course, while she was taking a sample for the biopsy, she went ahead and removed the suspected area.

Looking good?

The biggest difference between this and my first two surgeries was my first doctor had me wear a catheter for three full days, but now she wanted me to put up with it for a solid week. Wednesday morning, a nurse removed the catheter and I’ve been steadily improving ever since.

It’s now my doctor’s turn to take a vacation and she wasn’t there this week (no surprise, as she told me in advance), so I still have not received her official word on the outcome of the tests.

However…

The hospital with which she is associated has an online patient portal. There, sure enough, I found a 14-word synopsis from the radiologist that began with “Minute benign …” and ended with, “Negative for dysplasia or malignancy.” Not confident enough in my interpretation, I ran it by my pharmacist son-in-law for his opinion, which came back, “That looks to me like you are clear!”

So, now, I am guardedly proclaiming myself 11 and a half years cancer-free.

Camaraderie

On our most recent cruise a year ago, I joined the deck walk again. They called cancer survivors to an open area before things began in order to grab a photo.

I had gotten down on one knee in the front and then assisted an older man, wearing a Vietnam veteran cap, as he lowered himself down next to me.

“Mine was prostate cancer,” he said. “What about you?”

I will never again hesitate to happily don the mantle “cancer free.”

Valuable memories

Even those who think we’re making headway addressing our racism problem must admit that it’s much too slow. Photo by Steve Martaindale

Recent events brought to mind a memory that otherwise likely would not have made it into my memoirs collection.

Sometime in the mid-1990s, I had lunch with Scott Adams, creator of the hugely successful comic strip “Dilbert,” which was ripe with office satire and over-the-top parodies of workplace life. He was a rock star in the business.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Don’t be misled by the comment he and I lunched together. It was at a gathering of newspaper editors and he was a speaker. He also got a free lunch out of it and happened to sit at the table with me and several others.

That’s it. That’s my memory. Seriously, I don’t remember anything that was said. I don’t even recall if he was witty and funny in person.

Yes, the only reason that meal floats to the top of my brain today is because Scott Adams’ career has sunk to the bottom of the pit this past several days. After he made racist comments in which he encouraged white people to “just get the hell away” from black people, whom he labeled “a hate group,” he quickly found newspaper after newspaper dropping his strip, followed by the company that distributed it.

And that, my friend, brings back other memories, all of which I recall better than I do a chicken lunch 25 years ago.

Remembrances

1. As a boy, probably in the early 1960s, I accompanied my mother to the laundry. On the plate glass window was painted, “NO MAIDS.” That seemed strange. Wouldn’t maids have a particular need to do laundry? When I asked my mother, she explained that meant they did not want black people in the business. To be honest, she probably used the term “colored people,” which at that time and place was deemed by whites to be the best to use in public.

2. The burger joint we sometimes visited had two walk-up windows in the front of the building. Patrons parked their cars in front, placed their order at one of the windows and received it there, usually returning to their cars to eat or driving off. However, I noticed another window on the side of the building. That, my father told me, was for black customers.

3. Later that decade, schools in our area of northeast Texas were finally being integrated. My school – Pine Tree ISD in western Longview – merged black and white students the year of 1966-67. At nearby Longview ISD, however, desegregation was deeply opposed and things came to a head after a federal judge laid down the law. On the night of July 4, 1970, two men got into the school district’s maintenance yard and placed 24 nitroglycerine explosives under the buses, damaging 33 buses in all. I also remember being ridiculed on “Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In” on national television.

4. A couple of years later, I was attending a playoff football game. Sitting in the bleachers, I heard a guy yell out, “Hey, get your (N-word omitted) off our colored boy,” to laughter from fellow fans.

You get the idea.

No recollection

One thing I do not remember – most certainly because I was never told – was learning that my hometown was the site of race riots in 1919.

The root of the riots, according to this article on blackpast.org, was a familiar one. Whites were upset that blacks were establishing their own businesses. As tensions rose, two white men beat a black man after alleging he made advances to their sister.

The black man, Lemuel Walters, was arrested and jailed. A white mob demanded the prisoner, who was handed over to them, shot and killed.

The story eventually reached national newspapers, which angered whites in Longview who blamed a black newspaper correspondent. Things escalated with more beatings, gunfire, burning of homes and buildings, and death. Texas Rangers were sent in, followed by martial law and soldiers.

Similarly …

In a cbs29.tv article noting the 50th anniversary of the school bus bombing less than three years ago, Longview ISD superintendent James E. Wilcox acknowledged there was nothing in any of the schools’ curriculum teaching students about the bombing.

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.

George Santayana

The superintendent did say he was committed to changing that, so it may be different now.

But one could be excused for being skeptical about change. Remember that judicial order in 1970? It wasn’t until 2018 – 48 years later – that the school was released as having finally fulfilled that order.

Acceptance

Of course, one must understand and accept there is a problem before it can be addressed.

A couple of years ago, I got a call from an old friend. She asked where we were working that summer. When I told her we were in New York, she asked, “Aren’t you scared?” Of what? “Aren’t you afraid of antifa?”

“Since ‘antifa’ stands for anti-fascism,” I replied, “then I guess you must count me among them.”

She had accepted without research the fear-peddling of too many conservatives. As I explained there was no real organization and certainly no danger, our conversation moved a bit through history.

She listened, but she could not seem to accept it.

“So, do you think we were racist?” she asked.

I understand her confusion. Those of us living a privileged life can find it extremely difficult to see the challenges others face that we don’t.

Shortly after George Floyd was murdered by a police officer in Minneapolis, I posted an article here quoting my pastor, David Wilman, exhorting us to recognize that “America has a racism problem.”

Said he: “… this nation is suffering because of a racism problem. And it’s the kind of insidious racism that has pushed people down for generations, pushing people down so hard that they are seen as ‘less than.’ They are treated as less than. People don’t have access to health care, they don’t have access to opportunity, they don’t even have access to equal pay or any kind of equal treatment. Things need to change, and it needs to start now.”

Summary and action

The words of a cartoonist whose work had already “jumped the shark” (“Rapid demise of ‘Dilbert’ is no surprise to those watching,” by David Bauder, the Associated Press) serve up yet another reminder that racism is indeed a continuing problem in this country.

However, the response that clipped his voice of hatred is encouraging, a small light of hope.

To be sure, more and more people are becoming aware and are taking a stand, but it is painfully slow. Consider revisiting another post from 2020, the story of a white man from Australia who stood up for equal rights during the 1968 Olympics, fully realizing doing so would likely end his athletic career.

In a world of haters, be a Peter Norman.

Fore-ish

These days, I’m more likely to participate in a walk that’s less competitive than golf. Photo by Steve Martaindale

“Do you even play golf?” I was asked the other day.

Well, what do you mean by “play”?

My first journalism job, as a sportswriter with the Longview, Texas, twice-a-day newspaper, began in September. The fellow who hired me had been with the paper some 14 years, but he left in October to take another job and we soon had a new leader.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

John Inman took over at the worst time for a Texas sports editor, smack dab in the middle of football season, but things seemed to work out smoothly and, by that winter, we had time for a little fun. John thought that his two sportswriters (the other guy had only been there a few weeks ahead of me) should learn to golf, and I bought a set of used clubs from a pawn shop.

We met at 8 a.m. almost every Wednesday at Longview Country Club, where we “learned” the game.

Now, Longview Country Club, which is not and never was in the city of Longview, was a great place to begin. Back then, the 18-hole course had nary a sand trap nor a water feature to play around. In fact, it didn’t have many trees, so losing golf balls wasn’t a huge worry, even for someone at my level.

But I needed more help than that. There never was a breakthrough. While I enjoyed a pretty shot here and there, consistency was absent except when I was consistently bad. I never broke 100 in 18 holes. Once, I hit 49 on the front nine before bombing out on the back. I wasn’t any good and it frustrated me.

A year into our golf education, I moved to Texas A&M to resume more traditional schooling and chasing a little round ball became secondary.

Over the next 20 or so years, I played occasionally. It became more fun because I was no longer trying to improve my game but was simply enjoying myself. Now, it’s been about 25 years since I’ve played a round.

So, do I play golf?

If you’re asking if I’m any good at it, the answer is no.

If you’re asking if I’m currently playing regularly, another no.

If you’re asking if I’d be willing to go out and give it another try … maybe.

Angels

Spotted this message on the island of Curacao in 2015. Photo by Steve Martaindale.

Let’s talk about the people who pass through a child’s life, perhaps making a deep impression with relatively simple acts.

My first thought is of the man who introduced my brother and me to roller skating.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

As I remember, he was a friend of my father’s and for some reason suggested one day that he take us to the local skating rink. I would have been no more than 6 years old and Ward a year younger. Nowadays, when a story starts like that, one thinks, “Oh, no,” but there was no drama except for me seeing how fast I could skate without splashing against the rail.

When I first started to write this, I thought of the man’s name as Ray … then Red … and finally Brownie. I’m not positive of either one, but I’m leaning heavily on Brownie at this point, recognizing well it may have been my father’s nickname for him.

I do not remember how long this experience with Brownie lasted, but I enjoyed roller skating into my high school years, thanks to a man I know nothing else about.

Big trip

My sophomore year in high school, our track and field team was awesome and headed into the state meet with a good chance to win it all. I do not recall even trying to wrangle a trip to Austin for the competition. Since our dad owned and ran a convenience store, things like that did not happen easily.

Again, I know not how it came about, but Ward and I were extended the offer of a trip to the state meet. This particular angel I knew a little better. He answered to the nickname Smitty.

We stayed one night in a motel – a LaQuinta on what was then the northern fringes of Austin. Early the next morning, I made my first of what would become many state track meet visits to the University of Texas.

Oh, yeah, our boys team clinched the state championship during the final event, the mile relay.

A village

None of this is new. We’ve all heard the proverb that originated in ancient communal societies, most notably in Africa, “It takes a village to raise a child.”

Parents need a hand. At the very least, they can benefit from help.

So many adults – and even older children – contribute to the care and education of youth. Keeping an eye on them while parents run to the store. Housing them during a family emergency. Carrying them to school or to religious services. Helping cover participation fees for events. Coaching youth teams and leading organizations. Providing a sleepover to offer new experiences. Even intervening when a parent is the problem.

Let’s hear it for our villagers.

Of an age

Papa and Mama Martaindale.

Technical issues are preventing the timely posting of this piece. However, it is being written on Tuesday, January 24, 2023, a matter that contains some importance we will get to later.

—

I had three grandfathers, but only one Papa.

My mother’s biological father died when she was about 5 years old. I’ve always known that, as well as the story he died as the result of an abscessed tooth, but hardly anything more.

My mother acquired a stepfather when she was, I believe, in high school. She called him Leonard and they were obviously not close … something I think is not unusual considering family dynamics. I called him Pa.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

Pa was a good enough grandfather, though. I have a number of good memories – picking cotton at his place in West Texas, the pocket watch he kept in the vest of his coveralls, the Christmas morning he insisted we leave our presents to look at a “robin” in the front yard only to reveal a deep wonderland of snow.

He died in June 1974. I took a day off from my summer job to drive to Oklahoma for the funeral, which led to an invitation from my uncle who lived in Idaho that concluded in me taking my first big trip to visit him at the end of the summer.

Finally, my grandfather on my dad’s side was the man I called Papa. This is about him.

I’ve always felt a particular attachment to him, partly because he, my father and I shared a middle name. The truth, though, is I only have three strong memories of him because he died when I was only 3 years old.

Memory No. 1: My brother and I were at his home and he was giving us rides on his back while he ran around the living room floor on his hands and knees. For whatever reason, it was so much fun. I also remember looking through a crack in the floor and seeing the ground underneath.

Memory No. 2: We walked from his home, my younger brother and I each holding one of his hands, to a little store down the street. As I remember, his mission was to pick up a carton of eggs. As a bonus, Ward and I each scored a candy bar.

Memory No. 3: I was standing next to his casket in the funeral home; he was dead of a cerebral hemorrhage, lying inside. Certainly, there was considerable discussion between my parents and perhaps my grandmother as to whether I should have this experience, but I’ve always been thankful for it.

I must add it is likely that another reason I felt a strong attachment to this man I knew so briefly was because his widow, the grandmother I called Mama, lived another 35 years. I spent a lot of time with her and she was always talking about the man she called Jackson – that middle name we shared.

Jan. 24, 2023

Back to this date.

A couple of months ago, I was researching something, came across Papa’s date of death and it struck me: I’m at that age now.

Specifically, on this date, I am 68 years and 107 days old, the age of Papa when he died.

Morbid? Perhaps. But I remember, years and years ago, wondering if I would live to be as old as Papa. It seemed like such a long time. It doesn’t seem quite so long now.

Gatormania

An alligator soaking up some sun at Brazos Bend State Park, Texas. Photo by Steve Martaindale

And then there was the time I wrestled a wild, live alligator.

It took place in Bay City, Texas. Being less than 20 miles from East Matagorda Bay, and just off the banks of the Colorado River, and with plenty of irrigation canals and storm ditches, the idea of alligators in the area certainly isn’t difficult to believe, but I never thought I’d find one in the middle of town in the bed of a pickup truck.

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

It was a Sunday, the only day of the week things were not happening at the daily newspaper where I worked. I entered the building and found the keys to the circulation department’s pickup hanging where they were supposed to be.

That was a good start. Without the pickup I was allowed to borrow, moving that piano from our church to our home would not happen and the two or three guys from work who were showing up to help would have done so in vain.

I did a double-take, however, as I approached the door of the truck. Tied up in the bed was an American alligator.

This presented a problem. You see, I really needed this truck.

The gator seemed tied up well enough that it probably couldn’t bite me unless it broke free. The tail was concerning, though. It wasn’t huge, but it was still an alligator. Before I worried too much about those things, I needed a plan for what to do with it.

I surmised (correctly, I later learned) that someone delivering newspapers the previous evening came across the reptile and, for what I must assume they thought was a good reason, decided it needed to be relocated. I knew local game wardens had the habit of taking trespassing alligators to a more remote spot and freeing them.

But what was I to do? Releasing the critter, even if I had the nerve to remove the ropes, was not a good choice, being that we were on a busy thoroughfare with a residential area immediately behind us. I searched the area for an answer.

I really needed this truck.

My eyes landed on a 30-gallon plastic trash can.

Maybe…

I cannot clearly picture in my mind just how I got the alligator into the can. This was about 40 years ago, after all. But I’m pretty sure it had something to do with scooting the can to take in the gator’s head while strategically untying the ropes that had it bound to the truck. Soon enough, the deed was done and I dragged can and gator to a shady area near the door, covered part of the top with cardboard and left a warning message on it.

To my relief, when I later returned the truck, the gator had been removed.

Leadership lesson

This is part of a series of memories, as explained here.

The University of Georgia’s Monday night beatdown of TCU for football’s Division I national championship somehow brought up the memory of what I’ve always held as one of the best lessons I’ve encountered on leadership.

I ask some of you to bear with me. This is not another sports story.

We were entering the final week of the 1995 high school football season in Texas. I had been the editor of the Denison Herald newspaper a little more than a year and our local high school team, the Denison Yellow Jackets, qualified for the state championship game against La Marque.

Back then, schools meeting in playoff games would negotiate where to play, even for the championship. Usually, they would try to choose a nice venue somewhere between the two. For the Denison-La Marque game, there was plenty of room to choose from since it was some 350 miles from Denison on the Red River to La Marque, which was all but on the Gulf of Mexico, but there wasn’t a lot to choose from in the middle of that drive. There were, however, two pearls, one on each end of the string.

The Houston Astrodome sat 39 miles from La Marque. Texas Stadium was 76 miles from Denison. Either was an exciting location for a high school game.

It came down to a coin flip. Winner chooses the venue. La Marque won.

This begins my story.

Logistics

I was off work on Monday, but that afternoon I got a head’s-up phone call from my city editor about the plans being made in my absence.

Just a little more background. Denison lies next to Sherman, actually meeting each other on U.S. 75 and Texoma Parkway. They are true sister cities, all the way down to sibling rivalries. At that time, each had its own newspaper. To be sure, we were in competition with the Sherman Democrat, but it was in some ways softened by the fact we were both owned by the same company. For example, we used their printing press. Staffers were friends with each other.

So, while I was raking leaves on my day off, the two publishers – doing what publishers often do – sought to figure the most economical way to cover an important event occurring some 320 miles away. Their solution was to send my sports editor to provide stories for both papers and to rely on The Associated Press for photos. Or something like that.

Thanks to Michelle Dooner cluing me in, I was prepared when my publisher arrived Tuesday morning. After he outlined the plan, I said, “OK, now here’s what I want to do.”

The late Mark Palmer was typical of most publishers in that he did not come from the news side of the business. Generally speaking, that’s really a good thing because journalists are not usually that great at worrying about the profit line. A budget left up to newspaper editors would result in a lot of underutilized helicopters.

Back to Mark and me standing in his office; I’m offering my plan:

“I want to send Ty (Benz, our sports editor), Joe (Cole, our photographer) and Don (Munsch, a news reporter who had been doing feature stories throughout the playoffs).” I don’t remember how I framed my presentation except to point out that if La Marque won, we could expect most of the AP photos to feature them. (That proved to be the case.)

While we were discussing this, the paper’s advertising director and assistant publisher, Wes King, walked in.

“Steve tells me I’ve been underestimating the importance of this ball game,” Mark said.

“Oh, yeah,” came the reply.

And this is the lesson on leadership…

First, my publisher actually listened and considered an alternate opinion. He then told me to proceed as I wanted, that he would eat crow, cover the expenses, and work things out with the Sherman publisher (who was also his boss).

Twenty-seven years later, it still ranks as one of my more notable management experiences.

Waxing nostalgic

Ah, a new calendar, brimming with potential, awash with possibilities, stuffed full of hope and promise.

I’ve never gotten seriously caught up in New Year’s resolutions, probably due to a keen self-awareness of my weaknesses. However, I’m entering 2023 with a goal.

Its origin is in a line from my official favorite song, “He Went to Paris,” by Jimmy Buffett. This beautiful ballad says of its protagonist:

Now he lives in the islands
Fishes the pilings
And drinks his green label each day
Writing his memoirs
Losing his hearing
But he don’t care what most people say…

To be honest, however, the memoirs seed was actually planted some 35 years ago. A woman asked me to lightly edit and put into a typesetting program (for those who aren’t aware, Microsoft Word has not always been with us) the handwritten memoirs of her aging father. It was amazing, working through his stories and recollections.

Continue reading Waxing nostalgic

School days

A little trip down memory lane…

I was sitting in my classroom at one of those desks with a fixed work surface that slanted down toward the student. Perhaps you’ll recall they had a little groove cut into the desk, a short distance from the top, where you could place your pen or pencil.

When I picked up my book or paper that day, my pencil started rolling toward me. Probably because my hands were full, I did not catch it. However, as it fell toward my lap, I brought my legs together to keep it from hitting the floor.

It worked.

The pencil came down between my legs and was caught in the squeeze, eraser on my left leg, the point on my right. I might have squeaked a bit when the pencil lead dug into my thigh, but nobody said anything. I didn’t like drawing attention to myself back then.

It didn’t appear to bleed, so I waited until I got home to check it out. The only visible evidence was a dark spot, the approximate color of pencil lead, the skin giving it something of a blue tint.

Today, more than 55 years later, the spot remains on the inside of my right thigh, a few inches above my knee.

Here’s the point.

That was probably the most dangerous thing I experienced during fourth grade at Pine Tree Elementary School in Longview, Texas.

The most bothersome thing for me was never getting up the nerve to tell Wendy I liked her.

But absolutely no school shootings.

One more thing

Per everytownresearch.org, firearms are the leading cause of death for American children and teens.

Hey, batter

A youth baseball complex in Ogallala, Neb. Photo by Steve Martaindale

Ready or not, baseball season is upon us.

Major leaguers and wannabes are wrapping up spring training in Florida and Arizona prior to tossing out the first ball of the season Thursday. Colleges and high schools are well into their seasons.

And, of course, Little League and other youth league participants are practicing their throwing, catching, hitting, running and infield chatter.

Do they still do that?

When I was playing almost mumble-mumble years ago, chatter was a big part of the game. Primary chatterers were at first base, second, third and shortstop. Catchers often took part, too. Pitchers did not because they were busy at the time. Outfielders may have shouted, but it wasn’t as expected.

For anyone not familiar, the chatter was intended to distract the batter, mostly nonsensical things like, “Hey, batter, hey-batter, hey-batter … swing, batter!” There would also be plenty of pep talk for the pitcher, just as steeped in substance, “Put it in there, Alvin, put it in there.” Finally, a little goading was not uncommon, “He can’t hit, he can’t hit.”

It must have worked because players were taught to just block out all the noise whenever at bat.

And that tidbit is a great lesson in life.

Take care of your business and don’t let meaningless chatter distract you.

One more thing

A Roman walks into a bar. He holds up two fingers and says, “Five beers, please!”

Happenings

This has nothing to do with the Mariner 10 probe to Mercury, but it’s one of few astronomical photos on hand. I shot this hand-held during totality of the Jan. 20-21, 2019, lunar eclipse of a Blood Moon. Photo by Steve Martaindale

On this date, March 29, in 1974, the unmanned U.S. space probe Mariner 10 became the first spacecraft to visit the planet Mercury.

I’ve always enjoyed the on-this-date features in newspapers. Don’t know why, but I seldom skip over them. In fact, I’ll often use one of the factoids for Facebook and Twitter posts. They sometimes make good conversation starters and often carry the potential to serve as reminders of good memories or warnings from bad events.

That’s what I started to do this morning and was impressed by the volume of notable events that have occurred on March 29.

My search began, as it often does, with The Associated Press’ daily column. You might want to bookmark https://apnews.com/hub/today-in-history for your use. Another great site is the History Channel at https://www.history.com/this-day-in-history. The AP has many more items listed, but history.com gives tremendous depth. It’s from there I grabbed the Mariner 10 info, including that Mercury’s surface temperature varies from 800 degrees Fahrenheit when facing the sun to -279 degrees when facing away.

Back to March 29 through the years. I’m not going to reprint the whole article, but you can find it by clicking here.

Let’s quickly skim over the highlights.

In 1861, President Lincoln ordered a relief expedition to Fort Sumter, S.C.

In 1867, Queen Victoria signed an act creating the Dominion of Canada.

In 1943, World War II rationing of meat, fats and cheese began.

In 1951, Julius and Ethel Rosenberg were convicted of conspiracy to commit espionage for the Soviet Union.

In 1971, Army Lt. William L. Calley Jr. was convicted of murdering 22 Vietnamese civilians in the 1968 My Lai massacre.

In 1971, a jury recommended the death penalty for Charles Manson and three female followers for the 1969 Tate-La Bianca murders.

In 1973, the last U.S. combat troops left South Vietnam.

In 1974, eight Ohio National Guardsmen were indicted on federal charges stemming from the shooting deaths of four students at Kent State University.

In 1984, the Baltimore Colts football team moved to Indianapolis.

In 2004, seven former Soviet-bloc nations (Romania, Bulgaria, Slovakia, Lithuania, Slovenia, Latvia and Estonia) joined NATO.

In 2017, Britain filed for divorce from the European Union.

In 2020, country singer Joe Diffie died at 61 from what a spokesman said were complications from COVID-19.

In 2021, salvage teams dislodged a ship that had blocked the Suez Canal for six days.

But there’s more.

The AP article always ends with today’s birthdays. Those catching my attention were former British Prime Minister Sir John Major, 79; basketball Hall of Famer Walt Frazier, 77; football Hall of Famer Earl Campbell, 67; actor Marina Sirtis, 67; actor Lucy Lawless, 54; and tennis Hall of Famer Jennifer Capriati, 46.

One more thing…

What do history teachers make when they want to get together?

Dates.

What’s your network?

A tweet from some person in the Twitterverse crossed my screen a few weeks ago in which the writer stated he or she would happily subscribe to a television network which continuously played reruns from a set of four or five specific shows.

Many others chimed in with their own lists, which helped bring to mind a number of series I haven’t seen in years. Of course, it also got me thinking about my personalized network (and don’t you know the technology is there to do that … think of Pandora).

Quite naturally, I wondered what your list would include. Would you share your ideal network lineup? Since it’s not fair, in my opinion, to compare current series with old shows, let’s limit it to shows from the 20th century. I’m leaving it open to those that crossed centuries if the majority of its episodes were prior to 2000.

Pick as many as six shows for your network and share with us. To help fire some aging synapses, I’ve dug out lists of titles and present them in no particular order. Note I did not double-check all the program names to make sure they’re correct, so some might be misrepresented, but you’ll recognize anything you really liked. My pick for Steve’s Personal Network (SPN) will be at the end. Please add your list in a comment.

—

Get Smart, Sanford & Son, Love American Style, Green Acres, Hawaii Five-O, I Dream of Jeanie, Mr. Ed, Petticoat Junction, Gilligan’s Island, Bewitched, Rockford Files, The Twilight Zone, Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Trek: Voyager, Dragnet, Sgt. Bilko, The Honeymooners, Mork, The Jeffersons, Car 54 Where Are You?…

Burns & Allen, The Addams Family, The Munsters, Highway Patrol, My Three Sons, Soupy Sales, The Outer Limits, Lost in Space, I Love Lucy, The Lucy Show, Here’s Lucy, Dick Van Dyke, Cheers, Taxi, Family Affair, The Odd Couple, Love Boat, Courtship of Eddie’s Father, My Favorite Martian, F-Troop, Hogan’s Heroes, Dark Shadows, Night Court, That Girl, Facts of Life…

Bonanza, The Waltons, Combat!, Tales From the Crypt, Maverick, Laugh-In, The Muppet Show, McHale’s Navy, The Midnight Special, Roy Rogers, The Big Valley, Touched by an Angel, Perry Mason, The Fugitive, CHiPs, Emergency, Golden Girls, Perfect Strangers, Bosom Buddies, All in the Family, Harry and the Hendersons, The Beverly Hillbillies…

Police Squad, Hazel, The Monkees, Quincy M.E., Barnaby Jones, Have Gun Will Travel, The Little Rascals, M*A*S*H, Fantasy Island, Saved by the Bell, Leave it to Beaver, Hart to Hart, Matlock, Wagon Train, The Brady Bunch, Rifleman, Adam-12, The Three Stooges, The Andy Griffith Show, Gomer Pyle USMC, Buck Rogers in the 25th Century, Dr. Who, Seinfeld, MacGyver…

Magnum PI, 21 Jump Street, The A-Team, The Cosby Show, Little House on the Prairie, The Dukes of Hazzard, Happy Days, Laverne and Shirley, The Wonder Years, Married … With Children, Mission: Impossible, Murder She Wrote, Mod Squad, Twin Peaks, Gunsmoke, Mystery Science Theater 3000, Barney Miller, Good Times, What’s Happening?…

Dallas, In Living Color, Thirtysomething, Highway to Heaven, Roseanne, Hill Street Blues, Newhart, The Bob Newhart Show, Frazier, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Columbo, Barreta, The X-Files, Friends, The 6 Million Dollar Man, The Bionic Woman, ALF, The Real McCoys, Wonder Woman, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel…

Battlestar Galactica, The Greatest American Hero, The Real McCoys, Alice, Flo, Who’s the Boss?, Growing Pains, Family Ties, and … what else?

Obviously, this is not comprehensive, and someone will come up with a show I’ll be embarrassed to have overlooked.

Without further fanfare, my SPN channel will include: M*A*S*H, Taxi, The Bob Newhart Show, Star Trek: The Next Generation, Barney Miller, and Cheers.

One more thing…

Is there a more used and more helpful mnemonic than, “Righty tighty, lefty loosey”?

Delightful

Scared? Honestly, I’ve not seen many — any? — successful hiccup cures due to someone trying to startle the hiccups out of the patient. Photo by Steve Martaindale

I’m not sure my pastor believed me.

OK, wait, that statement could lead to a bushel basket of speculation, the validity of which I’m not willing to place under scrutiny; let me try again.

The preacher and I were chatting on the phone last week, something we try to do regularly, especially when Leah and I are on the road, as we’ve been since late May. For the life of me, I do not recall why I brought up the topic, but I asked, “Do you know how to cure hiccups?”

He made a feeble attempt to formulate a smart-aleck answer, possibly something to do with “boo,” but I cut him off: “A spoonful of sugar.”

(Bonus points to all readers who just heard, in their mind’s ear, Julie Andrews as Mary Poppins sing, “Just a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down, in a most delightful way.”)

Instead of singing, David, our preacher, said something like, “Oh, really.”

You can hear the doubt just reading those words, can’t you?

“Oh, really.”

My confirmation was two-pronged.

One, I have more than 20 years of practical application of the cure. Maybe more than 30 years. During that time, I told him, the very few efforts that failed to chase away hiccups with the first dose, inevitably succeeded with a second dose. Yes, in case you missed it, almost all of my hiccup attacks are vanquished with one spoonful of sugar. Sometimes, a second spoonful is required.

Two, there was actually a study done, published in 1971, that showed the sweet cure was effective in 19 of 20 patients. Like so many wonderful things, they’re not sure why, but the prevalent thought deals with how sugar affects the vagus nerve, which connects the brain and stomach. I don’t care why or how. I just cherish the knowledge that, if hiccups begin torturing me, a spoonful of sugar … well, you know.

Misty watercolor …

Patchwork clouds. Photo by Steve Martaindale

Think back for just a second.

Back to a time before you started school.

Briefly share with us the first memory you come up with.

My paternal grandfather, the man whose middle name my father and I both carried but who I called Papa, died when I was 4 years old.

My memory is walking with him – me holding one hand and my younger brother holding the other – to a little store a short distance from his home in the Spring Hill community that is now part of Longview, Texas.

I believe our mission was to buy eggs, and maybe we did, but I remember with certainty we returned with my brother and I each eating a piece of candy.

Your turn.