June 7, 2010
My Uncle Phil told this story at the family reunion this past weekend. It's also a favorite of Nancy's.
There had been a storm at my parents’ house and a favorite tree of Dad’s had been severely damaged. One of the little kids from the neighborhood was outside looking at the tree and was heard to say, “You know what Mister Millen’s going to say? He’s going to say ‘I hate to lose that goddamned tree!’”
A while later my Dad came out of the house, looked at the tree and was overheard saying “I hate to lose that goddamned tree!”
. . .
Dad used all the words in the dictionary, even when he shouldn’t.
. . .
My mom tells a similar story about my dad, perhaps from another storm. There was a severe storm which had left debris all over my parent’s yard and had topped a large tree. A little kid from the neighborhood was standing outside looking up at the damaged tree. My dad came out of the house and stood next to the kid. The kid said, “Don’t look at me, mister. I didn’t do it!”
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Fernbank Forest
This is a story from the BK days, the days Before Kids, when Jean and I were living in Stone Mountain, Georgia, a suburb of Atlanta. My folks came to visit us one summer and Jean and I thought they might enjoy a walk through Fernbank Forest. Fernbank is a local science museum and planetarium for kids. In addition to the indoor facility, Fernbank also has “a 65-acre undisturbed, mature mixed hardwood forest located in Atlanta, which is part of Georgia’s Piedmont region.” We thought it would be a pleasant excursion for Mom and Dad.
Jean and I had actually walked through the Fernbank Forest once before. It was a serene sanctuary located in the city of Atlanta. While in the forest we couldn’t hear anything other than bugs, birds, and the wind in the trees. It had a church-like atmosphere. We felt compelled to whisper.
During that first visit to Fernbank with Jean I noticed that many of the trees closest to the walking path were identified with signs. On the many outings during my childhood in the Midwest I’d also noticed that Dad knew the name of every tree and bush he encountered. Dad had a keen interest in science and the natural world. The trees and the forest at Fernbank looked entirely foreign to what I’d experienced in Iowa as a kid. I was sure that Dad would enjoy seeing the different species of trees that grew in the southern climate.
So we took the folks to Fernbank and toured the indoor museum exhibits first. All was well. Eventually we made our way to the back door of the museum that led to the entrance of the forest. All was well. There was an elderly man in a rent-a-guard uniform sitting at the entrance to the forest. All was well, except the man guarding the forest leads me to two irrelevant comments to the story at hand.
This first comment is that it is sad that an urban area like Atlanta has to fence in a forest. Surely the fence isn’t there to keep the trees from escaping. It seems ridiculous on the face of it. I can imagine my Wisconsin relatives clucking their tongues and shaking their heads in sad disbelief. “Why would anyone want, or need, to fence a forest”? I suppose the fence is necessary to keep neighborhood kids from invading the virgin forest and making trails with their bikes, building tree houses, and turning the forest into their personal playground. I know that is what I did as a kid.
The second comment is why would you need a rent-a-guard to protect a forest when you have a fence running around it? To keep kids like me from entering without a parent: to keep bikers and skateboarders from disturbing the sanctuary? Anyone who wanted to burn down the forest could easily smuggle in a pack of matches. The rent-a-guard seemed like overkill to me.
Anyway, getting back to the story, the guard was elderly and carried nothing more than an old walkie-talkie. He was sitting on a tall stool in a small wooden kiosk that kept the sun and rain off his head. It was clear from his rent-a-guard uniform, rent-a-guard badge, and lack of reference materials that this man was not a docent for either the museum or for the forest. He was exactly what he appeared to be; a rent-a-guard, and nothing more. As we passed by the gentleman I nodded my head and offered a pleasant “howdy” as we moseyed into the forest. All was well, or so I thought.
All was well for the first 20 yards into the forest until we encountered the first labeled tree. I don’t recall the tree’s exact label as it is irrelevant to the story, but let’s say it was a black oak. Do you know what is coming? Have you guessed it already? I bet you do.
Dad had brought along his handy-dandy pocket paperback reference guide to trees. At the very first labeled tree he whipped out his reference guide, looked up black oak, squinted at the tree, and angrily announced, “This isn’t a black oak! They’ve labeled this tree wrong! This is NOT a black oak!”
I tried to convince Dad that because Fernbank was a center for science that SURELY they had an experienced arborist or a biology professor from nearby Emory University who was an expert at identifying trees. Dad was unconvinced. He was convinced the tree was labeled wrong, and the more Dad talked, the more agitated he became. In short order he was apoplectic over the labeling of the tree. What I thought was going to be a peaceful serene walk through the woods became a tirade against incompetence.
Dad stormed back to the rent-a-guard waving his reference guide. Dad was as angry as I’d ever seen him, and I’d seen plenty over the years. I went with Dad hoping to protect the rent-a-guard from real harm. Dad verbally laid into the rent-a-guard as if he were personally responsible for the allegedly mislabeled tree. He acted like an Old Testament preacher bringing down hellfire and brimstone. His face was red and he was practically yelling at the man for this imagined travesty.
The rent-a-guard sat on his stool and regarded my father as if he was speaking a foreign language. Nothing Dad said had any effect on the rent-a-guard. I wanted to make excuses to the man for my Dad’s bad behavior, but it became clear that it wasn’t necessary. The rent-a-guard had either seen it all, heard it all, couldn’t speak English, or couldn’t care less.
After a lengthy tirade my Dad finally lost some steam, and he stormed back to Jean and my mom to resume our walk down the asphalt trail. There were only a couple hundred labeled trees left to go. (Sarcasm) I winced at each tree and bush we encountered worrying that the label might offend my father and incite another riot. I felt like I was tiptoeing through a minefield for the rest of the afternoon. It wasn’t the peaceful walk through the forest I hoped it would be.
I love visiting botanical gardens, but every time I see a labeled plant I remember that day at Fernbank with my dad.
Jean and I had actually walked through the Fernbank Forest once before. It was a serene sanctuary located in the city of Atlanta. While in the forest we couldn’t hear anything other than bugs, birds, and the wind in the trees. It had a church-like atmosphere. We felt compelled to whisper.
During that first visit to Fernbank with Jean I noticed that many of the trees closest to the walking path were identified with signs. On the many outings during my childhood in the Midwest I’d also noticed that Dad knew the name of every tree and bush he encountered. Dad had a keen interest in science and the natural world. The trees and the forest at Fernbank looked entirely foreign to what I’d experienced in Iowa as a kid. I was sure that Dad would enjoy seeing the different species of trees that grew in the southern climate.
So we took the folks to Fernbank and toured the indoor museum exhibits first. All was well. Eventually we made our way to the back door of the museum that led to the entrance of the forest. All was well. There was an elderly man in a rent-a-guard uniform sitting at the entrance to the forest. All was well, except the man guarding the forest leads me to two irrelevant comments to the story at hand.
This first comment is that it is sad that an urban area like Atlanta has to fence in a forest. Surely the fence isn’t there to keep the trees from escaping. It seems ridiculous on the face of it. I can imagine my Wisconsin relatives clucking their tongues and shaking their heads in sad disbelief. “Why would anyone want, or need, to fence a forest”? I suppose the fence is necessary to keep neighborhood kids from invading the virgin forest and making trails with their bikes, building tree houses, and turning the forest into their personal playground. I know that is what I did as a kid.
The second comment is why would you need a rent-a-guard to protect a forest when you have a fence running around it? To keep kids like me from entering without a parent: to keep bikers and skateboarders from disturbing the sanctuary? Anyone who wanted to burn down the forest could easily smuggle in a pack of matches. The rent-a-guard seemed like overkill to me.
Anyway, getting back to the story, the guard was elderly and carried nothing more than an old walkie-talkie. He was sitting on a tall stool in a small wooden kiosk that kept the sun and rain off his head. It was clear from his rent-a-guard uniform, rent-a-guard badge, and lack of reference materials that this man was not a docent for either the museum or for the forest. He was exactly what he appeared to be; a rent-a-guard, and nothing more. As we passed by the gentleman I nodded my head and offered a pleasant “howdy” as we moseyed into the forest. All was well, or so I thought.
All was well for the first 20 yards into the forest until we encountered the first labeled tree. I don’t recall the tree’s exact label as it is irrelevant to the story, but let’s say it was a black oak. Do you know what is coming? Have you guessed it already? I bet you do.
Dad had brought along his handy-dandy pocket paperback reference guide to trees. At the very first labeled tree he whipped out his reference guide, looked up black oak, squinted at the tree, and angrily announced, “This isn’t a black oak! They’ve labeled this tree wrong! This is NOT a black oak!”
I tried to convince Dad that because Fernbank was a center for science that SURELY they had an experienced arborist or a biology professor from nearby Emory University who was an expert at identifying trees. Dad was unconvinced. He was convinced the tree was labeled wrong, and the more Dad talked, the more agitated he became. In short order he was apoplectic over the labeling of the tree. What I thought was going to be a peaceful serene walk through the woods became a tirade against incompetence.
Dad stormed back to the rent-a-guard waving his reference guide. Dad was as angry as I’d ever seen him, and I’d seen plenty over the years. I went with Dad hoping to protect the rent-a-guard from real harm. Dad verbally laid into the rent-a-guard as if he were personally responsible for the allegedly mislabeled tree. He acted like an Old Testament preacher bringing down hellfire and brimstone. His face was red and he was practically yelling at the man for this imagined travesty.
The rent-a-guard sat on his stool and regarded my father as if he was speaking a foreign language. Nothing Dad said had any effect on the rent-a-guard. I wanted to make excuses to the man for my Dad’s bad behavior, but it became clear that it wasn’t necessary. The rent-a-guard had either seen it all, heard it all, couldn’t speak English, or couldn’t care less.
After a lengthy tirade my Dad finally lost some steam, and he stormed back to Jean and my mom to resume our walk down the asphalt trail. There were only a couple hundred labeled trees left to go. (Sarcasm) I winced at each tree and bush we encountered worrying that the label might offend my father and incite another riot. I felt like I was tiptoeing through a minefield for the rest of the afternoon. It wasn’t the peaceful walk through the forest I hoped it would be.
I love visiting botanical gardens, but every time I see a labeled plant I remember that day at Fernbank with my dad.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Worms
They’re creepy and they’re kooky
Mysterious and spooky
They’re altogether ookey
The Addams Family
Their house is a museum
Where people come to see ’em
They really are a scream
The Addams Family
(The Addams Family theme song lyrics)
When I was a kid I thought I was the only one with an unusual father. All the other dads seemed normal compared to mine. An informal poll of my colleagues at work indicates that this is a universal sentiment.
My dad was usually unusual in a good way. Dad seemed to relish the rich memories of his own childhood back before the world became safe and civilized. In spite of my living in a city, on a freshly civilized continent, Dad made sure that I had ample opportunity to drown, fall off a cliff, drive the car, drive the boat, and shoot my eye out with a BB gun. These activities, and many others any adventurous young boy would yearn for, were experienced LONG before it was legal or proper to do so.
Dad seemed to have an unspoken philosophy that said, “I am different.” Doing the same activities other people did didn’t interest Dad. He wanted to do different things than other folks, or do the same things as other folks in different ways. Dad had a way of generating interesting experiences that made for great storytelling over lunch at school; that is if I wasn’t too embarrassed to tell them.
Jean also has a rich history of childhood experiences she looks back on fondly. It was therefore relatively easy to convince Jean to be my co-conspirator, and together we decided to raise our kids in an interesting environment. This is another one of those interesting environment stories.
.
. . .
.
When John was in Cub Scouts (age 7-10) we went to a Scout Jamboree at the Gwinnett County Fairgrounds. The most memorable exhibit that day was “Composting with Worms”. John proudly brought home a Styrofoam cup filled with red wiggler worms and damp shredded newspaper. We were hooked on worms, so to speak.
Soon thereafter we graduated to an 8 gallon plastic Rubbermaid bin with a removable lid. We were forced to upgrade; the little boogers can climb up the walls and escape. Whodathunkit! All kinds of organic waste got dumped into the worm bin: celery, carrots, lettuce, egg shells, coffee filters, coffee grounds, and a regular supply of shredded newspapers went into the bin. The worms gobbled it all up and turned it into worm poop, properly known as castings. We called it compost.
We kept the worms in the dining room, right off the kitchen for easy access. All of our visitors were invited to see our “pets”. At the least encouragement we’d gladly pull the bin into the light of the kitchen, remove the lid, and dig our hands into what looked like black dirt, but was actually worm poop. “Notice how gross it looks, but also notice that it doesn’t smell at all! Put your face down here and give it a whiff. Want to hold one?” And then we’d dig some more looking for baby worms, which few people ever see.
People’s reactions were what we enjoyed most.
“You keep them in the house?”
“You keep them in the dining room?”
“Jean lets you do this?”
“You do this why?”
Some folks loved the worms, and others thought we were just plain nuts. Either reaction was fun.
We were different.
Mysterious and spooky
They’re altogether ookey
The Addams Family
Their house is a museum
Where people come to see ’em
They really are a scream
The Addams Family
(The Addams Family theme song lyrics)
When I was a kid I thought I was the only one with an unusual father. All the other dads seemed normal compared to mine. An informal poll of my colleagues at work indicates that this is a universal sentiment.
My dad was usually unusual in a good way. Dad seemed to relish the rich memories of his own childhood back before the world became safe and civilized. In spite of my living in a city, on a freshly civilized continent, Dad made sure that I had ample opportunity to drown, fall off a cliff, drive the car, drive the boat, and shoot my eye out with a BB gun. These activities, and many others any adventurous young boy would yearn for, were experienced LONG before it was legal or proper to do so.
Dad seemed to have an unspoken philosophy that said, “I am different.” Doing the same activities other people did didn’t interest Dad. He wanted to do different things than other folks, or do the same things as other folks in different ways. Dad had a way of generating interesting experiences that made for great storytelling over lunch at school; that is if I wasn’t too embarrassed to tell them.
Jean also has a rich history of childhood experiences she looks back on fondly. It was therefore relatively easy to convince Jean to be my co-conspirator, and together we decided to raise our kids in an interesting environment. This is another one of those interesting environment stories.
.
. . .
.
When John was in Cub Scouts (age 7-10) we went to a Scout Jamboree at the Gwinnett County Fairgrounds. The most memorable exhibit that day was “Composting with Worms”. John proudly brought home a Styrofoam cup filled with red wiggler worms and damp shredded newspaper. We were hooked on worms, so to speak.
Soon thereafter we graduated to an 8 gallon plastic Rubbermaid bin with a removable lid. We were forced to upgrade; the little boogers can climb up the walls and escape. Whodathunkit! All kinds of organic waste got dumped into the worm bin: celery, carrots, lettuce, egg shells, coffee filters, coffee grounds, and a regular supply of shredded newspapers went into the bin. The worms gobbled it all up and turned it into worm poop, properly known as castings. We called it compost.
We kept the worms in the dining room, right off the kitchen for easy access. All of our visitors were invited to see our “pets”. At the least encouragement we’d gladly pull the bin into the light of the kitchen, remove the lid, and dig our hands into what looked like black dirt, but was actually worm poop. “Notice how gross it looks, but also notice that it doesn’t smell at all! Put your face down here and give it a whiff. Want to hold one?” And then we’d dig some more looking for baby worms, which few people ever see.
People’s reactions were what we enjoyed most.
“You keep them in the house?”
“You keep them in the dining room?”
“Jean lets you do this?”
“You do this why?”
Some folks loved the worms, and others thought we were just plain nuts. Either reaction was fun.
We were different.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Bishop Cannon
On June 09, 1997 the campus newspaper at Emory University published an obituary for Bishop William R. Cannon, Jr. I was impressed by one particular episode in his life. I cut out that article and saved it. I refer to it often. This posting is basically a synopsis of that article and the conclusion I drew from it. Hang with me; I will eventually get to the point, and it is a good one.
Thomas J. J. Altizer was a faculty member in the Emory College religion department back in the 1960’s. Note well that Altizer was in the religion department and was NOT a faculty member in the Theology School. Theology students seek the Master of Divinity degree and generally become ministers after graduation; not so with religion students. This is an important distinction which I will try not to belabor repeatedly.
Altizer became famous in 1966 when his religious views were highlighted in Time magazine. Time magazine’s cover page asked in bold letters, “Is God Dead?” Altizer’s opinion was that God had withdrawn from active participation in the world, and that it was as if God was dead. That is my simpleton explanation from my recollection of that time and my understanding of the Wikipedia page.
Of course there was a huge furor. Emory University was (and is) affiliated with the Methodist church, was located in the middle of the Bible belt, and this occurred in 1966. Altizer received death threats, and many called for his resignation or immediate dismissal.
William R. Cannon, Jr. was the Dean of Emory’s Candler School of Theology during that time. Belaboring the earlier point, Altizer was a faculty member of the religion department and reported to another dean at the University, NOT to William R. Cannon.
Even though I haven’t shown it here, I think that it is safe to assume that as Dean of the Theology School, a school that prepares students for the Methodist ministry, that Cannon’s theology was quite different, if not diametrically opposite, that of Altizer’s theology.
I am finally getting to the point of this blog post. I hope I have not telegraphed the "Aha!" moment that is coming up.
The point is not about Altizer’s God is Dead theology.
The point is not about Cannon’s theology.
The point is about Cannon’s reaction to Altizer’s theology.
Even though Altizer and Cannon must have had severe theological differences, and even though the Christian community was calling for Altizer’s head on a platter, William R. Cannon Jr., Dean of the THEOLOGY School, wrote a lengthy essay in a Methodist publication SUPPORTING Altizer! Emory’s newspaper quotes Cannon as follows –
From all I hear, Dr. Altizer is an interesting teacher, and the fact that his thought is now receiving national attention indicates his gifts as a philosopher and religious thinker . . . [Emory is] big enough to absorb and use all forms of opinion. We exercise the privilege of discussion, dialogue and debate. We are strengthened and in turn we strengthen others by having to give a reasonable account of the faith that is in us against strong and intelligent opposition. We never progress by restriction and exclusion.
(bold added by me for emphasis)
Are you as blown away as I was by those words?
I think it is wonderful that in spite of their vast theological differences that Bishop Cannon supported Altizer’s academic freedom and the principle of free speech. Bishop Cannon’s support of Altizer must have been very unpopular at the time, not only in the Theology School, but in the University, in the Methodist church hierarchy, and in the Christian community. That’s great, but it isn’t the main point of this post.
The main point I want to make has to do with the general application of Bishop Cannon’s words. Cannon’s statement is applicable to more than just the issue of faith. Whenever I find myself verbally challenged on any issue I draw on Bishop Cannon’s words. Here is how I paraphrase Cannon’s words for general application.
I am mature enough to absorb and use all forms of opinion. I exercise the privilege of civil discussion, dialogue and debate. I am strengthened, and in turn strengthen others, by having to give a reasonable account of my positions against strong and intelligent opposition. I cannot progress by restricting and excluding dialogue.
I try to remind myself that if I want to do right, be right, and know the truth, that I should be open to discussion, dialogue and debate. The Who, What, Where, Why, When and How of every aspect of my life should be open to challenge. I need not take offense when challenged. Each challenge is an opportunity to explore my position and consider an alternate position that might be a better informed position.
Lastly, consider this quote about beauty -
"Beauty is that reasoned harmony of all the parts within a body, so that nothing may be added, taken away, or altered, but for the worse.”
Leon Battista Alberti (A.D. 1404-1472)
Following the line of thinking in this quote, if my position is right, then nothing need be added, nothing need be taken away, and nothing need be altered. At work, at home, at church, in public; how am I to know if I am right if I do not reexamine my position to see if it needs to be modified? Don’t I need others to help me find, and know, the truth? Don’t I need people who disagree with me just as much as I need people who agree with me? Of course I do, because . . .
I am mature enough to absorb and use all forms of opinion. I exercise the privilege of civil discussion, dialogue and debate. I am strengthened, and in turn strengthen others, by having to give a reasonable account of my positions against strong and intelligent opposition. I cannot progress by restricting and excluding dialogue.
Thomas J. J. Altizer was a faculty member in the Emory College religion department back in the 1960’s. Note well that Altizer was in the religion department and was NOT a faculty member in the Theology School. Theology students seek the Master of Divinity degree and generally become ministers after graduation; not so with religion students. This is an important distinction which I will try not to belabor repeatedly.
Altizer became famous in 1966 when his religious views were highlighted in Time magazine. Time magazine’s cover page asked in bold letters, “Is God Dead?” Altizer’s opinion was that God had withdrawn from active participation in the world, and that it was as if God was dead. That is my simpleton explanation from my recollection of that time and my understanding of the Wikipedia page.
Of course there was a huge furor. Emory University was (and is) affiliated with the Methodist church, was located in the middle of the Bible belt, and this occurred in 1966. Altizer received death threats, and many called for his resignation or immediate dismissal.
William R. Cannon, Jr. was the Dean of Emory’s Candler School of Theology during that time. Belaboring the earlier point, Altizer was a faculty member of the religion department and reported to another dean at the University, NOT to William R. Cannon.
Even though I haven’t shown it here, I think that it is safe to assume that as Dean of the Theology School, a school that prepares students for the Methodist ministry, that Cannon’s theology was quite different, if not diametrically opposite, that of Altizer’s theology.
I am finally getting to the point of this blog post. I hope I have not telegraphed the "Aha!" moment that is coming up.
The point is not about Altizer’s God is Dead theology.
The point is not about Cannon’s theology.
The point is about Cannon’s reaction to Altizer’s theology.
Even though Altizer and Cannon must have had severe theological differences, and even though the Christian community was calling for Altizer’s head on a platter, William R. Cannon Jr., Dean of the THEOLOGY School, wrote a lengthy essay in a Methodist publication SUPPORTING Altizer! Emory’s newspaper quotes Cannon as follows –
From all I hear, Dr. Altizer is an interesting teacher, and the fact that his thought is now receiving national attention indicates his gifts as a philosopher and religious thinker . . . [Emory is] big enough to absorb and use all forms of opinion. We exercise the privilege of discussion, dialogue and debate. We are strengthened and in turn we strengthen others by having to give a reasonable account of the faith that is in us against strong and intelligent opposition. We never progress by restriction and exclusion.
(bold added by me for emphasis)
Are you as blown away as I was by those words?
I think it is wonderful that in spite of their vast theological differences that Bishop Cannon supported Altizer’s academic freedom and the principle of free speech. Bishop Cannon’s support of Altizer must have been very unpopular at the time, not only in the Theology School, but in the University, in the Methodist church hierarchy, and in the Christian community. That’s great, but it isn’t the main point of this post.
The main point I want to make has to do with the general application of Bishop Cannon’s words. Cannon’s statement is applicable to more than just the issue of faith. Whenever I find myself verbally challenged on any issue I draw on Bishop Cannon’s words. Here is how I paraphrase Cannon’s words for general application.
I am mature enough to absorb and use all forms of opinion. I exercise the privilege of civil discussion, dialogue and debate. I am strengthened, and in turn strengthen others, by having to give a reasonable account of my positions against strong and intelligent opposition. I cannot progress by restricting and excluding dialogue.
I try to remind myself that if I want to do right, be right, and know the truth, that I should be open to discussion, dialogue and debate. The Who, What, Where, Why, When and How of every aspect of my life should be open to challenge. I need not take offense when challenged. Each challenge is an opportunity to explore my position and consider an alternate position that might be a better informed position.
Lastly, consider this quote about beauty -
"Beauty is that reasoned harmony of all the parts within a body, so that nothing may be added, taken away, or altered, but for the worse.”
Leon Battista Alberti (A.D. 1404-1472)
Following the line of thinking in this quote, if my position is right, then nothing need be added, nothing need be taken away, and nothing need be altered. At work, at home, at church, in public; how am I to know if I am right if I do not reexamine my position to see if it needs to be modified? Don’t I need others to help me find, and know, the truth? Don’t I need people who disagree with me just as much as I need people who agree with me? Of course I do, because . . .
I am mature enough to absorb and use all forms of opinion. I exercise the privilege of civil discussion, dialogue and debate. I am strengthened, and in turn strengthen others, by having to give a reasonable account of my positions against strong and intelligent opposition. I cannot progress by restricting and excluding dialogue.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Mutual Respect
If you read the old posts closely you might come to think that the only athletes I respect are wrestlers, distance runners, and distance swimmers. It is true that I have great respect for these athletes because I’ve been there and done that, well, some of that, but there are others who have also earned my respect.
In high school track there was John Tepfer in the pole vault and Phil Danowski in the sprints, long jump and discus. In college there was Benson in the sprints, Al Miller in the short hurdles, Mike Wargin in the throwing events, and Fran Rohlman in the 400 hurdles. There were others whose names don’t easily come to mind.
I respected these guys because they worked hard at their events. They stood out because they were serious about what they were doing and enjoyed doing it. They each had a talent, and they did not waste that talent through lack of effort. They developed their talent with all due diligence. These guys were still at practice as late as the distance runners; that’s how I knew they were dedicated and worthy of my respect.
I appreciated the mutual respect these individuals granted to the distance runners. They didn’t arrogantly assume they deserved sole possession of the track by thoughtlessly loitering in lane one, the most used lane on the track. They observed track etiquette, which is to say they made sure you had an opportunity to do your workout. They respected the distance runners’ need to access the track, and knew we would reciprocate.
At track meets I made it my mission to watch these guys compete in their events when I wasn’t competing in my own events. In my mind they had earned an audience through their hard efforts in workouts the previous week. I knew that their attitude in competition would be just as professional as their attitude in workouts. After an exceptional effort I felt honored to look them in the eye, nod my head in acknowledgement, and receive a nod in return.
My old colleagues did it right. They had respect for the sport, respect for their events, respect for their colleagues, and self-respect. For these reasons they have my admiration and respect.
In high school track there was John Tepfer in the pole vault and Phil Danowski in the sprints, long jump and discus. In college there was Benson in the sprints, Al Miller in the short hurdles, Mike Wargin in the throwing events, and Fran Rohlman in the 400 hurdles. There were others whose names don’t easily come to mind.
I respected these guys because they worked hard at their events. They stood out because they were serious about what they were doing and enjoyed doing it. They each had a talent, and they did not waste that talent through lack of effort. They developed their talent with all due diligence. These guys were still at practice as late as the distance runners; that’s how I knew they were dedicated and worthy of my respect.
I appreciated the mutual respect these individuals granted to the distance runners. They didn’t arrogantly assume they deserved sole possession of the track by thoughtlessly loitering in lane one, the most used lane on the track. They observed track etiquette, which is to say they made sure you had an opportunity to do your workout. They respected the distance runners’ need to access the track, and knew we would reciprocate.
At track meets I made it my mission to watch these guys compete in their events when I wasn’t competing in my own events. In my mind they had earned an audience through their hard efforts in workouts the previous week. I knew that their attitude in competition would be just as professional as their attitude in workouts. After an exceptional effort I felt honored to look them in the eye, nod my head in acknowledgement, and receive a nod in return.
My old colleagues did it right. They had respect for the sport, respect for their events, respect for their colleagues, and self-respect. For these reasons they have my admiration and respect.
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