(From the Janesville Messenger, 5-20-07)
Once upon a time, we lived in a world where we used a telephone to communicate with our business clients, we met face-to-face to sign contracts, and if we were on the road, we found a pay phone to call our office. We sent typed or handwritten letters and thank you notes through the U.S. Mail. And when we were in the office, we actually spoke to our co-workers.
Then technology stepped in, bringing us the fax machine, the personal computer, e-mail and the cellular phone. Communication has now gotten so impersonal, we e-mail our co-workers from twenty feet away.
When cell phones first started taking hold, I resisted getting one. I didn’t want to be bothered everywhere I went, especially in the car. That was my uninterrupted quiet time to listen to music, relax and think. Then the company I worked for supplied me a cell phone, and I took to it like Barry Bonds to steroids.
Fast forward a few years. The latest of these improvements to daily living is called the Blackberry. For those of you not familiar with this device, the best way I can describe it is that it is your business connected to your hip. This handheld gadget is your cell phone, your address book, your calendar, your e-mail program, your Internet browser, your photo album and your alarm clock, all in one.
I didn’t want a “Crackberry,” as these addictive devices are derisively called. But once again, my workplace forced my evolution by providing me one. It is a blessing. And a curse.
The Blackberry is a blessing because everything you need is at your fingertips. Waiting for an important e-mail? No problem. Need to know some background on a prospect? Don’t have a client’s phone number in your address book? Heck, you want to know the score of the Brewers game? You have the Internet in your hands. It is the truth, it is the way. The Blackberry is a gift from God.
Or maybe it’s from Satan. For example, participating in a golf outing recently, the Blackberry would not let me escape my office. It used to be that if someone wanted you and you weren’t available, it waited until tomorrow. Not any more. My Blackberry was constantly buzzing. I need this information now, the e-mails said, and you can’t hide, I know you’re receiving this. So while my foursome was teeing off, I’m typing messages on the microscopic keyboard, handling whatever I was told couldn’t wait. Or negotiating on my cell phone because “the client wants to wrap this up now.” The only good thing was that it took my mind off my pathetic golf game.
I can’t put the Blackberry down. I have to constantly check my messages. At times, I try to resist. I want to throw it into the deepest part of the Rock River, but I know I can’t. Even if I did, it would probably re-emerge from the depths to find me, like Jason in “Friday the 13th.”
Then suddenly I see it: the key to my escape, the way to restore my sanity, my last hope of inner peace. What is this beast’s Achilles heel?
It’s the “off” button.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Sunday, May 6, 2007
The Reel History of Janesville
(From the Janesville Messenger, 5-6-07)
Even though I was a communications major in college, my favorite classes – the ones that stick with me today – were my two history electives. So entranced was I by those two learning experiences that I gave serious thought to changing my major to history and becoming a teacher of that subject. Obviously, I decided not to, but my love of all things historical continues to this day. So when the Rock County Historical Society presented me with the opportunity to add narrative to the 1940 “Janesville In Reelife” film, it was a thrill.
“Janesville In Reelife” was shot by a traveling movie-making company, Reelife Films, toward the end of 1940. They went from town to town offering to shoot footage documenting everyday life in the community. Once a financial sponsor was found – in this case, it was The Janesville Daily Gazette – the crew got to work shooting everything from teen dances to Lions Club luncheons. The big attraction was that they shot with full color film, still a novelty in 1940.
The crew shot their footage over the course of a week, took a day to edit it, and then premiered the finished product the following evening at the Jeffris Theatre downtown, which stood next to the Monterey Hotel. What happened to the film after that remains a mystery. It disappeared until several years ago an old reel turned up on a shelf somewhere and found its way into the hands of the Historical Society.
Representatives of the Society showed it to local videographer Dave Haldiman, who said the film was fairly worn with damaged guide holes, bad splices that fell apart and minor dirt and scratches. He recommended they send the film to a lab to clean it up and transfer it to video.
Once that was done, the film was shown to the public at the Helen Jeffris Wood museum. While it was fascinating footage, it was missing something: sound. Plus, there were several scenes that were in need of identification. What exactly were we watching?
When I was approached about working on “Janesville In Reelife,” my resume already included two local history research projects. One was the opening night play for the Janesville Performing Arts Center, “Janesville In Stages,” a history of the Janesville arts scene and the JPAC building. The other was a “Jeopardy” parody for the School District of Janesville featuring questions about the district’s history and using district historical figures as the contestants. So getting the job to research, write text and add narration to “Janesville In Reelife” was like the third chapter in my “Janesville History” trilogy. It’s not exactly George Lucas’ “Star Wars” trilogy, but hey, Darth Vader didn’t live in Janesville.
Fortunately, the Historical Society had copies of newspaper articles from the week of the filming that detailed all the places and events that were being shot each day. That was a perfect place to start. Many scenes were easily identified, particularly footage shot inside General Motors and Parker Pen. Long stretches of factory footage were easy to narrate as there is no lack of documentation about those two corporations.
However, there was also about three minutes of footage inside the Rock River Woolen Mills. Information about that company was frightfully scarce; it’s like the great lost corporation of Janesville. The Woolen Mills was a major employer, at one time the fourth largest in town, but you would never know it even existed here, in the building along the Rock River that was used for years by Panoramic and now houses Rhyme Business Products and Schuler’s Furniture. Ultimately, what information I was able to glean came from personal anecdotes of former workers there.
Personal stories also played a role in identifying footage inside the old Janesville Gazette and WCLO building that was torn down in the late 1960’s. Gazette publisher Skip Bliss, whose father and uncle appear in the film, arranged for me to show the film to employees who had worked there in the 1940’s.
Overall, the film is in tremendous shape. The color scenes, thanks to the work of both the film lab and Dave Haldiman, look crisp and bright. Although a professional outfit produced this, it definitely has a ‘home movie’ quality to it. There is a lot of smiling and mugging for the camera, and what appears to be an obviously staged scene where fire trucks emerge from the fire station and speed through the old Corn Exchange. There is also priceless footage of a Janesville High School play at what is now JPAC, and a live WCLO broadcast celebrating the 20th anniversary of commercial radio (WCLO itself had only been around for 10 years).
The most poignant scene, incredible now in light of what happened since, is of Janesville’s National Guard unit posing in front of the Armory a day before being shipped to Fort Knox for training. These young men, grinning from ear to ear for the camera, were stationed in the Philippines after the United States entered World War II and became the “Janesville 99” on the infamous Bataan Death March. Only 35 of the 99 returned home from captivity at the hands of the Japanese. I’ve watched this footage a thousand times now and it still doesn’t fail to move me.
There are some things we still don’t know. For example, the film had no titles or credits of any kind, and several of the scenes listed in the newspaper as being filmed are missing. It seems obvious that this footage was not the finished product. The speculation is that this is a reel of outtakes or perhaps specific scenes that were edited onto a different reel for unknown reasons. Also, some of the scenes were shot in black and white, begging the question of whether all of this film was really part of the color Reelife project. I believe it may have been, based on the fact that the black and white scenes were listed in the newspaper articles as events that were being filmed by the Reelife crew.
Where is the actual finished movie that was shown at the Jeffris in December 1940? We may never know. But at least we have this, and it was an honor to be asked to put the finishing touches on what I believe to be a pretty important piece of Janesville history.
(Click here to hear my WCLO interview about "Janesville In Reelife")
Even though I was a communications major in college, my favorite classes – the ones that stick with me today – were my two history electives. So entranced was I by those two learning experiences that I gave serious thought to changing my major to history and becoming a teacher of that subject. Obviously, I decided not to, but my love of all things historical continues to this day. So when the Rock County Historical Society presented me with the opportunity to add narrative to the 1940 “Janesville In Reelife” film, it was a thrill.
“Janesville In Reelife” was shot by a traveling movie-making company, Reelife Films, toward the end of 1940. They went from town to town offering to shoot footage documenting everyday life in the community. Once a financial sponsor was found – in this case, it was The Janesville Daily Gazette – the crew got to work shooting everything from teen dances to Lions Club luncheons. The big attraction was that they shot with full color film, still a novelty in 1940.
The crew shot their footage over the course of a week, took a day to edit it, and then premiered the finished product the following evening at the Jeffris Theatre downtown, which stood next to the Monterey Hotel. What happened to the film after that remains a mystery. It disappeared until several years ago an old reel turned up on a shelf somewhere and found its way into the hands of the Historical Society.
Representatives of the Society showed it to local videographer Dave Haldiman, who said the film was fairly worn with damaged guide holes, bad splices that fell apart and minor dirt and scratches. He recommended they send the film to a lab to clean it up and transfer it to video.
Once that was done, the film was shown to the public at the Helen Jeffris Wood museum. While it was fascinating footage, it was missing something: sound. Plus, there were several scenes that were in need of identification. What exactly were we watching?
When I was approached about working on “Janesville In Reelife,” my resume already included two local history research projects. One was the opening night play for the Janesville Performing Arts Center, “Janesville In Stages,” a history of the Janesville arts scene and the JPAC building. The other was a “Jeopardy” parody for the School District of Janesville featuring questions about the district’s history and using district historical figures as the contestants. So getting the job to research, write text and add narration to “Janesville In Reelife” was like the third chapter in my “Janesville History” trilogy. It’s not exactly George Lucas’ “Star Wars” trilogy, but hey, Darth Vader didn’t live in Janesville.
Fortunately, the Historical Society had copies of newspaper articles from the week of the filming that detailed all the places and events that were being shot each day. That was a perfect place to start. Many scenes were easily identified, particularly footage shot inside General Motors and Parker Pen. Long stretches of factory footage were easy to narrate as there is no lack of documentation about those two corporations.
However, there was also about three minutes of footage inside the Rock River Woolen Mills. Information about that company was frightfully scarce; it’s like the great lost corporation of Janesville. The Woolen Mills was a major employer, at one time the fourth largest in town, but you would never know it even existed here, in the building along the Rock River that was used for years by Panoramic and now houses Rhyme Business Products and Schuler’s Furniture. Ultimately, what information I was able to glean came from personal anecdotes of former workers there.
Personal stories also played a role in identifying footage inside the old Janesville Gazette and WCLO building that was torn down in the late 1960’s. Gazette publisher Skip Bliss, whose father and uncle appear in the film, arranged for me to show the film to employees who had worked there in the 1940’s.
Overall, the film is in tremendous shape. The color scenes, thanks to the work of both the film lab and Dave Haldiman, look crisp and bright. Although a professional outfit produced this, it definitely has a ‘home movie’ quality to it. There is a lot of smiling and mugging for the camera, and what appears to be an obviously staged scene where fire trucks emerge from the fire station and speed through the old Corn Exchange. There is also priceless footage of a Janesville High School play at what is now JPAC, and a live WCLO broadcast celebrating the 20th anniversary of commercial radio (WCLO itself had only been around for 10 years).
The most poignant scene, incredible now in light of what happened since, is of Janesville’s National Guard unit posing in front of the Armory a day before being shipped to Fort Knox for training. These young men, grinning from ear to ear for the camera, were stationed in the Philippines after the United States entered World War II and became the “Janesville 99” on the infamous Bataan Death March. Only 35 of the 99 returned home from captivity at the hands of the Japanese. I’ve watched this footage a thousand times now and it still doesn’t fail to move me.
There are some things we still don’t know. For example, the film had no titles or credits of any kind, and several of the scenes listed in the newspaper as being filmed are missing. It seems obvious that this footage was not the finished product. The speculation is that this is a reel of outtakes or perhaps specific scenes that were edited onto a different reel for unknown reasons. Also, some of the scenes were shot in black and white, begging the question of whether all of this film was really part of the color Reelife project. I believe it may have been, based on the fact that the black and white scenes were listed in the newspaper articles as events that were being filmed by the Reelife crew.
Where is the actual finished movie that was shown at the Jeffris in December 1940? We may never know. But at least we have this, and it was an honor to be asked to put the finishing touches on what I believe to be a pretty important piece of Janesville history.
(Click here to hear my WCLO interview about "Janesville In Reelife")
Saturday, May 5, 2007
The "Short Attention Span" Column
(From the Janesville Messenger, 4-29-07)
- Okay, I hate to admit this, but as a baseball fan, I’m truly hoping something (like an indictment for perjury or tax evasion) prevents Barry Bonds from breaking Hank Aaron’s all-time home run record. If he surpasses Hank, it will be the most tainted baseball record ever, far more deserving of an asterisk than Roger Maris. Perhaps Major League Baseball should consider officially designating Josh Gibson’s 962 Negro League home runs as the official record, or the 868 that Sadaharu Oh belted in Japan.
- I was married on April 19, 1986. Since that time, my anniversary day and week has become the Week From Hell as far as national tragedies go. April 19, 1993: The Waco standoff. April 19, 1995: The Oklahoma City bombing. April 20, 1999: The Columbine massacre. Now we have the Virginia Tech student shooting to add to the list.
- On the plus side, April 19, 1987 was the first television appearance of “The Simpsons.”
- In the wake of Don Imus’ firing, I encourage you to go online and read a column by Jason Whitlock of the Kansas City Star. Whitlock, an outspoken black journalist who was let go by ESPN after criticizing the network a few years ago, points out that Imus’ idiotic comments pale in comparison to hip-hop lyrics and he also takes on Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton for using the incident for their own gain.
- An ESPN writer, Dr. Tom Boyd, disputes Whitlock and all “haters of hip-hop culture” and says comparisons between Imus’ comments and rap lyrics are an apples-and-oranges comparison. For one thing, he states, rap songs aren’t “real.” Boyd also praises hip-hop for making words like “diss” and “bling” a part of mainstream conversation. Hey, Tom, where do you think Imus got the word “ho”?
- At a church service I attended last weekend, the pastor was talking about how to get people to believe in Jesus Christ’s resurrection. I have the perfect solution. Just send the story of Christ in a mass unsolicited e-mail. It appears that people will believe anything they read in an e-mail and then forward it to everyone they know. I wonder how many people are still waiting for their $50 check from Microsoft or their free beer from Miller.
- Write this Web address down on a post-it note and stick it on your computer: http://www.snopes.com/. Whenever you receive a mass e-mail, look it up on that site and it will tell you whether it's truth, fiction or hoax. Since I’ve started doing this, I’d say 98% of the mass e-mails I’ve received have been revealed to be garbage.
- The Beloit Education Association has joined the AFL-CIO labor union. Other Wisconsin teachers unions are expected to follow. What I hope this means - that teachers will work hard to force Madison to fix the state’s broken public education funding system. What I hope this doesn’t mean - that I will be continue to be greeted by union t-shirts, buttons and rhetoric when I attend parent-teacher conferences; and that unions will continue painting their local school boards as the bad guys when the board is faced with the thankless task of trying to balance the budget when expenses are outpacing revenues. I know many wonderful, dedicated teachers, but teachers’ union tactics of late are not presenting the profession in a positive light.
- For an example of how unions and management can successfully work together, look no further than the General Motors plant in Janesville. Their partnership is probably the biggest reason that the plant avoided being shut down by Detroit.
- An informal non-scientific poll reveals that I am the only person I know that fills in his own income tax forms by hand. I believe the appropriate mathematical formula would be Old Dog ≠ New Tricks.
Election Reflections
(From the Janesville Messenger, 4-15-07)
Some reflections from the April 3 election:
- If there was ever an election that cried out for a “None of the Above” line on the ballot, it was the nasty, disgusting and disheartening Supreme Court Justice race won by Annette Ziegler over Linda Clifford. Just when you thought the bar couldn’t get any lower, this one journeyed to the center of the earth. It had it all - charges of ethics violations, one candidate hiring a private investigator to dig up dirt on the other, and boatloads of special interest money spawning negative ads galore.
I found an interesting website for a group called the Committee Against Mediocrity in Politics (CAMP). They are advocating an amendment to the U.S. Constitution that would place the aforementioned “None of The Above” line on all federal ballots, eliminating the need to vote for the lesser of two evils. I like their style. The group’s website is www.votenoneoftheabove.us.
Wisconsin Manufacturers and Commerce, which is the de facto state chamber of commerce, has recently taken a more public political slant to the right. They have begun spending oodles of money backing conservative candidates like Ziegler, and were responsible for many of the nasty ads we saw in that race. On top of that, their recent “Business Day” event at Monona Terrace in Madison featured disgraced former House speaker – and potential Republican presidential candidate - Newt Gingrich as its keynote speaker. With a Democratic governor and Senate in place, now isn’t the time to go ultra-partisan if WMC wishes to get any traction in Madison trying to further the interests of the business community. Why make enemies of those you need to work with? By comparison, Forward Janesville doesn’t endorse candidates or have a political action committee, and the organization has succeeded in forming alliances with politicians on both sides of the aisle.
It sounds like the three victors in the Janesville School Board race are united in their vision to push Madison on school funding reform. Hopefully, they will succeed, as the system has been broken for several years and both the State Legislature and Governor Jim Doyle have avoided the issue like a slug at a salt farm. New school board member Tim Cullen knows this all too well. Cullen was part of a blue ribbon task force appointed by Doyle in 2003 to make recommendations on improving the state’s educational delivery system. Doyle and legislators have largely ignored that group’s final report, which included ways to fix public education funding. Several good ideas have been floating around Madison for years, including one co-authored by former Janesville Rep. Wayne Wood. It’s time for Madison to have some serious discussion about this and prevent the type of blood-letting that Janesville and many other districts had to experience this past year.
If you think Doyle’s inaction on school funding reform is somewhat surprising, given his obvious affection for the state teachers union (WEAC), think again. Rather than taking the difficult road and fixing the problem, he opted for the easy way out, using his partial veto power (the “Frankenstein veto”) to rewrite portions of the state budget bill in 2005 and place millions of dollars more into public education. Since his Democratic allies in the Legislature recently killed a bill to eliminate the Frankenstein veto, don’t be surprised if he chooses that route again.
Will 'Flatlander' Proposal Flat-Line?
(From the Janesville Messenger, 4-1-07)
Are you ready to be a Flatlander?
That’s the question we will all face on the November 2007 ballot when we vote on a referendum that would allow Rock County to secede from Wisconsin and officially become part of the state of Illinois.
This ballot question hasn’t gained a lot of momentum yet as it awaits action by the Rock County Board of Supervisors. Rock County is just one of three counties being courted by Illinois, along with Walworth County and Kenosha County. In the case of Walworth County, the move is a no-brainer; Lake Geneva is practically a Chicago suburb now. If the measures are passed, it would represent the first significant change to state boundaries since West Virginia split from Virginia during the Civil War.
It’s a smart move on the part of Illinois, as people = tax revenue and the three counties above would certainly provide that for the state. And there are certainly advantages for us to consider changing sides.
For one, it opens the door to extending Metra commuter rail service from Harvard to Janesville. For another, we’ll be escaping from a state that has one of the highest tax burdens in the nation. And we can proudly claim Abraham Lincoln as our native son.
If your driving ability is below average, you’ll fit right in as an Illinoisan. And won’t it be nice to be part of a state whose inhabitants aren’t viewed by the rest of the nation as beer-bellied sots wearing foam cheese wedges for hats?
Of course, there are downsides. We would probably see a tollbooth spring up on I-90 near Edgerton. And we would inherit the Bears and the Cubs (though unlike the Brewers, the Cubs have an occasional winning season). And we would inherit a Governor whose name is so unpronounceable that they just refer to him as Governor Rod.
We’ll have a learning curve for a lot of things, not just our new Governor’s name. For example, at what point in Illinois does it become “downstate”? Where do you go to purchase an I-Pass? How far in each direction does “Chicagoland” go? How fast can I cut across three lanes of traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway?
It’s a big decision, changing states. Unfortunately, I worry that the referendum will fail due to voters fretting over minute details like changing zip codes and area codes, or paying for new license plates. Though Governor Rod has floated an idea in the Illinois State Legislature that he would waive our first-year vehicle registration fees as an incentive for us to vote yes.
Of course, if the County Board doesn’t vote to put this referendum on the ballot, then this discussion is a moot point. I suggest you call your Rock County Board representative and let him or her know how you feel. And their response to you will probably be: “April Fool.”
Are you ready to be a Flatlander?
That’s the question we will all face on the November 2007 ballot when we vote on a referendum that would allow Rock County to secede from Wisconsin and officially become part of the state of Illinois.
This ballot question hasn’t gained a lot of momentum yet as it awaits action by the Rock County Board of Supervisors. Rock County is just one of three counties being courted by Illinois, along with Walworth County and Kenosha County. In the case of Walworth County, the move is a no-brainer; Lake Geneva is practically a Chicago suburb now. If the measures are passed, it would represent the first significant change to state boundaries since West Virginia split from Virginia during the Civil War.
It’s a smart move on the part of Illinois, as people = tax revenue and the three counties above would certainly provide that for the state. And there are certainly advantages for us to consider changing sides.
For one, it opens the door to extending Metra commuter rail service from Harvard to Janesville. For another, we’ll be escaping from a state that has one of the highest tax burdens in the nation. And we can proudly claim Abraham Lincoln as our native son.
If your driving ability is below average, you’ll fit right in as an Illinoisan. And won’t it be nice to be part of a state whose inhabitants aren’t viewed by the rest of the nation as beer-bellied sots wearing foam cheese wedges for hats?
Of course, there are downsides. We would probably see a tollbooth spring up on I-90 near Edgerton. And we would inherit the Bears and the Cubs (though unlike the Brewers, the Cubs have an occasional winning season). And we would inherit a Governor whose name is so unpronounceable that they just refer to him as Governor Rod.
We’ll have a learning curve for a lot of things, not just our new Governor’s name. For example, at what point in Illinois does it become “downstate”? Where do you go to purchase an I-Pass? How far in each direction does “Chicagoland” go? How fast can I cut across three lanes of traffic on the Dan Ryan Expressway?
It’s a big decision, changing states. Unfortunately, I worry that the referendum will fail due to voters fretting over minute details like changing zip codes and area codes, or paying for new license plates. Though Governor Rod has floated an idea in the Illinois State Legislature that he would waive our first-year vehicle registration fees as an incentive for us to vote yes.
Of course, if the County Board doesn’t vote to put this referendum on the ballot, then this discussion is a moot point. I suggest you call your Rock County Board representative and let him or her know how you feel. And their response to you will probably be: “April Fool.”
Other Cities Can Learn From Beloit
(From the Janesville Messenger, 3-4-07)
I have a confession to make.
In the seven-plus years that I was a member of the Forward Janesville staff, I never attended the Greater Beloit Chamber of Commerce annual dinner.
Your first response to this revelation might very well be, “So what?” In retrospect, so everything. As the world of business and economic development adapts, it becomes more and more important that Janesville and its next-door neighbor work together for the benefit of Rock County as a whole.
In some ways, that is already the case. The Rock County Development Alliance, a cooperative effort of economic development professionals, primarily from Janesville and Beloit, jointly markets the area to businesses searching for space. Forward Janesville and the Greater Beloit Chamber of Commerce jointly took on fundraising efforts to build an engineering laboratory at UW-Rock County. That project, incidentally, was a tremendous success, with the new facility scheduled to open in the fall of this year.
The dinner was held in the center court of the Beloit Mall. Some may have thought that venue to be an odd choice, but upon arriving you were immediately convinced otherwise.
The last time I had been inside the Beloit Mall, it was an empty shell, almost like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie with its abandoned stores. Last Tuesday, it was a vibrant, classy, rejuvenated space where 600 people gathered to celebrate a community that has taken bold strides to reinvent itself.
Beloit’s pride was showing. The event went off without a hitch. Besides a keynote speech from John Ratzenberger, best known as Cliff from the classic television comedy “Cheers,” the Chamber presented awards to outstanding volunteers and businesses.
One of those honored was former board chair Dale Hjerpe of Alcoa Wheel Systems, who along with ABC Supply Company’s Carla Swain deserves a lot of the credit for taking a risk and committing to the UW-Rock County fundraising effort. That big step, acknowledged during in his acceptance speech, has likely set the stage for more cooperative efforts with Janesville.
To the surprise of almost no one in the room, the Large Business of the Year Award went to ABC Supply Company. Accepting the award was its CEO, Ken Hendricks, who added one more trophy to what must be a roomful of such accolades. Despite that, and the fact that Inc. Magazine recently honored him with a cover story as its Entrepreneur of the Year, Ken appeared sincerely moved by this particular award. And the crowd responded with adoration for a man responsible for much of Beloit’s rebirth.
It was exhilarating to see a community that has taken major steps forward and appears well on its way to new successes. People not only from Janesville but from other communities would do well to study Beloit’s example and to see a business community that is genuinely excited about its progress.
I have a confession to make.
In the seven-plus years that I was a member of the Forward Janesville staff, I never attended the Greater Beloit Chamber of Commerce annual dinner.
Your first response to this revelation might very well be, “So what?” In retrospect, so everything. As the world of business and economic development adapts, it becomes more and more important that Janesville and its next-door neighbor work together for the benefit of Rock County as a whole.
In some ways, that is already the case. The Rock County Development Alliance, a cooperative effort of economic development professionals, primarily from Janesville and Beloit, jointly markets the area to businesses searching for space. Forward Janesville and the Greater Beloit Chamber of Commerce jointly took on fundraising efforts to build an engineering laboratory at UW-Rock County. That project, incidentally, was a tremendous success, with the new facility scheduled to open in the fall of this year.
The dinner was held in the center court of the Beloit Mall. Some may have thought that venue to be an odd choice, but upon arriving you were immediately convinced otherwise.
The last time I had been inside the Beloit Mall, it was an empty shell, almost like a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie with its abandoned stores. Last Tuesday, it was a vibrant, classy, rejuvenated space where 600 people gathered to celebrate a community that has taken bold strides to reinvent itself.
Beloit’s pride was showing. The event went off without a hitch. Besides a keynote speech from John Ratzenberger, best known as Cliff from the classic television comedy “Cheers,” the Chamber presented awards to outstanding volunteers and businesses.
One of those honored was former board chair Dale Hjerpe of Alcoa Wheel Systems, who along with ABC Supply Company’s Carla Swain deserves a lot of the credit for taking a risk and committing to the UW-Rock County fundraising effort. That big step, acknowledged during in his acceptance speech, has likely set the stage for more cooperative efforts with Janesville.
To the surprise of almost no one in the room, the Large Business of the Year Award went to ABC Supply Company. Accepting the award was its CEO, Ken Hendricks, who added one more trophy to what must be a roomful of such accolades. Despite that, and the fact that Inc. Magazine recently honored him with a cover story as its Entrepreneur of the Year, Ken appeared sincerely moved by this particular award. And the crowd responded with adoration for a man responsible for much of Beloit’s rebirth.
It was exhilarating to see a community that has taken major steps forward and appears well on its way to new successes. People not only from Janesville but from other communities would do well to study Beloit’s example and to see a business community that is genuinely excited about its progress.
Separation of Church and State - A Two-Way Street
(From the Janesville Messenger, 2-18-07)
“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.” – First Amendment of United States Constitution, 1789
"Erecting the 'wall of separation between church and state'...is absolutely essential in a free society." - Thomas Jefferson, 1808
Recent local events have gotten me to thinking about the concept known as “the separation of church and state.”
It is clear the Founding Fathers did not want the USA to be like England, with a national church that held governmental power. Unfortunately, the wording of the amendment – and Jefferson’s later explanation of it - has led to two unintended consequences. First, that public officials – particularly schools – now run and hide from anything even remotely smelling of religious significance because of fear of lawsuits. Second, that conservative religious groups decry even the reasonable intentions of the measure and declare that America is becoming a godless, atheistic society.
Two recent school-related decisions bear out the first point. After the tragic murder of Janesville Parker High School student Nicole Lentz, it was suggested that the high school choir – in which Nicole participated – should perform at the funeral. The school said no. A prepared statement by Principal Dale Carlson stated, "The district believes it is not appropriate for a school choir to perform at a funeral service that includes a religious focus and is held in a church.” Fortunately, more than 50 individual choir members stepped forward and volunteered to sing. But it’s still sad that a sweet, touching gesture at a tragic time was initially refused.
Ironically, Jefferson himself regularly attended Sunday religious services held in the House of Representatives. Jefferson believed the services did not violate the Constitution because they were ecumenical and voluntary. In Parker’s case, the school could have offered choir members the option of declining participation. But still, what heartless slug would have sued the school?
Then there is Milton High School’s recent cancellation of an assembly featuring “The Power Team.” Rather than being lectured about making good life choices by guys in suits, the Power Team gets its message across to students with feats of strength, like ripping license plates in half. Schools in which they have appeared rave about the effectiveness of their program. However, this group also appears in churches and has a ministry that goes beyond their basic message of good choices and brings young people to God. Even though the Power Team’s web site clearly states that their school assemblies make no mention of religion, Milton’s lawyers told them not to take their chances. There went another missed opportunity for young people who need to hear positive messages.
When these things happen, you of course hear the backlash that the United States is going to Hell because we have eschewed our Christian beginnings. But have we? Witness this statement from 1797’s Treaty of Tripoli, approved by President John Adams and ratified unanimously by the Senate: "As the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion..."
Recently, I received an e-mail from the American Center for Law and Justice, a group of lawyers that lobby for religious rights in government. They were frothing because one of the sections of a lobbying reform bill in Congress would force churches and religious organizations to register as lobbyists if they spend at least $50,000 per quarter (!) to influence legislation. Of course, this group was ranting that such a law would silence Christians and muzzle free speech. Have you ever heard of a lobbyist being silenced?
The ACLJ even stated that the new law would have “stopped Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. from gathering support for the Civil Rights Act of 1964.” (If you want to legitimize your cause, always invoke the name of God or Martin Luther King.) To which one commentator astutely responded, King endured beatings and imprisonment in his civil rights crusade - do you think registering as a lobbyist and filing quarterly reports would have bothered him in the least?
Regardless, the ACLJ’s efforts succeeded in the U.S. Senate, where the provision was removed from the bill. But religious groups have long complained about being unjustly shut out of government, and politicians have not been amused. Witness this quote from Thomas Jefferson in 1800: “The clergy...believe that any portion of power confided to me [as President] will be exerted in opposition to their schemes.”
We need to recognize that “freedom of religion” and “separation of church and state” are a two-way street. Going to either extreme doesn’t advance the cause of the nation, the church, or its people. My personal hope is that extremism recedes and reason wins the day.
Then maybe someday, a school choir will be allowed to sing at the funeral of a classmate.
“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.” – First Amendment of United States Constitution, 1789
"Erecting the 'wall of separation between church and state'...is absolutely essential in a free society." - Thomas Jefferson, 1808
Recent local events have gotten me to thinking about the concept known as “the separation of church and state.”
It is clear the Founding Fathers did not want the USA to be like England, with a national church that held governmental power. Unfortunately, the wording of the amendment – and Jefferson’s later explanation of it - has led to two unintended consequences. First, that public officials – particularly schools – now run and hide from anything even remotely smelling of religious significance because of fear of lawsuits. Second, that conservative religious groups decry even the reasonable intentions of the measure and declare that America is becoming a godless, atheistic society.
Two recent school-related decisions bear out the first point. After the tragic murder of Janesville Parker High School student Nicole Lentz, it was suggested that the high school choir – in which Nicole participated – should perform at the funeral. The school said no. A prepared statement by Principal Dale Carlson stated, "The district believes it is not appropriate for a school choir to perform at a funeral service that includes a religious focus and is held in a church.” Fortunately, more than 50 individual choir members stepped forward and volunteered to sing. But it’s still sad that a sweet, touching gesture at a tragic time was initially refused.
Ironically, Jefferson himself regularly attended Sunday religious services held in the House of Representatives. Jefferson believed the services did not violate the Constitution because they were ecumenical and voluntary. In Parker’s case, the school could have offered choir members the option of declining participation. But still, what heartless slug would have sued the school?
Then there is Milton High School’s recent cancellation of an assembly featuring “The Power Team.” Rather than being lectured about making good life choices by guys in suits, the Power Team gets its message across to students with feats of strength, like ripping license plates in half. Schools in which they have appeared rave about the effectiveness of their program. However, this group also appears in churches and has a ministry that goes beyond their basic message of good choices and brings young people to God. Even though the Power Team’s web site clearly states that their school assemblies make no mention of religion, Milton’s lawyers told them not to take their chances. There went another missed opportunity for young people who need to hear positive messages.
When these things happen, you of course hear the backlash that the United States is going to Hell because we have eschewed our Christian beginnings. But have we? Witness this statement from 1797’s Treaty of Tripoli, approved by President John Adams and ratified unanimously by the Senate: "As the Government of the United States of America is not, in any sense, founded on the Christian religion..."
Recently, I received an e-mail from the American Center for Law and Justice, a group of lawyers that lobby for religious rights in government. They were frothing because one of the sections of a lobbying reform bill in Congress would force churches and religious organizations to register as lobbyists if they spend at least $50,000 per quarter (!) to influence legislation. Of course, this group was ranting that such a law would silence Christians and muzzle free speech. Have you ever heard of a lobbyist being silenced?
The ACLJ even stated that the new law would have “stopped Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. from gathering support for the Civil Rights Act of 1964.” (If you want to legitimize your cause, always invoke the name of God or Martin Luther King.) To which one commentator astutely responded, King endured beatings and imprisonment in his civil rights crusade - do you think registering as a lobbyist and filing quarterly reports would have bothered him in the least?
Regardless, the ACLJ’s efforts succeeded in the U.S. Senate, where the provision was removed from the bill. But religious groups have long complained about being unjustly shut out of government, and politicians have not been amused. Witness this quote from Thomas Jefferson in 1800: “The clergy...believe that any portion of power confided to me [as President] will be exerted in opposition to their schemes.”
We need to recognize that “freedom of religion” and “separation of church and state” are a two-way street. Going to either extreme doesn’t advance the cause of the nation, the church, or its people. My personal hope is that extremism recedes and reason wins the day.
Then maybe someday, a school choir will be allowed to sing at the funeral of a classmate.
An Un-Bear-able Super Bowl
(From the Janesville Messenger, 2-4-07)
This weekend, of course, is the Super Bowl, which means that if you’re a Green Bay Packers fan, you’re prepared for the possibility of having Chicago Bears fans rub it in your face for a year.
What was surprising to me was that on January 26, the ten-year anniversary of the Packers’ Super Bowl victory passed with little fanfare in these parts. It was easy for me for remember. That victory, something I often wondered if I would ever see in my lifetime, occurred on my birthday. Talk about a once-in-a-lifetime gift.
My wife, who cares for football about as much as she cares for having her fingers slammed in a car door, simply cannot figure out why I’m drawn to this sport like a moth to a porch light. When the Wisconsin Badgers were playing in the first of their three Rose Bowls in 1994, we had a one-week-old son and a 23-month-old daughter. But I was absolutely useless as a parent for four hours, as I was insanely bouncing all over the living room watching this game on TV. I was like a congregant at a Catholic mass– I’d sit, then I’d stand, then I’d kneel, then I’d pray, then I’d....well, I guess they don’t curse at mass.
As time was running out, Wisconsin was clinging to a five-point lead but UCLA was driving down the field for the potential winning score. I was a wreck. My disgusted wife finally shouted at me, “Why is this game so important to you?” I recall responding, “Just once, I want them to win something that matters!” I don’t think that really answered her question. It probably also frustrates her that I can clearly remember details of these games, but can’t remember that she asked me to pick up milk at the grocery store on my way home.
The Packers’ Super Bowl victory remains my peak experience as a sports fan, and a recent viewing of that game’s highlight film was one of those satisfying father-son moments. For good measure, I even went back a generation and showed him my game film of the 1967 Ice Bowl, so that he could appreciate one of his grandfather’s Packer experiences.
So I can identify with Bears fans who – despite their poor taste in football allegiances – are justifiably excited about their team’s first championship opportunity in a generation. At one time, the very thought of a Bears Super Bowl championship would have repulsed me and put me in a bad mood for months. But now, I have to admit that it won’t really bother me if they win. If nothing else, it will make my 92-year-old uncle - a Bears season ticket holder since 1939 - a happy man.
I just thank God it’s not the Minnesota Vikings.
This weekend, of course, is the Super Bowl, which means that if you’re a Green Bay Packers fan, you’re prepared for the possibility of having Chicago Bears fans rub it in your face for a year.
What was surprising to me was that on January 26, the ten-year anniversary of the Packers’ Super Bowl victory passed with little fanfare in these parts. It was easy for me for remember. That victory, something I often wondered if I would ever see in my lifetime, occurred on my birthday. Talk about a once-in-a-lifetime gift.
My wife, who cares for football about as much as she cares for having her fingers slammed in a car door, simply cannot figure out why I’m drawn to this sport like a moth to a porch light. When the Wisconsin Badgers were playing in the first of their three Rose Bowls in 1994, we had a one-week-old son and a 23-month-old daughter. But I was absolutely useless as a parent for four hours, as I was insanely bouncing all over the living room watching this game on TV. I was like a congregant at a Catholic mass– I’d sit, then I’d stand, then I’d kneel, then I’d pray, then I’d....well, I guess they don’t curse at mass.
As time was running out, Wisconsin was clinging to a five-point lead but UCLA was driving down the field for the potential winning score. I was a wreck. My disgusted wife finally shouted at me, “Why is this game so important to you?” I recall responding, “Just once, I want them to win something that matters!” I don’t think that really answered her question. It probably also frustrates her that I can clearly remember details of these games, but can’t remember that she asked me to pick up milk at the grocery store on my way home.
The Packers’ Super Bowl victory remains my peak experience as a sports fan, and a recent viewing of that game’s highlight film was one of those satisfying father-son moments. For good measure, I even went back a generation and showed him my game film of the 1967 Ice Bowl, so that he could appreciate one of his grandfather’s Packer experiences.
So I can identify with Bears fans who – despite their poor taste in football allegiances – are justifiably excited about their team’s first championship opportunity in a generation. At one time, the very thought of a Bears Super Bowl championship would have repulsed me and put me in a bad mood for months. But now, I have to admit that it won’t really bother me if they win. If nothing else, it will make my 92-year-old uncle - a Bears season ticket holder since 1939 - a happy man.
I just thank God it’s not the Minnesota Vikings.
Stuck In The Middle of Life
(From the Janesville Messenger, 1-21-07)
Maybe it was the bifocals that triggered it. Or perhaps the upcoming birthday placing me solidly in Mid-Forties Land. Or the fact that I no longer recognize a single musical act listed in Billboard’s Top 10. But whatever started it, my name is Jim and I’m having a mid-life crisis.
I’m exhibiting two outward symptoms of the disease. One is that my hair has gotten distinctly longer, resembling the length and style I wore during my senior year of college. Still, that’s preferable to the ’do from my earlier years of college, when I sported a permed afro that would have made Billy Preston proud.
I’m not growing it out for purposes of a bad comb-over; fortunately, I’m showing no signs of hair loss. Unfortunately, the longer strands make my increasing number of gray hairs more obvious.
A couple of years ago, I grew a goatee only to discover that the hairs on my chinny chin chin were white. Coupled with my black moustache, I was the facial equivalent of a skunk. I combated that situation with a weekly application of Just For Men. When that routine got old, I opted for a more practical solution – a razor. At any rate, I’m now getting more comfortable with my lightening mane. There’s a part of me that thinks looking like Mark Twain in 20 years wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
The other symptom is my latest car. For 11 years, I have driven a 1995 Geo Prizm. It’s a little humbling driving a car whose make - not just the model, but the entire nameplate - went extinct a decade ago. It must be how AMC drivers felt in the 1990’s. Don’t get me wrong; the Prizm has been a great car - practical and reliable, paid-for and trouble-free. But when I spied a beautiful black Audi A4 Quattro at a used car lot at a price I could afford, I was smitten.
My wife, the sane half of the family, questioned the logic of exchanging a paid-off, reliable set of wheels for this toy packed with more options than a college football game. However, I was ready; I had done my research on everything about the A4, including gas mileage, reliability, recall history, and insurance costs. When my rational arguments didn’t immediately close the deal, I resorted to my desperation pitch: “I’m at the age where guys either get a sporty car or a young mistress. Let me have the car.” It may have been the biggest humor misfire since John Kerry’s botched joke last fall. When the dust settled, however, I still somehow managed to win her extremely tentative consent.
So you may see me drive by this spring with the moon roof open and my hair flying in the wind. Meanwhile, a barber and an unsold Prizm wait for my senses to return.
Maybe it was the bifocals that triggered it. Or perhaps the upcoming birthday placing me solidly in Mid-Forties Land. Or the fact that I no longer recognize a single musical act listed in Billboard’s Top 10. But whatever started it, my name is Jim and I’m having a mid-life crisis.
I’m exhibiting two outward symptoms of the disease. One is that my hair has gotten distinctly longer, resembling the length and style I wore during my senior year of college. Still, that’s preferable to the ’do from my earlier years of college, when I sported a permed afro that would have made Billy Preston proud.
I’m not growing it out for purposes of a bad comb-over; fortunately, I’m showing no signs of hair loss. Unfortunately, the longer strands make my increasing number of gray hairs more obvious.
A couple of years ago, I grew a goatee only to discover that the hairs on my chinny chin chin were white. Coupled with my black moustache, I was the facial equivalent of a skunk. I combated that situation with a weekly application of Just For Men. When that routine got old, I opted for a more practical solution – a razor. At any rate, I’m now getting more comfortable with my lightening mane. There’s a part of me that thinks looking like Mark Twain in 20 years wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
The other symptom is my latest car. For 11 years, I have driven a 1995 Geo Prizm. It’s a little humbling driving a car whose make - not just the model, but the entire nameplate - went extinct a decade ago. It must be how AMC drivers felt in the 1990’s. Don’t get me wrong; the Prizm has been a great car - practical and reliable, paid-for and trouble-free. But when I spied a beautiful black Audi A4 Quattro at a used car lot at a price I could afford, I was smitten.
My wife, the sane half of the family, questioned the logic of exchanging a paid-off, reliable set of wheels for this toy packed with more options than a college football game. However, I was ready; I had done my research on everything about the A4, including gas mileage, reliability, recall history, and insurance costs. When my rational arguments didn’t immediately close the deal, I resorted to my desperation pitch: “I’m at the age where guys either get a sporty car or a young mistress. Let me have the car.” It may have been the biggest humor misfire since John Kerry’s botched joke last fall. When the dust settled, however, I still somehow managed to win her extremely tentative consent.
So you may see me drive by this spring with the moon roof open and my hair flying in the wind. Meanwhile, a barber and an unsold Prizm wait for my senses to return.
Ghost of a College
(From the Janesville Messenger, 1-7-07)
When I walk out of my home each day, I see a ghost.
I live next to the remnants of Milton College, the oldest institution of higher learning in Wisconsin until ongoing financial problems sent it to academic afterlife in 1982.
It’s appropriate that I live where I do; I love history, and was thrilled that one of my Christmas gifts this year was a 1924-25 Milton College yearbook. This fascinating relic retrieved from an antique store offers a unique glimpse into the life of this small college.
Surprising was the number of female students, by my rough estimate nearly half of the student body. Remember, this was less than five years removed from women receiving the right to vote.
Women sported the shorter hairstyle of the day, some with “flapper” headbands and dresses. The vision-challenged men and women all share the same round, horn-rimmed spectacles.
Of course, all of the student activities are chronicled - everything from the school play (“Romeo and Juliet”) to athletics to clubs. The debate team took on weighty subjects like the new concept of unemployment insurance, whether the U.S. should join the League of Nations, and whether the “ultra-conservative” Supreme Court had too much power.
Participants in the oratorical contest didn’t shy from controversy, either. One delivered “A Plea for an Unbiased Opinion on Evolution.” But the speaker topics that are incomprehensibly shocking by today’s standards were “Negro – Menace or Problem” and “What of the Indians’ Musical Soul?”
For lighter reading, you can page over to the student-penned humor section, containing such gems as “Tis’ sweet to love/But oh! How bitter/to love a girl/and then not gitter.”
The original owner of this book had it signed by scores of her friends and fellow students. Reading the dedications is like peeking into her diary. Some smell of mischief - “Remember one nite on Taylor’s Point? Ah yes!” – while others are more heartfelt: “How I envy your artistic ability!”
Naturally, someone had to pay to publish the yearbook, so the later pages teem with dozens of advertisements. Of those sponsoring businesses, only a handful survive today, and only one - The Cozy Inn in downtown Janesville - is located in the same building.
It’s been a quarter-century since Milton College breathed its last, and with each passing year, the memories of the fine institution it had been get hazier, and the ghost I see gets fainter. But at its height, it was proud and strong with lofty goals, put in writing by President Alfred Whitford: “Milton College has for its ideal, sending out graduates who are not only clear thinkers capable of doing their part in the world’s work, but also men and women of character who put moral principles above mere intellectual achievements.”
Rest in peace, Milton College.
When I walk out of my home each day, I see a ghost.
I live next to the remnants of Milton College, the oldest institution of higher learning in Wisconsin until ongoing financial problems sent it to academic afterlife in 1982.
It’s appropriate that I live where I do; I love history, and was thrilled that one of my Christmas gifts this year was a 1924-25 Milton College yearbook. This fascinating relic retrieved from an antique store offers a unique glimpse into the life of this small college.
Surprising was the number of female students, by my rough estimate nearly half of the student body. Remember, this was less than five years removed from women receiving the right to vote.
Women sported the shorter hairstyle of the day, some with “flapper” headbands and dresses. The vision-challenged men and women all share the same round, horn-rimmed spectacles.
Of course, all of the student activities are chronicled - everything from the school play (“Romeo and Juliet”) to athletics to clubs. The debate team took on weighty subjects like the new concept of unemployment insurance, whether the U.S. should join the League of Nations, and whether the “ultra-conservative” Supreme Court had too much power.
Participants in the oratorical contest didn’t shy from controversy, either. One delivered “A Plea for an Unbiased Opinion on Evolution.” But the speaker topics that are incomprehensibly shocking by today’s standards were “Negro – Menace or Problem” and “What of the Indians’ Musical Soul?”
For lighter reading, you can page over to the student-penned humor section, containing such gems as “Tis’ sweet to love/But oh! How bitter/to love a girl/and then not gitter.”
The original owner of this book had it signed by scores of her friends and fellow students. Reading the dedications is like peeking into her diary. Some smell of mischief - “Remember one nite on Taylor’s Point? Ah yes!” – while others are more heartfelt: “How I envy your artistic ability!”
Naturally, someone had to pay to publish the yearbook, so the later pages teem with dozens of advertisements. Of those sponsoring businesses, only a handful survive today, and only one - The Cozy Inn in downtown Janesville - is located in the same building.
It’s been a quarter-century since Milton College breathed its last, and with each passing year, the memories of the fine institution it had been get hazier, and the ghost I see gets fainter. But at its height, it was proud and strong with lofty goals, put in writing by President Alfred Whitford: “Milton College has for its ideal, sending out graduates who are not only clear thinkers capable of doing their part in the world’s work, but also men and women of character who put moral principles above mere intellectual achievements.”
Rest in peace, Milton College.
The Best Christmas Gift: Memories
(From the Janesville Messenger, 12-17-06)
Some snapshots from days of Christmas passed....
LaPrairie Township, circa 1932: Robert Lyke Jr. happily opens his presents from Santa Claus on Christmas morning. Unbeknownst to him, his parents are on the verge of losing their farm and are too broke to buy Christmas gifts. His sister’s husband Floyd, employed at Fisher Body in Janesville, finds out about the situation and saves the day by buying toys for his young brother-in-law.
Janesville Township, circa 1968: A half-awake Jimmy Lyke is absolutely convinced he sees Santa Claus, complete with a bag slung over his shoulder, walk down the hallway past his bedroom door.
Since the Lyke household has no chimney or fireplace, Jimmy is told by his older brother Tom that Santa has a “skeleton key” that he uses to enter the homes of the chimney-challenged.
Gifts are not opened in the Lyke household on Christmas morning until after Robert Lyke Jr., the patriarch of the house, finishes his morning milking of the cows and comes into the house to eat his breakfast. Young Jimmy impatiently waits as his father eats very slowly.
Janesville Township, circa 1970: The Santa Claus theory begins to crumble for Jimmy Lyke when he awakes early Christmas morning and discovers his mother bringing a Carrom game “from Santa” into the living room. Jimmy also notices K-Mart price tags on the game packaging.
Janesville Township, 1973: Christmas Day is somewhat somber at the Lyke household, coming off the previous day’s burial of Jimmy’s uncle Amberg, whose middle name, ironically, was Emmanuel.
Janesville Township, 1984: Jim Lyke’s parents open a gift from their son and his girlfriend Linda. Beneath the wrapping is a framed engagement picture. This is how they announce their upcoming marriage to his family.
Woodstock, Illinois, 1991: Jim Lyke presents his wife Linda with the gift of a rocking chair. The chair will be used to rock the baby that’s due to be born in a month and a half.
Janesville/Milton, 1993: On a bitterly cold Christmas Day with temperatures below zero, Jim and Linda Lyke leave Mercy Hospital, taking home their one-day-old son Robert for the first time. Rob’s older sister Corinne is not told that it is Christmas Day; for her, Santa will come one day late when the entire family is home together.
Milton, 2004: Rather than opening gifts placed under the Christmas tree, Rob and Corinne Lyke are led on a treasure hunt around the house, using clues provided by Linda to go room to room until they find the ultimate present they had requested for years: airline tickets and reservations for Walt Disney World.
These are some of my Christmas memories. May this Christmas be special for each of you, and may you someday look back on it fondly with your own special memories.
Some snapshots from days of Christmas passed....
LaPrairie Township, circa 1932: Robert Lyke Jr. happily opens his presents from Santa Claus on Christmas morning. Unbeknownst to him, his parents are on the verge of losing their farm and are too broke to buy Christmas gifts. His sister’s husband Floyd, employed at Fisher Body in Janesville, finds out about the situation and saves the day by buying toys for his young brother-in-law.
Janesville Township, circa 1968: A half-awake Jimmy Lyke is absolutely convinced he sees Santa Claus, complete with a bag slung over his shoulder, walk down the hallway past his bedroom door.
Since the Lyke household has no chimney or fireplace, Jimmy is told by his older brother Tom that Santa has a “skeleton key” that he uses to enter the homes of the chimney-challenged.
Gifts are not opened in the Lyke household on Christmas morning until after Robert Lyke Jr., the patriarch of the house, finishes his morning milking of the cows and comes into the house to eat his breakfast. Young Jimmy impatiently waits as his father eats very slowly.
Janesville Township, circa 1970: The Santa Claus theory begins to crumble for Jimmy Lyke when he awakes early Christmas morning and discovers his mother bringing a Carrom game “from Santa” into the living room. Jimmy also notices K-Mart price tags on the game packaging.
Janesville Township, 1973: Christmas Day is somewhat somber at the Lyke household, coming off the previous day’s burial of Jimmy’s uncle Amberg, whose middle name, ironically, was Emmanuel.
Janesville Township, 1984: Jim Lyke’s parents open a gift from their son and his girlfriend Linda. Beneath the wrapping is a framed engagement picture. This is how they announce their upcoming marriage to his family.
Woodstock, Illinois, 1991: Jim Lyke presents his wife Linda with the gift of a rocking chair. The chair will be used to rock the baby that’s due to be born in a month and a half.
Janesville/Milton, 1993: On a bitterly cold Christmas Day with temperatures below zero, Jim and Linda Lyke leave Mercy Hospital, taking home their one-day-old son Robert for the first time. Rob’s older sister Corinne is not told that it is Christmas Day; for her, Santa will come one day late when the entire family is home together.
Milton, 2004: Rather than opening gifts placed under the Christmas tree, Rob and Corinne Lyke are led on a treasure hunt around the house, using clues provided by Linda to go room to room until they find the ultimate present they had requested for years: airline tickets and reservations for Walt Disney World.
These are some of my Christmas memories. May this Christmas be special for each of you, and may you someday look back on it fondly with your own special memories.
To Wii Or Not To Wii
(From the Janesville Messenger, 12-3-06)
For the past several months, all we’ve been hearing about in our household is the incredible new Nintendo Wii video game system that was coming out before Christmas.
My son couldn’t wait. He was caught up in the “I-have-to-have-it-as-soon-as-it’s-released” hysteria. Since there was no way I was going to stand in line outside a store for days or even hours, we signed up on the shopping web site Amazon.com to get e-mail notification of when it would be available for sale there. Every day for a month, I was asked the question, “Has Amazon e-mailed us yet?”
Finally, on November 16, the e-mail came. The Wii would be released for purchase on Amazon on the morning of November 19, Pacific Standard Time. There was no actual time on the notice, but I, like many others, assumed they meant midnight PST, or 2 a.m. Central time. The e-mail warned that for every unit they would have available, they had sent 100 notifications. So in effect, you had a one percent chance of getting one when they went on sale.
I had no intention of trying my luck. But when I was still awake late that night, I made the last-minute decision to stay up and see if I could give my son a giant surprise the next morning.
At 2 a.m., I sat in front of my computer screen, hitting the “refresh” button every minute like the people in the hatch on “Lost.” I was not alone. People from all over the world (literally) were posting messages on the site. “Has anyone got one yet?” “Are they for sure releasing it at midnight?” The only change to the screen was some opportunistic joker who bought one at a store and put his up for sale for triple the price.
I waited. And waited. The posted messages started to turn angry. People called Amazon’s customer service line and posted the conflicting answers they were given. “They said it will be any minute now.” “They don’t know when it will be.” “It won’t be available today.” There were accusations of strategically-posted lies to get others to leave the site and increase their chances.
A half hour passed, then an hour. The angry postings were mixed with amusing ones. My contribution was in the form of a haiku:
Was here at midnight
But Nintendo Wii was not
Curse you, Amazon
At 3:15 a.m., I gave up and went to bed. Four hours later when I awoke, they still weren’t for sale.
Finally at 10 a.m., Amazon released it and the available quantity sold out within a minute. I was not one of the lucky ones.
So we are Wii-less, for now. But I did score some points with my son. And that’s better than anything I could have purchased.
(Follow-up Note: We finally got one in late January.)
For the past several months, all we’ve been hearing about in our household is the incredible new Nintendo Wii video game system that was coming out before Christmas.
My son couldn’t wait. He was caught up in the “I-have-to-have-it-as-soon-as-it’s-released” hysteria. Since there was no way I was going to stand in line outside a store for days or even hours, we signed up on the shopping web site Amazon.com to get e-mail notification of when it would be available for sale there. Every day for a month, I was asked the question, “Has Amazon e-mailed us yet?”
Finally, on November 16, the e-mail came. The Wii would be released for purchase on Amazon on the morning of November 19, Pacific Standard Time. There was no actual time on the notice, but I, like many others, assumed they meant midnight PST, or 2 a.m. Central time. The e-mail warned that for every unit they would have available, they had sent 100 notifications. So in effect, you had a one percent chance of getting one when they went on sale.
I had no intention of trying my luck. But when I was still awake late that night, I made the last-minute decision to stay up and see if I could give my son a giant surprise the next morning.
At 2 a.m., I sat in front of my computer screen, hitting the “refresh” button every minute like the people in the hatch on “Lost.” I was not alone. People from all over the world (literally) were posting messages on the site. “Has anyone got one yet?” “Are they for sure releasing it at midnight?” The only change to the screen was some opportunistic joker who bought one at a store and put his up for sale for triple the price.
I waited. And waited. The posted messages started to turn angry. People called Amazon’s customer service line and posted the conflicting answers they were given. “They said it will be any minute now.” “They don’t know when it will be.” “It won’t be available today.” There were accusations of strategically-posted lies to get others to leave the site and increase their chances.
A half hour passed, then an hour. The angry postings were mixed with amusing ones. My contribution was in the form of a haiku:
Was here at midnight
But Nintendo Wii was not
Curse you, Amazon
At 3:15 a.m., I gave up and went to bed. Four hours later when I awoke, they still weren’t for sale.
Finally at 10 a.m., Amazon released it and the available quantity sold out within a minute. I was not one of the lucky ones.
So we are Wii-less, for now. But I did score some points with my son. And that’s better than anything I could have purchased.
(Follow-up Note: We finally got one in late January.)
The Joy of YouTube
(From the Janesville Messenger, 11-19-06)
(Please forgive me for being too lazy to create hyperlinks to the clips listed in the article.)
A great thing about America is that we can never find enough ways to enjoyably waste time. I now find myself completely hooked on the latest, an Internet site called YouTube.com.
For the uninitiated, YouTube is a site devoted to video sharing. You or I can post our homemade films on the site for the entire world to see, in hopes of garnering 15 minutes of fame.
Sounds like a simple idea, right? That simple idea has exploded in popularity, attracting millions every day to view the over 100 million videos on the site. And its two young creators recently sold that simple idea to Google for $1.65 billion. Not a bad return on investment, considering that the site was launched last year.
Its popularity is partly due to the fact that what started as a way for people to share their home videos has turned into a warehouse of pop culture.
For example, YouTube is a bonanza for music lovers. People have posted all the classic music videos I loved from the early days of MTV but hadn’t seen in 20 years. My kids now know who Huey Lewis and the News, Devo, the Talking Heads and the B-52’s are. They’ve also become big fans of Weird Al Yankovic’s parodies. Like classic jazz instead of the ‘80s? Here’s a video clip of Miles Davis and John Coltrane performing together in 1958.
But it’s not just about music. Betty Boop’s very first cartoon from 1930, when she was drawn with dog ears? It’s there. A clip of Brett Favre’s playoff-winning touchdown pass to Sterling Sharpe in 1994? Ditto. YouTube is also the place to see the infamous Bill Clinton interview with Chris Wallace, or Stephen Colbert’s hysterical roast of President Bush.
Many of the homemade videos are worth watching as well. Their quality ranges from someone pointing a camcorder at himself to professional-looking studio productions, like a hilarious re-cutting of the trailer to the Jack Nicholson movie, “The Shining,” making this horror classic appear to be a warm family drama. Another creative clip features TV broadcast audio from the Boston Red Sox’s infamous loss to the New York Mets in the 1986 World Series, while the accompanying video is a reenactment of the action on a vintage 1980’s Nintendo video baseball game.
YouTube is also the place where I first saw what happens when you drop a roll of Mentos into a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke. Try this at home, kids....outside.
Alas, many of the videos I enjoyed watching were posted in violation of copyright laws. Since the sale to Google, scores of these have been removed.
But while I still can, I’ll celebrate Thanksgiving by watching the classic “Turkey Drop” episode from “WKRP In Cincinnati.” I love this site.
(Please forgive me for being too lazy to create hyperlinks to the clips listed in the article.)
A great thing about America is that we can never find enough ways to enjoyably waste time. I now find myself completely hooked on the latest, an Internet site called YouTube.com.
For the uninitiated, YouTube is a site devoted to video sharing. You or I can post our homemade films on the site for the entire world to see, in hopes of garnering 15 minutes of fame.
Sounds like a simple idea, right? That simple idea has exploded in popularity, attracting millions every day to view the over 100 million videos on the site. And its two young creators recently sold that simple idea to Google for $1.65 billion. Not a bad return on investment, considering that the site was launched last year.
Its popularity is partly due to the fact that what started as a way for people to share their home videos has turned into a warehouse of pop culture.
For example, YouTube is a bonanza for music lovers. People have posted all the classic music videos I loved from the early days of MTV but hadn’t seen in 20 years. My kids now know who Huey Lewis and the News, Devo, the Talking Heads and the B-52’s are. They’ve also become big fans of Weird Al Yankovic’s parodies. Like classic jazz instead of the ‘80s? Here’s a video clip of Miles Davis and John Coltrane performing together in 1958.
But it’s not just about music. Betty Boop’s very first cartoon from 1930, when she was drawn with dog ears? It’s there. A clip of Brett Favre’s playoff-winning touchdown pass to Sterling Sharpe in 1994? Ditto. YouTube is also the place to see the infamous Bill Clinton interview with Chris Wallace, or Stephen Colbert’s hysterical roast of President Bush.
Many of the homemade videos are worth watching as well. Their quality ranges from someone pointing a camcorder at himself to professional-looking studio productions, like a hilarious re-cutting of the trailer to the Jack Nicholson movie, “The Shining,” making this horror classic appear to be a warm family drama. Another creative clip features TV broadcast audio from the Boston Red Sox’s infamous loss to the New York Mets in the 1986 World Series, while the accompanying video is a reenactment of the action on a vintage 1980’s Nintendo video baseball game.
YouTube is also the place where I first saw what happens when you drop a roll of Mentos into a 2-liter bottle of Diet Coke. Try this at home, kids....outside.
Alas, many of the videos I enjoyed watching were posted in violation of copyright laws. Since the sale to Google, scores of these have been removed.
But while I still can, I’ll celebrate Thanksgiving by watching the classic “Turkey Drop” episode from “WKRP In Cincinnati.” I love this site.
Great Ideas DO Happen - The Edgerton Book Festival
(From the Janesville Messenger, 11-5-06)
(Click here to hear my interview with author Michael Perry on WCLO)
It’s nice to see great ideas meet with success. And the Edgerton Book Festival was both a great idea and a big success.
The festival coincided with the 100th anniversary of Sterling North’s birth. North, of course, put Edgerton on the literary map with the classic Rascal, and this event kicked off by paying tribute to his memory and his family, many of whom were in attendance.
An hour before the festivities were scheduled to begin at the Edgerton Performing Arts Center, a line had already formed at the door to hear Helen Thomas, the famed White House correspondent.
The perfect opening speaker for this event, Ms. Thomas was full of anecdotes and opinions gleaned from 60 years of reporting. Presidents have loved, loathed and feared her. Gerald Ford once famously remarked, “If God created the Earth in six days, He couldn't have rested on the seventh - He would have had to explain it to Helen Thomas.”
In person, she is surprisingly small of stature; she always seemed bigger than life at presidential press conferences. Now a columnist, Ms. Thomas is free to express her thoughts, which included harsh criticism of the current crop of Washington journalists that she believes refuse to ask the tough questions.
If I make it to 86 years old, I can only pray that I will be as sharp as Helen Thomas is at that age. Heck, I wish I were that sharp NOW. She needed a little assistance hearing questions from the audience, but that seemed to be her only concession to age. Besides a sharp brain – and tongue – she still obviously had her stamina, continuing to sign autographs in the lobby for what seemed to be an endless line of admirers two hours after completing her speech.
Besides Ms. Thomas, the day was a bonanza for book lovers as award-winning authors like David Maraniss and Kevin Henkes spoke. Local authors also had a chance to meet the public and show their wares.
Fortunately, my schedule allowed me to hear a presentation by one of my current personal favorites, Michael Perry. Perry is the author of the highly-recommended Population 485, a book about his personal experiences re-connecting with his home town as a volunteer firefighter. Though he admitted he would rather be home alone than doing public speaking, Perry was a very funny and engaging speaker. The passages he read from his books undoubtedly contributed to the brisk sales of his work in the lobby.
As much as I enjoyed the talks by Thomas and Perry, my favorite quote of the weekend may have come from festival organizer Norm Fjelstad, who said that he wanted to prove you could have a successful event in Wisconsin without alcohol. I hope the organizers of the Tallman Arts Festival are listening.
(Click here to hear my interview with author Michael Perry on WCLO)
It’s nice to see great ideas meet with success. And the Edgerton Book Festival was both a great idea and a big success.
The festival coincided with the 100th anniversary of Sterling North’s birth. North, of course, put Edgerton on the literary map with the classic Rascal, and this event kicked off by paying tribute to his memory and his family, many of whom were in attendance.
An hour before the festivities were scheduled to begin at the Edgerton Performing Arts Center, a line had already formed at the door to hear Helen Thomas, the famed White House correspondent.
The perfect opening speaker for this event, Ms. Thomas was full of anecdotes and opinions gleaned from 60 years of reporting. Presidents have loved, loathed and feared her. Gerald Ford once famously remarked, “If God created the Earth in six days, He couldn't have rested on the seventh - He would have had to explain it to Helen Thomas.”
In person, she is surprisingly small of stature; she always seemed bigger than life at presidential press conferences. Now a columnist, Ms. Thomas is free to express her thoughts, which included harsh criticism of the current crop of Washington journalists that she believes refuse to ask the tough questions.
If I make it to 86 years old, I can only pray that I will be as sharp as Helen Thomas is at that age. Heck, I wish I were that sharp NOW. She needed a little assistance hearing questions from the audience, but that seemed to be her only concession to age. Besides a sharp brain – and tongue – she still obviously had her stamina, continuing to sign autographs in the lobby for what seemed to be an endless line of admirers two hours after completing her speech.
Besides Ms. Thomas, the day was a bonanza for book lovers as award-winning authors like David Maraniss and Kevin Henkes spoke. Local authors also had a chance to meet the public and show their wares.
Fortunately, my schedule allowed me to hear a presentation by one of my current personal favorites, Michael Perry. Perry is the author of the highly-recommended Population 485, a book about his personal experiences re-connecting with his home town as a volunteer firefighter. Though he admitted he would rather be home alone than doing public speaking, Perry was a very funny and engaging speaker. The passages he read from his books undoubtedly contributed to the brisk sales of his work in the lobby.
As much as I enjoyed the talks by Thomas and Perry, my favorite quote of the weekend may have come from festival organizer Norm Fjelstad, who said that he wanted to prove you could have a successful event in Wisconsin without alcohol. I hope the organizers of the Tallman Arts Festival are listening.
Three Good Ideas That Won't Happen
(From the Janesville Messenger, 10-15-06)
“Good ideas are common - what's uncommon are people who'll work hard enough to bring them about.” – Ashleigh Brilliant
Here are three good ideas I would love to see come to fruition:
3) The Wisconsin Health Plan. With apologies to Mark Twain, health insurance costs are like the weather; everybody complains about it but nobody does anything about it. This bold bipartisan plan does. It would assure every Wisconsin resident of health care coverage, financed by assessing employers 3 – 12 percent of their payrolls (the sliding scale based on total wages) and employees a flat 2 percent. The assessments would also fund family Medicaid and BadgerCare, eliminating $1 billion from the state budget. The budget savings would be used to eliminate the personal property tax paid by businesses, double the Earned Income Tax Credit for low-income workers, and eventually phase out the corporate income tax. (Before you cry foul on that last point, do some research about how doing just that completely turned Ireland’s economy around.)
Sound Utopian? Well, the Legislative Fiscal Bureau in Madison ran the numbers and says the plan will work.
This plan will be introduced as a bill after the new Legislature is seated in January. Unfortunately, several other legislators have introduced their own plans to fix health care so it may be a struggle finding enough support for one solution to the problem.
2) A New County Fairgrounds and Snappers Stadium on I-90. Two major location problems would be solved at once with this plan. Having the fairgrounds in the middle of a residential area is bad enough, but the Snappers’ need is even more pressing. Their low yearly attendance – less than half of their counterparts in Appleton and a half million fans less than their league’s leader – could eventually force the team to leave Rock County.
1) School Funding Reform. A few years ago, a very good plan for shifting school funding from property tax to the state sales tax was put forth by Rep. Wayne Wood (D) of Janesville and Rep. Mickey Lehman (R) of Hartford. The idea went about as far as a patent application for a folding waterbed.
Doubly disappointing is that in 2003, amid great fanfare, Governor Jim Doyle appointed a blue ribbon task force on educational excellence to study improvements to the system. That group came to the same conclusion: move school funding from the property tax to the sales tax. Their proposal would have lowered school taxes 43 percent by increasing the sales tax from 5 to 6 percent. This wasn’t what the Governor wanted to hear, so that group’s exhaustively researched document now collects dust somewhere in the state capitol.
In the meantime, badly-needed improvements to Janesville’s high schools hinge on whether residents believe they can afford the additional property taxes on their homes.
And how is that a good idea?
“Good ideas are common - what's uncommon are people who'll work hard enough to bring them about.” – Ashleigh Brilliant
Here are three good ideas I would love to see come to fruition:
3) The Wisconsin Health Plan. With apologies to Mark Twain, health insurance costs are like the weather; everybody complains about it but nobody does anything about it. This bold bipartisan plan does. It would assure every Wisconsin resident of health care coverage, financed by assessing employers 3 – 12 percent of their payrolls (the sliding scale based on total wages) and employees a flat 2 percent. The assessments would also fund family Medicaid and BadgerCare, eliminating $1 billion from the state budget. The budget savings would be used to eliminate the personal property tax paid by businesses, double the Earned Income Tax Credit for low-income workers, and eventually phase out the corporate income tax. (Before you cry foul on that last point, do some research about how doing just that completely turned Ireland’s economy around.)
Sound Utopian? Well, the Legislative Fiscal Bureau in Madison ran the numbers and says the plan will work.
This plan will be introduced as a bill after the new Legislature is seated in January. Unfortunately, several other legislators have introduced their own plans to fix health care so it may be a struggle finding enough support for one solution to the problem.
2) A New County Fairgrounds and Snappers Stadium on I-90. Two major location problems would be solved at once with this plan. Having the fairgrounds in the middle of a residential area is bad enough, but the Snappers’ need is even more pressing. Their low yearly attendance – less than half of their counterparts in Appleton and a half million fans less than their league’s leader – could eventually force the team to leave Rock County.
1) School Funding Reform. A few years ago, a very good plan for shifting school funding from property tax to the state sales tax was put forth by Rep. Wayne Wood (D) of Janesville and Rep. Mickey Lehman (R) of Hartford. The idea went about as far as a patent application for a folding waterbed.
Doubly disappointing is that in 2003, amid great fanfare, Governor Jim Doyle appointed a blue ribbon task force on educational excellence to study improvements to the system. That group came to the same conclusion: move school funding from the property tax to the sales tax. Their proposal would have lowered school taxes 43 percent by increasing the sales tax from 5 to 6 percent. This wasn’t what the Governor wanted to hear, so that group’s exhaustively researched document now collects dust somewhere in the state capitol.
In the meantime, badly-needed improvements to Janesville’s high schools hinge on whether residents believe they can afford the additional property taxes on their homes.
And how is that a good idea?
A Week In The Katrina Aftermath
(From the Milton Courier, May 2006)
With apologies to Charles Dickens, it was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
There may be no better way to describe my experience as one of a team of 15 from Milton Seventh Day Baptist Church that traveled to suburban New Orleans as part of a disaster relief effort doing cleanup from Hurricane Katrina.
The week we spent in Chalmette, Louisiana was truly dichotomous in terms of the highs and lows we felt, the good and bad we saw. It was people who lost everything; it was people who gained perspective by helping. It was hard physical labor; it was less stress than a typical workweek. It was government in action; it was government inaction. It was intense happiness from bonding within the team; it was intense sadness and empathy for the residents. It was horrible devastation; it was hope for the future.
Eight months after Katrina struck, the New Orleans area is still a mess. It looks more like war-torn Baghdad than America. Entire residential neighborhoods sit abandoned, save for some trailers provided by FEMA that serve as temporary residences. Katrina didn’t discriminate; the smallest homes and the ritziest all bore the spray-painted marks of inspection teams searching their devastated interiors for bodies. Most businesses in Chalmette were still closed as well. Only a handful had re-opened, the majority of those within the last month.
When we entered the city in our van, we must have looked comical to passersby as we first witnessed the devastation in person, eyes as wide as silver dollars and mouths agape. It was Election Day in New Orleans, which made for some strange juxtaposition. At intersections where the stoplights still were not functional, residents handed out campaign literature amidst an ocean of campaign signs as thick as the debris piles that lined the streets.
We had one day to get acclimated prior to beginning our work. We spent that day touring the city. As one member of our group astutely put it, the first day we were shocked by the devastation; the second day, we were shocked by its magnitude. We drove for miles and miles, and the sights never changed. The same abandoned homes, boarded up businesses, decimated lawns. Very little besides the French Quarter, with a jazz and blues festival in full swing, seemed truly alive and unscathed by Katrina’s wrath.
There are about 27,000 homes in St. Bernard Parish, the county in which Chalmette sits. Of that number, only three were habitable after Katrina. The parish was under water for two weeks, in some cases up to 28 feet. About 85% of these people did not have flood insurance -- most were told they didn’t need it -- and so their homes continue to sit waterlogged, moldy and caked with mud.
Our group spent the week working on some of these houses, turning their insides into skeletal shells. Basically, our job was to remove everything inside – furniture, possessions, appliances, carpeting, mud, etc. – and then remove the drywall and ceilings, exposing all of the studs so that they could be treated for mold.
The physical work was a big adjustment for a group not used to heat and humidity and whose regular employment is generally non-manual labor. It could also be very emotional, tossing someone’s personal possessions onto a debris pile in front of their house. My personal low point was throwing out a destroyed school assignment called “The Day My Puppy Died” written by a little boy.
The week was full of little moments, snapshots that will stay in our collective memories. The hole in the roof of the first house we gutted, where the resident and his son – trapped in the attic by the flood – had to break out to be rescued. The house ripped intact from its foundation and deposited in the street four blocks away. The strangers who stopped to thank us for coming to help. The people we met from the other groups at our camp, volunteers from all over the nation, all with a similar purpose. Cody, the little boy living in a trailer next door, who visited us during our breaks and became our buddy, helping us cool off with freezer pops. The chicken that kept us company in the yard of the second house we worked on. The dead alligator in the debris pile next door to our work site. The neighbor Buddy, a true character who quoted lines from the movie “Blazing Saddles” and was kind enough to let us use the shade of his carport and his functioning restroom. Benny, the 80-year-old who received $4,100 from the insurance company to cover $65,000 worth of losses, but found some comfort in discovering one of his school yearbooks undamaged. Tom, a 76-year-old on a salvaged bicycle, who found his current predicament preferable to being “naked and crying” at birth. The laughs we shared. The tears we shared. The sense of accomplishment we shared.
In the end, the experience was extremely fulfilling. We left knowing that we had helped people who desperately needed help. And a true bond formed among the fifteen of us. It was very special, even though it took place in some of the worst circumstances imaginable in this country.
The question now is: what do we do with this experience? Our group discussed finding ways to bring relief to those affected by local “hurricanes,” minor in scope to Katrina but just as devastating to the people involved. We have already begun to put that resolve into action.
But the idea needs to go far beyond our group or our church. Even though we look at it as “showing God’s love in a practical way,” it’s not just a Baptist thing or a Christian thing. It’s something we all need to embrace -- volunteering your time, talents and efforts to help those around us suffering from their own disasters.
It’s about taking the worst of times, and transforming them into the best of times, for the betterment of all of us.
With apologies to Charles Dickens, it was the best of times; it was the worst of times.
There may be no better way to describe my experience as one of a team of 15 from Milton Seventh Day Baptist Church that traveled to suburban New Orleans as part of a disaster relief effort doing cleanup from Hurricane Katrina.
The week we spent in Chalmette, Louisiana was truly dichotomous in terms of the highs and lows we felt, the good and bad we saw. It was people who lost everything; it was people who gained perspective by helping. It was hard physical labor; it was less stress than a typical workweek. It was government in action; it was government inaction. It was intense happiness from bonding within the team; it was intense sadness and empathy for the residents. It was horrible devastation; it was hope for the future.
Eight months after Katrina struck, the New Orleans area is still a mess. It looks more like war-torn Baghdad than America. Entire residential neighborhoods sit abandoned, save for some trailers provided by FEMA that serve as temporary residences. Katrina didn’t discriminate; the smallest homes and the ritziest all bore the spray-painted marks of inspection teams searching their devastated interiors for bodies. Most businesses in Chalmette were still closed as well. Only a handful had re-opened, the majority of those within the last month.
When we entered the city in our van, we must have looked comical to passersby as we first witnessed the devastation in person, eyes as wide as silver dollars and mouths agape. It was Election Day in New Orleans, which made for some strange juxtaposition. At intersections where the stoplights still were not functional, residents handed out campaign literature amidst an ocean of campaign signs as thick as the debris piles that lined the streets.
We had one day to get acclimated prior to beginning our work. We spent that day touring the city. As one member of our group astutely put it, the first day we were shocked by the devastation; the second day, we were shocked by its magnitude. We drove for miles and miles, and the sights never changed. The same abandoned homes, boarded up businesses, decimated lawns. Very little besides the French Quarter, with a jazz and blues festival in full swing, seemed truly alive and unscathed by Katrina’s wrath.
There are about 27,000 homes in St. Bernard Parish, the county in which Chalmette sits. Of that number, only three were habitable after Katrina. The parish was under water for two weeks, in some cases up to 28 feet. About 85% of these people did not have flood insurance -- most were told they didn’t need it -- and so their homes continue to sit waterlogged, moldy and caked with mud.
Our group spent the week working on some of these houses, turning their insides into skeletal shells. Basically, our job was to remove everything inside – furniture, possessions, appliances, carpeting, mud, etc. – and then remove the drywall and ceilings, exposing all of the studs so that they could be treated for mold.
The physical work was a big adjustment for a group not used to heat and humidity and whose regular employment is generally non-manual labor. It could also be very emotional, tossing someone’s personal possessions onto a debris pile in front of their house. My personal low point was throwing out a destroyed school assignment called “The Day My Puppy Died” written by a little boy.
The week was full of little moments, snapshots that will stay in our collective memories. The hole in the roof of the first house we gutted, where the resident and his son – trapped in the attic by the flood – had to break out to be rescued. The house ripped intact from its foundation and deposited in the street four blocks away. The strangers who stopped to thank us for coming to help. The people we met from the other groups at our camp, volunteers from all over the nation, all with a similar purpose. Cody, the little boy living in a trailer next door, who visited us during our breaks and became our buddy, helping us cool off with freezer pops. The chicken that kept us company in the yard of the second house we worked on. The dead alligator in the debris pile next door to our work site. The neighbor Buddy, a true character who quoted lines from the movie “Blazing Saddles” and was kind enough to let us use the shade of his carport and his functioning restroom. Benny, the 80-year-old who received $4,100 from the insurance company to cover $65,000 worth of losses, but found some comfort in discovering one of his school yearbooks undamaged. Tom, a 76-year-old on a salvaged bicycle, who found his current predicament preferable to being “naked and crying” at birth. The laughs we shared. The tears we shared. The sense of accomplishment we shared.
In the end, the experience was extremely fulfilling. We left knowing that we had helped people who desperately needed help. And a true bond formed among the fifteen of us. It was very special, even though it took place in some of the worst circumstances imaginable in this country.
The question now is: what do we do with this experience? Our group discussed finding ways to bring relief to those affected by local “hurricanes,” minor in scope to Katrina but just as devastating to the people involved. We have already begun to put that resolve into action.
But the idea needs to go far beyond our group or our church. Even though we look at it as “showing God’s love in a practical way,” it’s not just a Baptist thing or a Christian thing. It’s something we all need to embrace -- volunteering your time, talents and efforts to help those around us suffering from their own disasters.
It’s about taking the worst of times, and transforming them into the best of times, for the betterment of all of us.
Contrasts: Milton By Day, Chicago By Night
(On June 12, 1999, I was part of the crowd as Schilberg Park in Milton was dedicated. Later that night, I was in Chicago at a jazz bar. This unpublished piece was simply my reflections on that day.)
Life is full of contrasts. America, especially, can be a study of contrasts. Some are more obvious than others, especially when witnessed within a 24-hour span.
At 2 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, residents of Milton gather at the site of the city’s newest park. Schilberg Park, named after the philanthropists that contributed the lion’s share of the money to make it happen, is being dedicated and presented to the people in a ceremony in which the entire community was invited, and most of them accept.
It is a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. The high school band plays. The mayor speaks. The superintendent of schools speaks. Important guests speak. All praise the efforts of the Schilbergs and the other groups and individuals that stepped forward to make the park, 40 acres of lush wonder, come to life.
Wally Schilberg, the 60-year-old man who was the main force behind the project, steps to the mike. The man has put more than money into this park. He is out there every day, mowing, trimming, and fussing about every detail. Many, many people, touched by his spirit and generosity, came forward to help the park become a reality. At this moment, his shining moment in front of his grateful neighbors, he is nearly too choked up to speak.
Helium balloons of black, white and red are distributed to the crowd. When the official ribbon is cut, opening the park, everyone releases their balloons, sending an impressive mass of color into the atmosphere.
After the ribbon cutting, all in attendance are treated to soda or Budweiser, courtesy of the Future Farmers of America Alumni, as well as a free concert in the new pavilion by a country-and-western band.
The entire ceremony is a community love fest. Anyone who is there has to think that this, truly, is America. The feeling must be doubly so for those that had earlier in the day experienced the camaraderie and fellowship of the county dairy breakfast. These slices of Americana seem far, far removed from the reality of school shootings, gangs, and wretched excess. On Saturday, June 12, 1999, that outside world does not exist in Milton, Wisconsin.
Several hours later, you find yourself in a much different part of America, transported from the heart of a farm community of 5,000 to the heart of the nation’s third-largest city. The green grass is replaced by 40-story apartment buildings, graffiti-tagged walls, and a seemingly endless string of restaurants, bars and shops. The construction you see is not of parks, but of a new Nordstrom’s that will take up an entire city block. You weave through clogged traffic and jaywalkers amidst the frequent honking of horns. You’re amazed at the crowds of pedestrians, seemingly more on one city block than in the entire town you just left.
It’s $15 to park, and $10 just to get into the downtown jazz bar of your choice. You grab two seats at the bar as you watch the club fill with a combination of aging hipsters, fashionable yuppies, overdressed men, and underdressed women. Unlike your afternoon activity, the crowd is a mixture of races and attitudes. The dimly lit milieu includes clinking glasses, smoky conversation, and expensive, but top-quality, beer.
The combo consists of three older black men and a young white cat in suit-and-tie who is moonlighting from the Chicago Symphony.
The leader of the group is the saxophonist, whom you peg as about 60 years old, but whose appearance might be aged by the life of a jazz musician. You wonder how many thousands of gigs the man has played. Yet he is doing anything but going through the motions. He fills the joint with contagious enthusiasm, when he’s not filling the air with the marvelous sounds of his horn. The sax seems like an extension of his own voice, his playing as natural and effortless as speaking. Both his bandmates and his audience respond to him with appreciative smiles.
The dark beers and the events of the day start to sap your energy, so you decide to leave after the second set. When you re-enter the outside world, you discover a city that has not yet wound down with you. At 1:30 a.m., the streets of Chicago are still alive with pedestrians. Laughter, horns and sirens are everywhere. The traffic is still thick, the driving still a video game. As you head north along the lake shore, you notice more than a few bicyclists still on the bike path, and young people still walk the beach. You think about Milton, where a 1:30 a.m. pedestrian would probably be stopped by a cop, if for no other reason than to see if he was all right.
When you leave Chicago the next morning, you observe that the traffic seemed heavier at 1:30 a.m. than it does now at 9:30 a.m. Chicago and Milton are in the same time zone, but the schedules are radically different.
You take the train back toward the community you left behind the previous day. The end of the line is Harvard, a Milton-sized city near the Illinois-Wisconsin border. As you make your way through the town, it suddenly dawns on you. Harvard is the missing link. Both geographically and characteristically, Harvard is the middle ground between Milton and Chicago.
When you enter Harvard, it looks a lot like Milton. You’re greeted by a water tower proclaiming Harvard as the “Home of Milk Day.” Main Street USA is graced by a giant statue of a cow, a cow that stirred up a great deal of debate a few years ago when the city moved it from the middle of Main Street to the sidewalk. Main Street has its typical display of stores and bars. But then you notice some of the storefronts. Mexican restaurants and grocery stores. Other signs written in Spanish. A Hispanic family passes you on the street. There are several children in the group, and a clown, and an irritated-looking grandmother scolding the “niños” in Spanish. In fact, at the train station, the passengers are a fairly equal mix of whites and Hispanics. This is not a lily-white farm community, after all. It appears to be a diverse little town that from all indications is comfortable with its diversity.
You notice other differences. You pass the giant Motorola plant on the north end of town. It sticks out like a sore thumb; a suburban Chicago industrial park building literally sandwiched between two family farms. Progress may have begun, but it has not yet infringed on the industry that founded the town. On the south side of town, there’s a Wal-Mart, seemingly an oddity in a city this size. But it’s somehow indicative of approaching change, the beginning of this dairy community metamorphosing into something much different.
You think it’s appropriate that Harvard sits squarely between the two communities you were in the previous day. It’s literally a combination of the two, a link in the chain of transition between idealistic rural community and modern, fashionable, diverse big city. And you think again about the contrasts. Will Milton start to diversify like Harvard? Will Harvard grow like Chicago? Will Chicago discover the communal spirit of Milton?
When live jazz comes to Milton, you’ll explore these questions again.
Life is full of contrasts. America, especially, can be a study of contrasts. Some are more obvious than others, especially when witnessed within a 24-hour span.
At 2 o’clock on a Saturday afternoon, residents of Milton gather at the site of the city’s newest park. Schilberg Park, named after the philanthropists that contributed the lion’s share of the money to make it happen, is being dedicated and presented to the people in a ceremony in which the entire community was invited, and most of them accept.
It is a Norman Rockwell painting come to life. The high school band plays. The mayor speaks. The superintendent of schools speaks. Important guests speak. All praise the efforts of the Schilbergs and the other groups and individuals that stepped forward to make the park, 40 acres of lush wonder, come to life.
Wally Schilberg, the 60-year-old man who was the main force behind the project, steps to the mike. The man has put more than money into this park. He is out there every day, mowing, trimming, and fussing about every detail. Many, many people, touched by his spirit and generosity, came forward to help the park become a reality. At this moment, his shining moment in front of his grateful neighbors, he is nearly too choked up to speak.
Helium balloons of black, white and red are distributed to the crowd. When the official ribbon is cut, opening the park, everyone releases their balloons, sending an impressive mass of color into the atmosphere.
After the ribbon cutting, all in attendance are treated to soda or Budweiser, courtesy of the Future Farmers of America Alumni, as well as a free concert in the new pavilion by a country-and-western band.
The entire ceremony is a community love fest. Anyone who is there has to think that this, truly, is America. The feeling must be doubly so for those that had earlier in the day experienced the camaraderie and fellowship of the county dairy breakfast. These slices of Americana seem far, far removed from the reality of school shootings, gangs, and wretched excess. On Saturday, June 12, 1999, that outside world does not exist in Milton, Wisconsin.
Several hours later, you find yourself in a much different part of America, transported from the heart of a farm community of 5,000 to the heart of the nation’s third-largest city. The green grass is replaced by 40-story apartment buildings, graffiti-tagged walls, and a seemingly endless string of restaurants, bars and shops. The construction you see is not of parks, but of a new Nordstrom’s that will take up an entire city block. You weave through clogged traffic and jaywalkers amidst the frequent honking of horns. You’re amazed at the crowds of pedestrians, seemingly more on one city block than in the entire town you just left.
It’s $15 to park, and $10 just to get into the downtown jazz bar of your choice. You grab two seats at the bar as you watch the club fill with a combination of aging hipsters, fashionable yuppies, overdressed men, and underdressed women. Unlike your afternoon activity, the crowd is a mixture of races and attitudes. The dimly lit milieu includes clinking glasses, smoky conversation, and expensive, but top-quality, beer.
The combo consists of three older black men and a young white cat in suit-and-tie who is moonlighting from the Chicago Symphony.
The leader of the group is the saxophonist, whom you peg as about 60 years old, but whose appearance might be aged by the life of a jazz musician. You wonder how many thousands of gigs the man has played. Yet he is doing anything but going through the motions. He fills the joint with contagious enthusiasm, when he’s not filling the air with the marvelous sounds of his horn. The sax seems like an extension of his own voice, his playing as natural and effortless as speaking. Both his bandmates and his audience respond to him with appreciative smiles.
The dark beers and the events of the day start to sap your energy, so you decide to leave after the second set. When you re-enter the outside world, you discover a city that has not yet wound down with you. At 1:30 a.m., the streets of Chicago are still alive with pedestrians. Laughter, horns and sirens are everywhere. The traffic is still thick, the driving still a video game. As you head north along the lake shore, you notice more than a few bicyclists still on the bike path, and young people still walk the beach. You think about Milton, where a 1:30 a.m. pedestrian would probably be stopped by a cop, if for no other reason than to see if he was all right.
When you leave Chicago the next morning, you observe that the traffic seemed heavier at 1:30 a.m. than it does now at 9:30 a.m. Chicago and Milton are in the same time zone, but the schedules are radically different.
You take the train back toward the community you left behind the previous day. The end of the line is Harvard, a Milton-sized city near the Illinois-Wisconsin border. As you make your way through the town, it suddenly dawns on you. Harvard is the missing link. Both geographically and characteristically, Harvard is the middle ground between Milton and Chicago.
When you enter Harvard, it looks a lot like Milton. You’re greeted by a water tower proclaiming Harvard as the “Home of Milk Day.” Main Street USA is graced by a giant statue of a cow, a cow that stirred up a great deal of debate a few years ago when the city moved it from the middle of Main Street to the sidewalk. Main Street has its typical display of stores and bars. But then you notice some of the storefronts. Mexican restaurants and grocery stores. Other signs written in Spanish. A Hispanic family passes you on the street. There are several children in the group, and a clown, and an irritated-looking grandmother scolding the “niños” in Spanish. In fact, at the train station, the passengers are a fairly equal mix of whites and Hispanics. This is not a lily-white farm community, after all. It appears to be a diverse little town that from all indications is comfortable with its diversity.
You notice other differences. You pass the giant Motorola plant on the north end of town. It sticks out like a sore thumb; a suburban Chicago industrial park building literally sandwiched between two family farms. Progress may have begun, but it has not yet infringed on the industry that founded the town. On the south side of town, there’s a Wal-Mart, seemingly an oddity in a city this size. But it’s somehow indicative of approaching change, the beginning of this dairy community metamorphosing into something much different.
You think it’s appropriate that Harvard sits squarely between the two communities you were in the previous day. It’s literally a combination of the two, a link in the chain of transition between idealistic rural community and modern, fashionable, diverse big city. And you think again about the contrasts. Will Milton start to diversify like Harvard? Will Harvard grow like Chicago? Will Chicago discover the communal spirit of Milton?
When live jazz comes to Milton, you’ll explore these questions again.
Having A Bang On The Fourth
(This piece of fluff from July 2002 is my lone contribution to Renaissance Magazine. After you read it, you'll see why.)
Regardless of what the calendar or the solstices dictate, I believe the summer is defined by a pair of holidays. I consider Memorial Day to be the true beginning of summer, and Labor Day the end.
And of course, Independence Day, the Fourth of July, qualifies as our mid-summer night’s dream.
The Fourth is a fun holiday with a serious purpose behind it. It bears a lot of similarities to Memorial Day and Veterans Day, but while those holidays can be somber in its remembrance of those who fought for our freedom, the Fourth is a good ol’ celebration with softball tournaments, parades, cookouts, beer gardens, and of course…fireworks.
Living in Milton, we have the luxury of having a parade, the only one in the area. Of course, attendance for this event is huge, so you have to go claim your seat early in the morning by placing blankets at your designated location. By 9 a.m., Madison Avenue looks like the aftermath of a slumber party. After all, you have to have a good curbside seat so your children can dart into the street, dodging Shriner cars and horse manure, to snap up every last Tootsie Roll that was thrown from a float.
Because of its status as the only area parade, every politician for miles around is present. They’re all there: federal, state, local, incumbents, challengers…everyone from senators to coroners. Sometimes it feels like you’re watching television and the only channels you can receive are C-SPAN, PBS and JATV-12.
Independence Day is one of the last holdout holidays to remain on its appointed calendar day rather than being moved to Monday. Which is as it should be…I mean how could the “Fourth of July” be celebrated on any other day? (Side note: do you remember in the 1970’s when Veterans Day was briefly moved from November 11 to the last Monday in October? Watergate aside, Nixon should have been impeached just for that.) Having the holiday mid-week seems to throw people off because it breaks the work week into small pieces. Because the Fourth falls on a Thursday this year, we get to experience the phenomenon known as the Orphaned Work Day.
For office workers, the Orphaned Work Day (an annual occurrence on the day after Thanksgiving) can be a good day to do paperwork. That is, crumpling up paper and shooting baskets into the trashcan. Larry Bird, a 25-footer at the buzzer…GOOD! July 5, 2002 has the potential to be that kind of day. It may win the “Least Productive Day of the Year” award with its high number of employees on vacation, taking a sick day, or just wasting time in the office.
When the Fourth falls within the week, it can change your way of celebrating the holiday. If your way includes sitting in the beer garden before, during and after the fireworks, it doesn’t exactly lead to a productive work day. After all, he who goes forth with a fifth on the Fourth shall not go forth on the fifth.
Men and women enjoy the fireworks in different ways. Women like to watch them from at least 100 feet away. Men like to light them and run. Sure, watching the big display at the local park is fun, but that’s nothing compared to orchestrating your own backyard extravaganza.
Now before I go on, let me state that I do not in any way advocate the purchase, possession, or detonation of illegal fireworks. I wouldn’t dream of entering a convenience store in South Dakota and walking out with enough Black Cat firecrackers to knock out the foundation of my house. I mean, that would be wrong.
But let’s face it, there’s something in the male DNA makeup that instinctually drives us to light a fuse and watch something go ‘BOOM.’ When mailboxes started blowing up in the Midwest in May, did anyone doubt that the perpetrator was a guy? Thankfully, most of us keep our explosive tendencies in check -- within reason. As a guy, I have to admit that there’s a certain allure to the fact that firecrackers, skyrockets and the other really cool fireworks are illegal. What kind of challenge is better than this? We have the potential for hurting ourselves, burning down the neighborhood, and/or getting caught by the cops--a perfect trifecta of danger!
I haven’t looked this up, but I would guess that 99.5% of the people who hurt themselves playing with fireworks are male gender-oriented. I base this guess on the fact that almost everyone who wins a Darwin Award (for killing or injuring himself in an incredibly stupid way) is a guy.
The big debate is whether this means women are smart, or just have no taste for adventure. I submit as evidence the fact that women still outlive men in this country by about seven years. And I also submit evidence from the leading authority on goofball men, my wife Linda, who claims that just watching us act foolish is amusement enough for most women. Verdict: smart.
So this Fourth, as you enjoy the fireworks displays that get bigger and brighter every year, look around at all the men in the crowd and imagine what we’re all thinking.
Boy, I wish I was lighting those off.
Regardless of what the calendar or the solstices dictate, I believe the summer is defined by a pair of holidays. I consider Memorial Day to be the true beginning of summer, and Labor Day the end.
And of course, Independence Day, the Fourth of July, qualifies as our mid-summer night’s dream.
The Fourth is a fun holiday with a serious purpose behind it. It bears a lot of similarities to Memorial Day and Veterans Day, but while those holidays can be somber in its remembrance of those who fought for our freedom, the Fourth is a good ol’ celebration with softball tournaments, parades, cookouts, beer gardens, and of course…fireworks.
Living in Milton, we have the luxury of having a parade, the only one in the area. Of course, attendance for this event is huge, so you have to go claim your seat early in the morning by placing blankets at your designated location. By 9 a.m., Madison Avenue looks like the aftermath of a slumber party. After all, you have to have a good curbside seat so your children can dart into the street, dodging Shriner cars and horse manure, to snap up every last Tootsie Roll that was thrown from a float.
Because of its status as the only area parade, every politician for miles around is present. They’re all there: federal, state, local, incumbents, challengers…everyone from senators to coroners. Sometimes it feels like you’re watching television and the only channels you can receive are C-SPAN, PBS and JATV-12.
Independence Day is one of the last holdout holidays to remain on its appointed calendar day rather than being moved to Monday. Which is as it should be…I mean how could the “Fourth of July” be celebrated on any other day? (Side note: do you remember in the 1970’s when Veterans Day was briefly moved from November 11 to the last Monday in October? Watergate aside, Nixon should have been impeached just for that.) Having the holiday mid-week seems to throw people off because it breaks the work week into small pieces. Because the Fourth falls on a Thursday this year, we get to experience the phenomenon known as the Orphaned Work Day.
For office workers, the Orphaned Work Day (an annual occurrence on the day after Thanksgiving) can be a good day to do paperwork. That is, crumpling up paper and shooting baskets into the trashcan. Larry Bird, a 25-footer at the buzzer…GOOD! July 5, 2002 has the potential to be that kind of day. It may win the “Least Productive Day of the Year” award with its high number of employees on vacation, taking a sick day, or just wasting time in the office.
When the Fourth falls within the week, it can change your way of celebrating the holiday. If your way includes sitting in the beer garden before, during and after the fireworks, it doesn’t exactly lead to a productive work day. After all, he who goes forth with a fifth on the Fourth shall not go forth on the fifth.
Men and women enjoy the fireworks in different ways. Women like to watch them from at least 100 feet away. Men like to light them and run. Sure, watching the big display at the local park is fun, but that’s nothing compared to orchestrating your own backyard extravaganza.
Now before I go on, let me state that I do not in any way advocate the purchase, possession, or detonation of illegal fireworks. I wouldn’t dream of entering a convenience store in South Dakota and walking out with enough Black Cat firecrackers to knock out the foundation of my house. I mean, that would be wrong.
But let’s face it, there’s something in the male DNA makeup that instinctually drives us to light a fuse and watch something go ‘BOOM.’ When mailboxes started blowing up in the Midwest in May, did anyone doubt that the perpetrator was a guy? Thankfully, most of us keep our explosive tendencies in check -- within reason. As a guy, I have to admit that there’s a certain allure to the fact that firecrackers, skyrockets and the other really cool fireworks are illegal. What kind of challenge is better than this? We have the potential for hurting ourselves, burning down the neighborhood, and/or getting caught by the cops--a perfect trifecta of danger!
I haven’t looked this up, but I would guess that 99.5% of the people who hurt themselves playing with fireworks are male gender-oriented. I base this guess on the fact that almost everyone who wins a Darwin Award (for killing or injuring himself in an incredibly stupid way) is a guy.
The big debate is whether this means women are smart, or just have no taste for adventure. I submit as evidence the fact that women still outlive men in this country by about seven years. And I also submit evidence from the leading authority on goofball men, my wife Linda, who claims that just watching us act foolish is amusement enough for most women. Verdict: smart.
So this Fourth, as you enjoy the fireworks displays that get bigger and brighter every year, look around at all the men in the crowd and imagine what we’re all thinking.
Boy, I wish I was lighting those off.
The Great 1955 Busti vs. Albion Baseball Game
(This little piece of fiction was written for use by the Deke Rivers Trio, an excellent band that you need to hear. The Trio hails from Busti, IA.)
Folks around Busti (at least those old enough to remember) still talk about the great baseball game in 1955 between our old Busti Beer Busters and the Albion Tigers from our former sister city in Wisconsin.
Yes, at one time Busti had a sister city. Our relationship with Albion came about when Emil Sigglekow’s twin boys - you remember Emil, the checkers champ – married a set of twin girls from Albion that they met at a church group retreat over by Prairie du Chien.
Emil Jr. hooked up with Betsy Anderson, and Ewald with Betsy’s sister Betty. They had a whirlwind romance, all four of them, and couldn’t wait to get hitched. Turned out Betsy and Betty’s pa was literally a Father, the pastor at the Albion Norwegian Lutheran Church, and he was more than happy to join them together in Holy matrimony.
Problem was, they couldn’t figure out where to live. The girls both wanted to live in Albion, where Pastor Anderson offered the boys work tending his tobacco fields. But the boys wanted to come home and help Emil with his feed store, since his arthritis was starting to get the best of him.
They compromised. Emil Jr. and Betsy went back to Busti, and Ewald and Betty went to Albion. Well, you can guess what happened next. Ewald missed his twin and got homesick; same for Betsy. So what to do?
Well, Albion is smaller than Busti, and they were already hopping mad about losing one of their own to a city slicker. They would be damned - pardon my language, ladies – if they would lose another.
And back in Busti, well, folks was worried about the future of the feed store. Emil could barely carry a sack of feed out to your pickup anymore, and if Emil Jr. left, they were worried that the store would go too.
So the townsfolk took matters into their own hands. Albion was real proud of their baseball team, the Tigers. They had won the Home Talent League title three years in a row and they figured their big strappin’ hay-tossin’ dairy farm boys could whup our grain belt boys any day of the week. So they challenged Busti to a winner-take-all game. The winners got to take the twin couples back with them.
Well, our Busti Beer Busters were nothing to sneeze at, neither, so we accepted their challenge. The problem was, where to play the game, since neither team wanted to give up their home field advantage. Well, since Prairie du Chien had sentimental value for the couples, and it was about equal distance from both Busti and Albion, the game was set there.
So on that fateful Saturday in August, both teams – and a whole lot of townsfolk – jumped into buses, autos and trucks and made the three-hour drive to Prairie du Chien.
Problem is, nobody from either town bothered to check and see if the baseball diamond was open. When we all arrived at the Prairie du Chien town park, it was being used by one of those traveling carnivals. The big top tent with all the elephants and whatnot was right on top of the ball diamond. So immediately everyone from both sides began to blame the other for not making sure we had a place to play.
Finally, Emil’s cousin Fred found a schoolyard with a diamond a couple of blocks away so we all piled back in our vehicles and headed down there for the game. It wasn’t ideal, being that there weren’t any bleachers and that the diamond was grammar school size, but we made it work.
Since we were at a neutral park, we did the tossing of the bat to determine who would be the home team, and Albion won. So the Busters went to the plate first, which turned out to be a good thing. Our first batter, Andy Fell, smacked a line drive straight back up the middle, and the Albion pitcher – throwing from the close-in schoolyard mound – was a sitting duck. The ball smacked him a few inches below his belly button, if you know what I mean. I swear, he sounded like a cat howling. Needless to say, he had to leave the game and from that point on, the pitcher threw from second base.
After that incident, Albion was a little spooked and our Busters scored three times, thanks to a long blast by Randy Bugger. Our pitcher, Hank Kercheff, was throwing smoke the first few innings, but after Albion settled down, they tied the score at three in the fifth.
It was tough for the Sigglekow boys and their brides because they were trying not to cheer for anybody, but it was obvious that they favored the Busters and their brides were partial to their hometown Tigers. At least once during the game, each boy could be seen scolding his wife for being too vocal whenever Albion made a good play.
The Busters came through again with a couple of runs in the seventh, thanks to a long home run by Everett Jackson. It preceded a badly-needed seventh-inning stretch, since it was mighty uncomfortable sitting on the ground that long, but the cases of Busti Beer we brought eased the pain some.
Unfortunately, Albion tied the game 5-5 in the bottom of the ninth, so the game went to extra innings. By this time, the boys on both sides were getting mighty tired so the game dragged on with no more scoring through the 12th, 13th and 14th innings. The beer ran out about the 11th inning, so Nick Kercheff ran over to the liquor store to get some more, only to find out they couldn’t get Busti in Prairie du Chien. So instead he came back with a few cases of Chief Oshkosh, and those disappeared pretty fast.
By the time the 15th inning rolled around, the sun was going down, the players were tired, and the fans were blasted. The players wanted to call it a draw, but the question of where the Sigglekow twins would live wasn’t settled yet. By this time the twins and their brides had had a few, too, and I think it was Betsy who shocked everyone by speaking up. “This ain’t none of your affair, anyhow,” she shouted to the rest of them. “It should be up to me and Emil Jr. here where we live.”
“I’m Ewald,” her husband corrected her.
“No, you’re not, you’re Emil Jr., and I’m Betsy.”
The one who claimed to be Ewald got a funny look on his face. “Oops,” was all he said. Betsy looked over at the other boy, who was avoiding eye contact.
“Who are you?” Betty yelled at the other boy. Still not looking up, he said, “I’m Emil Jr.”
“Then why are you sitting next to me, acting like my husband?” Betty demanded.
Emil Jr. wouldn’t answer. So Ewald did. “Remember when we was visiting a couple of weeks ago? Well, I was homesick so I traded places with Emil Jr. and went back to Busti with you, Betsy. We didn’t think you’d notice.”
The crowd around reacted with a huge collective gasp, that I swear could have been heard all the way back in Busti. Everyone started chattering and acting outraged – especially Pastor Anderson who was chattering about adultery and Hell – but the twin girls didn’t say a word; they looked at each other all sheepish-like.
Finally, one of the girls spoke up. “It’s all right, everyone. I was homesick, too, so me and Betty did the same thing.”
Again, the crowd roared, but Pastor Anderson looked downright relieved. “Praise the Lord! By his Divine intervention, no commandment was broken!”
I couldn’t quite tell by the look in their eyes, but it seemed like both sets of twins were more disappointed than ashamed.
At that point, no one cared about the ball game anymore, so we finished up the Chief Oshkosh – which tasted like pig wee, if you ask me – and we all drove home. Except for the two sets of twins, who decided to stay behind at the 40 Winks Motel in Prairie du Chien.
The next day Ewald and Betty (I think) came back to Busti and said that the twins had figured out what to do. Each couple would spend six months a year in Busti and six months a year in Albion. They would trade houses at Christmastime, and then again in summer. And it worked out real fine until Emil Sr. passed on, and Ewald convinced Betty to come stay in Busti permanently so he could help his brother run the store. And it was at that point that Albion rescinded the agreement to be our “sister” city.
We always wanted to finish that baseball game with Albion, but no one ever got the stomach to schedule a day to get it done. Maybe it was the bad memory of that Chief Oshkosh beer.
Folks around Busti (at least those old enough to remember) still talk about the great baseball game in 1955 between our old Busti Beer Busters and the Albion Tigers from our former sister city in Wisconsin.
Yes, at one time Busti had a sister city. Our relationship with Albion came about when Emil Sigglekow’s twin boys - you remember Emil, the checkers champ – married a set of twin girls from Albion that they met at a church group retreat over by Prairie du Chien.
Emil Jr. hooked up with Betsy Anderson, and Ewald with Betsy’s sister Betty. They had a whirlwind romance, all four of them, and couldn’t wait to get hitched. Turned out Betsy and Betty’s pa was literally a Father, the pastor at the Albion Norwegian Lutheran Church, and he was more than happy to join them together in Holy matrimony.
Problem was, they couldn’t figure out where to live. The girls both wanted to live in Albion, where Pastor Anderson offered the boys work tending his tobacco fields. But the boys wanted to come home and help Emil with his feed store, since his arthritis was starting to get the best of him.
They compromised. Emil Jr. and Betsy went back to Busti, and Ewald and Betty went to Albion. Well, you can guess what happened next. Ewald missed his twin and got homesick; same for Betsy. So what to do?
Well, Albion is smaller than Busti, and they were already hopping mad about losing one of their own to a city slicker. They would be damned - pardon my language, ladies – if they would lose another.
And back in Busti, well, folks was worried about the future of the feed store. Emil could barely carry a sack of feed out to your pickup anymore, and if Emil Jr. left, they were worried that the store would go too.
So the townsfolk took matters into their own hands. Albion was real proud of their baseball team, the Tigers. They had won the Home Talent League title three years in a row and they figured their big strappin’ hay-tossin’ dairy farm boys could whup our grain belt boys any day of the week. So they challenged Busti to a winner-take-all game. The winners got to take the twin couples back with them.
Well, our Busti Beer Busters were nothing to sneeze at, neither, so we accepted their challenge. The problem was, where to play the game, since neither team wanted to give up their home field advantage. Well, since Prairie du Chien had sentimental value for the couples, and it was about equal distance from both Busti and Albion, the game was set there.
So on that fateful Saturday in August, both teams – and a whole lot of townsfolk – jumped into buses, autos and trucks and made the three-hour drive to Prairie du Chien.
Problem is, nobody from either town bothered to check and see if the baseball diamond was open. When we all arrived at the Prairie du Chien town park, it was being used by one of those traveling carnivals. The big top tent with all the elephants and whatnot was right on top of the ball diamond. So immediately everyone from both sides began to blame the other for not making sure we had a place to play.
Finally, Emil’s cousin Fred found a schoolyard with a diamond a couple of blocks away so we all piled back in our vehicles and headed down there for the game. It wasn’t ideal, being that there weren’t any bleachers and that the diamond was grammar school size, but we made it work.
Since we were at a neutral park, we did the tossing of the bat to determine who would be the home team, and Albion won. So the Busters went to the plate first, which turned out to be a good thing. Our first batter, Andy Fell, smacked a line drive straight back up the middle, and the Albion pitcher – throwing from the close-in schoolyard mound – was a sitting duck. The ball smacked him a few inches below his belly button, if you know what I mean. I swear, he sounded like a cat howling. Needless to say, he had to leave the game and from that point on, the pitcher threw from second base.
After that incident, Albion was a little spooked and our Busters scored three times, thanks to a long blast by Randy Bugger. Our pitcher, Hank Kercheff, was throwing smoke the first few innings, but after Albion settled down, they tied the score at three in the fifth.
It was tough for the Sigglekow boys and their brides because they were trying not to cheer for anybody, but it was obvious that they favored the Busters and their brides were partial to their hometown Tigers. At least once during the game, each boy could be seen scolding his wife for being too vocal whenever Albion made a good play.
The Busters came through again with a couple of runs in the seventh, thanks to a long home run by Everett Jackson. It preceded a badly-needed seventh-inning stretch, since it was mighty uncomfortable sitting on the ground that long, but the cases of Busti Beer we brought eased the pain some.
Unfortunately, Albion tied the game 5-5 in the bottom of the ninth, so the game went to extra innings. By this time, the boys on both sides were getting mighty tired so the game dragged on with no more scoring through the 12th, 13th and 14th innings. The beer ran out about the 11th inning, so Nick Kercheff ran over to the liquor store to get some more, only to find out they couldn’t get Busti in Prairie du Chien. So instead he came back with a few cases of Chief Oshkosh, and those disappeared pretty fast.
By the time the 15th inning rolled around, the sun was going down, the players were tired, and the fans were blasted. The players wanted to call it a draw, but the question of where the Sigglekow twins would live wasn’t settled yet. By this time the twins and their brides had had a few, too, and I think it was Betsy who shocked everyone by speaking up. “This ain’t none of your affair, anyhow,” she shouted to the rest of them. “It should be up to me and Emil Jr. here where we live.”
“I’m Ewald,” her husband corrected her.
“No, you’re not, you’re Emil Jr., and I’m Betsy.”
The one who claimed to be Ewald got a funny look on his face. “Oops,” was all he said. Betsy looked over at the other boy, who was avoiding eye contact.
“Who are you?” Betty yelled at the other boy. Still not looking up, he said, “I’m Emil Jr.”
“Then why are you sitting next to me, acting like my husband?” Betty demanded.
Emil Jr. wouldn’t answer. So Ewald did. “Remember when we was visiting a couple of weeks ago? Well, I was homesick so I traded places with Emil Jr. and went back to Busti with you, Betsy. We didn’t think you’d notice.”
The crowd around reacted with a huge collective gasp, that I swear could have been heard all the way back in Busti. Everyone started chattering and acting outraged – especially Pastor Anderson who was chattering about adultery and Hell – but the twin girls didn’t say a word; they looked at each other all sheepish-like.
Finally, one of the girls spoke up. “It’s all right, everyone. I was homesick, too, so me and Betty did the same thing.”
Again, the crowd roared, but Pastor Anderson looked downright relieved. “Praise the Lord! By his Divine intervention, no commandment was broken!”
I couldn’t quite tell by the look in their eyes, but it seemed like both sets of twins were more disappointed than ashamed.
At that point, no one cared about the ball game anymore, so we finished up the Chief Oshkosh – which tasted like pig wee, if you ask me – and we all drove home. Except for the two sets of twins, who decided to stay behind at the 40 Winks Motel in Prairie du Chien.
The next day Ewald and Betty (I think) came back to Busti and said that the twins had figured out what to do. Each couple would spend six months a year in Busti and six months a year in Albion. They would trade houses at Christmastime, and then again in summer. And it worked out real fine until Emil Sr. passed on, and Ewald convinced Betty to come stay in Busti permanently so he could help his brother run the store. And it was at that point that Albion rescinded the agreement to be our “sister” city.
We always wanted to finish that baseball game with Albion, but no one ever got the stomach to schedule a day to get it done. Maybe it was the bad memory of that Chief Oshkosh beer.
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