The scenario depicted below didn’t happen often, and it happens even less the older I get, but it did happen, and it does happen . . . sometimes.
I joined the Stone Mountain Running Enclave in 1975. This group of runners doesn’t actually have a name; I just made that up. If the group had any organizational structure it would be an appropriate name. However, our only rule is, “There ain’t no rules!” We’ve been meeting in the main parking lot of Stone Mountain Park on Saturday and Sunday mornings since, well, prior to my arrival in 1975. My running buddy Joe is the longest active member. I would be second.
A pretty fair number of runners start their workouts in the main parking lot. Most run around the mountain in a counterclockwise fashion, much as they would if it was their local high school track. It’s a hilly five mile route.
Our group has varied in size over the decades. Sometimes only one or two show up, but back in the day we’d get as many as 15 adults, college kids, high school kids, and middle-school kids like my daughter Ann or Joe’s son Chris. (Now 28 and 30+) While our group has varied in size over the years, the routine is generally the same.
Saturday is a long hard run. Sunday is a shorter recovery run. The Saturday run starts out with a 2 to 3 mile warm-up, and then we jack up the pace to something challenging for the distance we are traveling. This is followed by a 2 mile warm down.
During our warm-up we just amble along at a slow jog. There is no sense of urgency. There is no hurry. It’s a warm-up. You are supposed to take your time and just mosey along, allowing your muscles and joints to loosen up in preparation for the work that lies ahead. It’s considered bad form, rude, a breach of running etiquette, to push the pace the least little bit during warm-up. There is plenty of time to bust chops and establish the pecking order during the meat of the workout.
Occasionally there will be a young Hot Dog who passes us during our warm-up. We notice his passing, but don’t care because it is, after all, just the warm-up. Joe says good morning to every person we pass in either direction, and invariably grants Hot Dog that courtesy. Hot Dog moves on ahead of us and we continue our warm-up and conversation.
We don’t say anything, but Joe and I are taking note that Hot Dog is carrying his arms too high or low, his stride is too long or short, his chin is too high or low, or he leans too far forward or back. He just doesn’t look right to be running in front of us. He doesn’t look like he can handle that pace, or a quicker pace, for the entire route. Joe and I are both wondering if we will see Hot Dog later in our run.
By passing us Hot Dog has silently asked the question, “Am I better than these old farts?” In fact, it is less of a question and more of a declarative statement like, “I AM better than these old farts!” While this is just another training day and not a race, Joe and I are keenly interested in helping Hot Dog discover the true/false nature of his declarative statement.
Joe and I are, by nature, competitive beasts. I would be happy to beat Joe in any and all contests, and he would gladly do the same to me. Instead of beating on each other during the run it is a pleasure to have Hot Dog offer us an entertaining diversion via his declarative statement, “I AM better than these old farts!”
We do not mind being passed by better runners. We do mind being passed by lesser runners. It has to be proven to us that Hot Dog is a better runner.
As we begin the meat of our workout it is such a pleasure to see the diminishing distance between us and Hot Dog, who is several hundred yards ahead of us by the end of our warm-up. I don’t know about Joe, but I feel like a wolf chasing down my prey. I don’t smell blood, but I do see weakness, and I want to expose it. Joe and I might actually discuss the fact that we are closing the distance on Hot Dog, and make a conscious push to catch him. Sometimes we just go about our business and let the unspoken mission happen.
The best part of this scenario is catching Hot Dog before he gives up. Sometimes we will blow on by him with a little extra effort and bury him deep in our wake. However, our experience has been that it is much more fun to get on Hot Dog’s tail and torture him.
When Hot Dog hears us approaching from behind he invariably raises his pace to avoid being caught. It’s a futile effort and adds to our fun. We can match that surge and more, but we don’t go by him. We stay on Hot Dog’s tail. When Hot Dog speeds up, we speed up. When Hot Dog eases up just a hair, so do we. Our objective is to keep Hot Dog running as long and as fast as he can until he gives up in abject defeat. We want him to reach a state of utter exhaustion where he has to slow to a near walk, and we have no choice but to blow on by him.
I love it. I absolutely love it. It’s the most fun you can have standing up.
Several months ago Ann called me a Velociraptor; maybe so, but so is Joe.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
Penick and Ford
During high school and college I spent several summers working in the Penick and Ford corn processing plant in Cedar Rapids Iowa. In addition to the summers I worked during some Christmas breaks and spring breaks. As I said in an earlier post, when I wasn’t in school I was working, and when I wasn’t working I was in school. I worked as much as I could to earn money for college.
My job at Penick and Ford was manual labor. I shoveled mountains of corn onto conveyor belts or into augers. I shoveled rock sulfur into a sulfur furnace that was making sulfuric acid. I pulled 50-pound bags of corn starch off of a conveyor belt and stacked them high on forklift pallets. I rolled 50-gallon drums of corn syrup into railroad cars and stood them up. I operated a fork lift. I filled vats the size of small water towers with corn syrup, dumped 50-pound bags of carbon powder into the vats, and heated the mixture with steam. I cleaned the filter system that removed the carbon powder and the impurities it absorbed from the corn syrup. I drove a 2-ton truck ferrying equipment because the supervisor’s license was suspended.
Work in the Penick and Ford plant was assigned by seniority. I wasn’t there long enough to gain any seniority, and never had a regular position. I’d show up for the 8am shift and sometimes there would be enough work that I got a job, and some days I was turned away. On the days I was turned away at 8am I would return for the 4 pm to midnight shift and usually got a job at that time. The afternoon shift paid an extra 10 cents per hour, so I did not complain. Sometimes the only shift available to me was the graveyard shift, midnight to 8 am. I did not relish it, but the extra 20 cents per hour was really nice.
My dad had a car to get to his job, and my mom had a car to get to her office job at Penick and Ford. I don’t recall how we worked it out, but occasionally I had access to Mom’s car at work. A couple times a week I would stash my running gear in the trunk of Mom’s car. After working an 8-hour shift of manual labor I would change into my running gear and run the three miles home for a workout. It wasn’t as much running as I needed, but it was all the energy I had left after working all day, or all night.
Coe College had a small computer that was located in the Registrar’s Office. During my first year at Coe College (70-71) I enrolled in the first of the two computer classes they had and enjoyed it thoroughly. Computing was in its infancy and I wanted to be a part of it. While I was working at Penick and Ford during the summer of 1971 I would stop by the Coe College Registrar’s Office to ask if they had any job openings. I tried to stop by at least once a week throughout the summer. More often than not these visits were on my way home from Penick and Ford, so I’d be wearing my hard hat, steel toed work boots, and my bib overalls which were filthy and stinking from the workday.
The Coe Registrar’s Office only had six or seven workers, so of course they never had any openings, but I was too young to realize that. After being rejected each time I’d stay and chat with the staff for a while just to make sure they would remember me. I wanted them to know that I was interested, earnest, and perhaps a bit desperate; surely they would remember the stinking, filthy, sweaty, skinny college kid when there was an opportunity for work.
My persistence resulted in a part-time job during the school year as a nighttime computer operator. Later on I became a tutor for the programming students, again, at night and during the school year. By my senior year I was working 20 hours a week, carrying a full academic load majoring in both Math and Physics, and was a varsity athlete in track and cross country. Spare time? What’s that?
I eventually got a summer job in the Registrar’s Office. I worked a full day in the office, and then when everyone else went home for the day, I stayed for an extra hour to vacuum, empty the trash, and dust. I was happy to get an extra hour’s work and an extra hour’s pay I could put toward tuition.
I try to close these posts with a short snappy sentence; a final word of wisdom containing the moral of the story, if there is one. What is the moral to this story? Is it something pleasant like “Persistence pays”? Or is it something more fatalistic like “Be careful what you wish for; you could end up working all day and all night”?
My job at Penick and Ford was manual labor. I shoveled mountains of corn onto conveyor belts or into augers. I shoveled rock sulfur into a sulfur furnace that was making sulfuric acid. I pulled 50-pound bags of corn starch off of a conveyor belt and stacked them high on forklift pallets. I rolled 50-gallon drums of corn syrup into railroad cars and stood them up. I operated a fork lift. I filled vats the size of small water towers with corn syrup, dumped 50-pound bags of carbon powder into the vats, and heated the mixture with steam. I cleaned the filter system that removed the carbon powder and the impurities it absorbed from the corn syrup. I drove a 2-ton truck ferrying equipment because the supervisor’s license was suspended.
Work in the Penick and Ford plant was assigned by seniority. I wasn’t there long enough to gain any seniority, and never had a regular position. I’d show up for the 8am shift and sometimes there would be enough work that I got a job, and some days I was turned away. On the days I was turned away at 8am I would return for the 4 pm to midnight shift and usually got a job at that time. The afternoon shift paid an extra 10 cents per hour, so I did not complain. Sometimes the only shift available to me was the graveyard shift, midnight to 8 am. I did not relish it, but the extra 20 cents per hour was really nice.
My dad had a car to get to his job, and my mom had a car to get to her office job at Penick and Ford. I don’t recall how we worked it out, but occasionally I had access to Mom’s car at work. A couple times a week I would stash my running gear in the trunk of Mom’s car. After working an 8-hour shift of manual labor I would change into my running gear and run the three miles home for a workout. It wasn’t as much running as I needed, but it was all the energy I had left after working all day, or all night.
Coe College had a small computer that was located in the Registrar’s Office. During my first year at Coe College (70-71) I enrolled in the first of the two computer classes they had and enjoyed it thoroughly. Computing was in its infancy and I wanted to be a part of it. While I was working at Penick and Ford during the summer of 1971 I would stop by the Coe College Registrar’s Office to ask if they had any job openings. I tried to stop by at least once a week throughout the summer. More often than not these visits were on my way home from Penick and Ford, so I’d be wearing my hard hat, steel toed work boots, and my bib overalls which were filthy and stinking from the workday.
The Coe Registrar’s Office only had six or seven workers, so of course they never had any openings, but I was too young to realize that. After being rejected each time I’d stay and chat with the staff for a while just to make sure they would remember me. I wanted them to know that I was interested, earnest, and perhaps a bit desperate; surely they would remember the stinking, filthy, sweaty, skinny college kid when there was an opportunity for work.
My persistence resulted in a part-time job during the school year as a nighttime computer operator. Later on I became a tutor for the programming students, again, at night and during the school year. By my senior year I was working 20 hours a week, carrying a full academic load majoring in both Math and Physics, and was a varsity athlete in track and cross country. Spare time? What’s that?
I eventually got a summer job in the Registrar’s Office. I worked a full day in the office, and then when everyone else went home for the day, I stayed for an extra hour to vacuum, empty the trash, and dust. I was happy to get an extra hour’s work and an extra hour’s pay I could put toward tuition.
I try to close these posts with a short snappy sentence; a final word of wisdom containing the moral of the story, if there is one. What is the moral to this story? Is it something pleasant like “Persistence pays”? Or is it something more fatalistic like “Be careful what you wish for; you could end up working all day and all night”?
Friday, January 15, 2010
West Point R Day: Part 2
Jean and I cried as Ann moved down the steps and crossed the floor of the stadium. Ann never looked back. Only a few new cadets did, and we speculated whether they would be the first dropouts. There are always a couple dropouts on the first day. At the middle of the field there was a cadet barking orders at the new cadets to move their one small bag to their left hand and keep their eyes straight ahead. Ann’s six weeks of Army basic training known as “Beast Barracks” had just begun. Jean and I didn’t turn to hug and console each other until Ann was completely out of sight. We didn’t want to waste what we feared might be our final seconds with Ann.
We could hear shouting coming from beneath the football stands across the stadium where Ann had disappeared. As we made our way to the car we caught a glimpse of new cadets being rushed onto yellow school buses. We wondered if that was Ann’s group, and squinted to see if we could catch one more glimpse of her from hundreds of yards away.
Jean and I spent the day wandering campus. West Point is a beautiful place when you are not handing over your first-born child to a life of known and unknown hardship. We attended a briefing about Beast Barracks given by the Superintendant. We also attended an organ recital mid-afternoon at the Cadet Chapel that sits on a bluff overlooking the campus. We stayed in the chapel long after the recital was over to pray, and hug, and cry some more.
Jean and I were spending the day on campus in hopes of catching one more glimpse of Ann during the Oath Ceremony at 5:30. There was no guarantee that we would see her, or that she would see us, but we wanted to try. There was supposed to be a parade of the new cadets down a road where we might be able to pick her out from the side of the road. Parents lined up on the road hours in advance of the ceremony. The threat of rain eventually cancelled the parade and rumors abounded amongst the parents where and when the Oath Ceremony would take place.
In the absence of any real information all of the parents were getting pretty frantic about the Oath Ceremony. All of the parents were asking each other if they knew anything, but all were clueless.
When masses of parents started streaming toward Eisenhower Hall we joined the stream. We were angry and frustrated to have spent an entire day hoping to see Ann one more time, and were now extremely anxious that our efforts would be thwarted.
When we got to the Eisenhower Hall Auditorium we found that most of the seats were reserved for the new cadets. The few rows in the back of the auditorium were filled and ushers would not allow us inside to stand in the back. We rushed upstairs to see if we could get in the balcony, but those doors were closed and guarded by cadets.
New rumors were passed around that seating would be permitted by lottery, and that many or most of us would not be seated. This jacked up the anxiety and anger of the parents even more. Eventually the balcony doors opened and the parents rushed in to grab a seat. Jean and I managed to get a spot sitting uncomfortably on the stairs along with many other parents.
We were hot, sticky, and tired from a long day in the summer sun. Our emotions had been jacked around from early in the morning till evening. As we sat on the balcony steps with perhaps fifty other parents who could not get seats, we were told that the fire marshal’s room capacity had been exceeded and that we could not sit in the aisles. Nobody moved and many parents snarled in anger. The officials wisely moved away.
After an extremely long wait, the new cadets came marching into the auditorium wearing rain ponchos. When the new cadets removed their ponchos we examined the back of every head in an attempt to identify Ann. Identification was impossible. This generated more frustration. There were several speeches that were of little interest to me, and finally the oath was taken.
I realized that the new cadets would likely march out the same side doors by which they had entered. I also had a guess that they would be returning to the barracks and that I might catch sight of Ann during that return march. Jean gave me permission to run ahead outside to catch the return march.
As the new cadets marched in formation past the Superintendant’s house toward the barracks I ran up and down the side of the road trying to find Ann. I did this with about 50 other parents who were on the same mission. The new cadets could not speak, and none dared to glance sideways. I did eventually find Ann in the center of the road and in the center of the column.
I knew that Ann could not speak, so I yelled out to her “I see you! I see you!” knowing she would recognize my voice. I dared not say her name as this might give her squad leader an extra excuse to persecute her. Ann did dare ever so briefly to cut her eyes in my direction with a stressed expression that said, “Dad, these people are absolutely CRAZY!” I ran ahead a few yards and yelled out, “You can do this. You can do this.” Then I’d run up another 20 yards and yell, “Yes you can. Yes you can.”, and so on down the road until she disappeared with the other cadets into the barracks area where we were not permitted.
Over the years we’d told Ann thousands of times that we loved her, but at that moment I wished we’d said it more.
We could hear shouting coming from beneath the football stands across the stadium where Ann had disappeared. As we made our way to the car we caught a glimpse of new cadets being rushed onto yellow school buses. We wondered if that was Ann’s group, and squinted to see if we could catch one more glimpse of her from hundreds of yards away.
Jean and I spent the day wandering campus. West Point is a beautiful place when you are not handing over your first-born child to a life of known and unknown hardship. We attended a briefing about Beast Barracks given by the Superintendant. We also attended an organ recital mid-afternoon at the Cadet Chapel that sits on a bluff overlooking the campus. We stayed in the chapel long after the recital was over to pray, and hug, and cry some more.
Jean and I were spending the day on campus in hopes of catching one more glimpse of Ann during the Oath Ceremony at 5:30. There was no guarantee that we would see her, or that she would see us, but we wanted to try. There was supposed to be a parade of the new cadets down a road where we might be able to pick her out from the side of the road. Parents lined up on the road hours in advance of the ceremony. The threat of rain eventually cancelled the parade and rumors abounded amongst the parents where and when the Oath Ceremony would take place.
In the absence of any real information all of the parents were getting pretty frantic about the Oath Ceremony. All of the parents were asking each other if they knew anything, but all were clueless.
When masses of parents started streaming toward Eisenhower Hall we joined the stream. We were angry and frustrated to have spent an entire day hoping to see Ann one more time, and were now extremely anxious that our efforts would be thwarted.
When we got to the Eisenhower Hall Auditorium we found that most of the seats were reserved for the new cadets. The few rows in the back of the auditorium were filled and ushers would not allow us inside to stand in the back. We rushed upstairs to see if we could get in the balcony, but those doors were closed and guarded by cadets.
New rumors were passed around that seating would be permitted by lottery, and that many or most of us would not be seated. This jacked up the anxiety and anger of the parents even more. Eventually the balcony doors opened and the parents rushed in to grab a seat. Jean and I managed to get a spot sitting uncomfortably on the stairs along with many other parents.
We were hot, sticky, and tired from a long day in the summer sun. Our emotions had been jacked around from early in the morning till evening. As we sat on the balcony steps with perhaps fifty other parents who could not get seats, we were told that the fire marshal’s room capacity had been exceeded and that we could not sit in the aisles. Nobody moved and many parents snarled in anger. The officials wisely moved away.
After an extremely long wait, the new cadets came marching into the auditorium wearing rain ponchos. When the new cadets removed their ponchos we examined the back of every head in an attempt to identify Ann. Identification was impossible. This generated more frustration. There were several speeches that were of little interest to me, and finally the oath was taken.
I realized that the new cadets would likely march out the same side doors by which they had entered. I also had a guess that they would be returning to the barracks and that I might catch sight of Ann during that return march. Jean gave me permission to run ahead outside to catch the return march.
As the new cadets marched in formation past the Superintendant’s house toward the barracks I ran up and down the side of the road trying to find Ann. I did this with about 50 other parents who were on the same mission. The new cadets could not speak, and none dared to glance sideways. I did eventually find Ann in the center of the road and in the center of the column.
I knew that Ann could not speak, so I yelled out to her “I see you! I see you!” knowing she would recognize my voice. I dared not say her name as this might give her squad leader an extra excuse to persecute her. Ann did dare ever so briefly to cut her eyes in my direction with a stressed expression that said, “Dad, these people are absolutely CRAZY!” I ran ahead a few yards and yelled out, “You can do this. You can do this.” Then I’d run up another 20 yards and yell, “Yes you can. Yes you can.”, and so on down the road until she disappeared with the other cadets into the barracks area where we were not permitted.
Over the years we’d told Ann thousands of times that we loved her, but at that moment I wished we’d said it more.
Friday, January 8, 2010
West Point R Day: Part 1
There is a lot that precedes the story of Reception Day at West Point, also known as R Day. The process of getting admitted to West Point is long and laborious. It involves incredible grades, a bunch of Advanced Placement courses and test scores, extraordinary SAT scores, a medical exam, a physical fitness test, leadership positions in extracurricular activities, and a nomination from congressman or senator. All of that is another story for another day. This story is my recollection of R Day from a parent’s perspective.
Jean and I accompanied Ann up to West Point for R Day in the summer of 2000. R Day is the name for the day when new cadets report for summer training. We were unfamiliar with the area, so we flew in the day before to the nearest airport which was Newburgh NY, about 20 minutes north of West Point. On subsequent trips we flew into Newark NJ and drove the one hour up to West Point.
We stayed at an ancient Holiday Inn in Newburgh where the doors and walkways are external to the building. I was completely underwhelmed with the facility, but Ann was about to experience much worse, so I didn’t comment on it.
We noticed in the hotel lobby a fair number of other family groups who appeared to have new cadets in tow. When it came time for dinner we knocked on several doors to see if the occupants were headed to West Point in the morning and would like to join us for a group dinner. We also trolled through the hotel lobby and picked up a few more families there.
This mass of humanity crossed the busy highway to a restaurant across the street. Ann pulled all the new cadets together to sit at one table, while Jean and I pulled the parents and siblings to sit at another group of tables. We all had a lot of anxiety about what was to come, so it was really helpful to sit and talk with other folks and share our stories. I recall Ann being grateful to have an opportunity to chat with her future colleagues. Everyone had a great time in spite of our various states of anxiety.
The new cadets were scheduled to arrive at specific times throughout the morning of R Day. We set an alarm clock AND requested a wake-up call from the front desk to be sure we would arrive well in advance of Ann’s scheduled time. We left early as we were unfamiliar with the route. Ann did not want the kind of attention she would garner by showing up late for R Day.
When we arrived at the football stadium for check-in, the line of cadets and families was at least 150 yards long. Waiting in line only heightened the sense of dread and impending doom. As the line moved slowly forward through the parking lot we happened to notice a new cadet’s dental records on the ground. Each cadet had been given very specific instructions of what they were required to bring to R Day, and the list included dental records, presumably so they could identify the remains after death.
I imagined the verbal crucifixion this new cadet would receive for failing to have his dental records as instructed. He was going to get yelled at all day anyway for offenses real and imagined, but I figured he didn’t need yet another reason to be abused. I didn’t want to look like an idiot, but somebody had to get these dental records back to the kid. I picked up the dental records and made my way down the line repeatedly yelling, “John Doe, I have your dental records!” Everybody looked at me like I was crazy, but I kept it up until I found the kid about 20 yards from the check-in gate. He was extremely grateful.
We were eventually led into the upper sections of the stadium with roughly 100 other new cadets and family members. Jean and I sat down with Ann sandwiched close between us and tightly held her hands while we tried to maintain our composure. We were addressed by a serious upper-class cadet who had a rehearsed speech that lasted all of two minutes. This was followed by a second brief address from the “Master of the Sword”, Colonel Maureen LeBoef, who was the chair of the Department of Physical Education. At the close of the Colonel’s remarks the cadet took command once again and announced, “You have 90 seconds to say goodbye before moving out.”
Ann, Jean, and I knew this moment was coming and had discussed how we were going to handle it. We’d already held our deep meaningful conversations over the previous days and weeks. We’d spontaneously grabbed Ann and cried during fierce emotional group hugs that seemed to occur every hour over the last several days. Ann decided that it would be best that when this final moment came that she would immediately head out as instructed.
It almost transpired as scripted. As Ann stood up to go, Jean and I hugged her one last time and quickly let her go so she could be one of the first of her group to go down the stadium steps and cross the football field, literally and figuratively to the other side of the world.
Jean and I cried as Ann moved down the steps and crossed the floor of the stadium. Ann never looked back.
_____________________
The following link contains a professional journalist’s excellent firsthand account of R Day.
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,287909,00.html
Jean and I accompanied Ann up to West Point for R Day in the summer of 2000. R Day is the name for the day when new cadets report for summer training. We were unfamiliar with the area, so we flew in the day before to the nearest airport which was Newburgh NY, about 20 minutes north of West Point. On subsequent trips we flew into Newark NJ and drove the one hour up to West Point.
We stayed at an ancient Holiday Inn in Newburgh where the doors and walkways are external to the building. I was completely underwhelmed with the facility, but Ann was about to experience much worse, so I didn’t comment on it.
We noticed in the hotel lobby a fair number of other family groups who appeared to have new cadets in tow. When it came time for dinner we knocked on several doors to see if the occupants were headed to West Point in the morning and would like to join us for a group dinner. We also trolled through the hotel lobby and picked up a few more families there.
This mass of humanity crossed the busy highway to a restaurant across the street. Ann pulled all the new cadets together to sit at one table, while Jean and I pulled the parents and siblings to sit at another group of tables. We all had a lot of anxiety about what was to come, so it was really helpful to sit and talk with other folks and share our stories. I recall Ann being grateful to have an opportunity to chat with her future colleagues. Everyone had a great time in spite of our various states of anxiety.
The new cadets were scheduled to arrive at specific times throughout the morning of R Day. We set an alarm clock AND requested a wake-up call from the front desk to be sure we would arrive well in advance of Ann’s scheduled time. We left early as we were unfamiliar with the route. Ann did not want the kind of attention she would garner by showing up late for R Day.
When we arrived at the football stadium for check-in, the line of cadets and families was at least 150 yards long. Waiting in line only heightened the sense of dread and impending doom. As the line moved slowly forward through the parking lot we happened to notice a new cadet’s dental records on the ground. Each cadet had been given very specific instructions of what they were required to bring to R Day, and the list included dental records, presumably so they could identify the remains after death.
I imagined the verbal crucifixion this new cadet would receive for failing to have his dental records as instructed. He was going to get yelled at all day anyway for offenses real and imagined, but I figured he didn’t need yet another reason to be abused. I didn’t want to look like an idiot, but somebody had to get these dental records back to the kid. I picked up the dental records and made my way down the line repeatedly yelling, “John Doe, I have your dental records!” Everybody looked at me like I was crazy, but I kept it up until I found the kid about 20 yards from the check-in gate. He was extremely grateful.
We were eventually led into the upper sections of the stadium with roughly 100 other new cadets and family members. Jean and I sat down with Ann sandwiched close between us and tightly held her hands while we tried to maintain our composure. We were addressed by a serious upper-class cadet who had a rehearsed speech that lasted all of two minutes. This was followed by a second brief address from the “Master of the Sword”, Colonel Maureen LeBoef, who was the chair of the Department of Physical Education. At the close of the Colonel’s remarks the cadet took command once again and announced, “You have 90 seconds to say goodbye before moving out.”
Ann, Jean, and I knew this moment was coming and had discussed how we were going to handle it. We’d already held our deep meaningful conversations over the previous days and weeks. We’d spontaneously grabbed Ann and cried during fierce emotional group hugs that seemed to occur every hour over the last several days. Ann decided that it would be best that when this final moment came that she would immediately head out as instructed.
It almost transpired as scripted. As Ann stood up to go, Jean and I hugged her one last time and quickly let her go so she could be one of the first of her group to go down the stadium steps and cross the football field, literally and figuratively to the other side of the world.
Jean and I cried as Ann moved down the steps and crossed the floor of the stadium. Ann never looked back.
_____________________
The following link contains a professional journalist’s excellent firsthand account of R Day.
http://www.foxnews.com/story/0,2933,287909,00.html
Friday, January 1, 2010
Elks Club
My first job was busboy in the Elks Club restaurant in Cedar Rapids Iowa. I think that was the summer of 1968 before I entered my junior year in high school. Though I was 16 at the time, I had no idea what was expected of me. The waitresses were surly and provided no instruction, so when the dishwasher’s position opened up after the first week, I grabbed it. I made one dollar an hour washing dishes. It was hard work, and oftentimes disgusting, but it was straightforward and it suited me at the time.
There were several hours of work during lunch followed by 2-3 UNPAID hours off before dinner hours began. I couldn’t go do much during the two hours, so I just hung around the kitchen. The restaurant and the bar stayed open pretty late, so I’d get home from work after midnight. It was a pretty long day since work began before lunch. The job gave me a reason to study hard in school. I didn’t want to wash dishes for the rest of my life.
They would feed me back in the kitchen before work began, and the food was excellent, but they took the meal out of my paycheck. I needed to save every penny for college, so I started bringing a sandwich to work. It was pretty funny to bring my lunch and dinner to work in a restaurant.
Occasionally the kitchen manager needed to inventory the boxes of food and supplies in the large storage room off of the kitchen. She complained about how difficult the inventory was and how she dreaded it. I was looking for an opportunity to do anything other than washing dishes, so I volunteered to help with the job.
When we got in the storage room the boxes of supplies were neatly stacked on the floor with walkways between the stacks. The kitchen manager explained that we needed to un-stack each pile of boxes so that we could count each box individually. I was aghast, but kept it to myself. She was the boss, but I gently suggested that I had learned something in school that might make the process go quicker with much less labor. I didn’t tell her I learned it in elementary school.
I explained that if the boxes inside each stack were the same as the boxes on the outside of the stack, I could multiply the boxes wide, times the boxes deep, times the boxes high, and have a total without moving a single box. “You can do that?” she said in shock. I assured her I could do this quickly and with accuracy if provided with a piece of paper and a pencil to multiply the bigger numbers. (Hand held calculators did not exist at that time.) We accomplished the inventory in record time and I became the hero of the entire kitchen. What I had performed was nothing short of miraculous to the entire staff. That’s what happens when you pay attention in the sixth grade.
There were several hours of work during lunch followed by 2-3 UNPAID hours off before dinner hours began. I couldn’t go do much during the two hours, so I just hung around the kitchen. The restaurant and the bar stayed open pretty late, so I’d get home from work after midnight. It was a pretty long day since work began before lunch. The job gave me a reason to study hard in school. I didn’t want to wash dishes for the rest of my life.
They would feed me back in the kitchen before work began, and the food was excellent, but they took the meal out of my paycheck. I needed to save every penny for college, so I started bringing a sandwich to work. It was pretty funny to bring my lunch and dinner to work in a restaurant.
Occasionally the kitchen manager needed to inventory the boxes of food and supplies in the large storage room off of the kitchen. She complained about how difficult the inventory was and how she dreaded it. I was looking for an opportunity to do anything other than washing dishes, so I volunteered to help with the job.
When we got in the storage room the boxes of supplies were neatly stacked on the floor with walkways between the stacks. The kitchen manager explained that we needed to un-stack each pile of boxes so that we could count each box individually. I was aghast, but kept it to myself. She was the boss, but I gently suggested that I had learned something in school that might make the process go quicker with much less labor. I didn’t tell her I learned it in elementary school.
I explained that if the boxes inside each stack were the same as the boxes on the outside of the stack, I could multiply the boxes wide, times the boxes deep, times the boxes high, and have a total without moving a single box. “You can do that?” she said in shock. I assured her I could do this quickly and with accuracy if provided with a piece of paper and a pencil to multiply the bigger numbers. (Hand held calculators did not exist at that time.) We accomplished the inventory in record time and I became the hero of the entire kitchen. What I had performed was nothing short of miraculous to the entire staff. That’s what happens when you pay attention in the sixth grade.
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