The Curmudgeonly Professor

The Nostalgia of Old Records, A Little Painful, A Lot of Memories

When we moved from Orem UT to SLC nine years ago, I asked my sister Ann if she would like my boxes of old records, and she said to bring them over.  Well.  Ann shows up on my doorstep in SLC with three boxes of my old records, never having found that she wanted to treausure them.  Dozens and dozens of them.

I checked one album of old 45s and my college days opened up before my eyes again as I remembered some of the following songs:

• The Phantom Stage Coach, Vaughn Monroe
• Long Ago (and Far Away), Freddy Martin
• Shanghai, Doris Day
• Early Autumn, Jo Stafford
• Jambalaya, Jo Stafford
• If You Are But a Dream, Delta Rhythm Boys
• The Nearest Thing to Heaven, Eddy Arnold
• Unforgettable, Nat King Cole
• I Don't Mind Being All Alone, Ames Brothers
• and here's a gem:  Too Old to Cut the Mustard, Rosemary Clooney and Marlene Dietrich
• I Won't Go Huntin' With you Jake (but I'll go Chasin' Wimmen), a song I taught to my little brother and which he still remembers all the words from it.

There are dozens more.  No wonder I can't stand anything that passes for music beginning with Elvis.  Funny how an old song conjures of memories, people, places, pain, happiness.  Songs and music are an important part of our heritage.  For each generation, the music legacy is different.  I am just too ancient to appreciate why young people like what is supposed to be music today.  I'll stick with Margaret Whiting, Jo Stafford, Nat King Cole.  I can relate to those lyrics and melodies, even though some may bring a tear or two.  I like these songs better than noise that passes for music.

Remembering Teddy

My first close memory of Ted Kennedy occurred when JFK came to Cheyenne Wyoming during the 1960 Presidential campaign and spoke at a rally in Pioneer Park.  Teddy, so it was reputed, was working the bars in the hotels downtown.  JFK gave an eloquent speech, and my colleague and I both asked each other afterward "What did he say?"  And our answer was, "He said he would get the country moving again."  "Did he say how he was going to do that?"  "No, but it sounded awfully good."  I was then director of the Wyoming Legislative Council, kept humble by dozens of Wyoming legislators who were both skeptical of me fulfilling my job tasks and actually doing research on controversial issues, and also alarmed with me because I had the gall to switch political parties.  Little did I know that day that I would end up in Washington, D.C. very soon working in the Treasury Department on tax policy revision and helping rewrite depreciation guidelines, a product that confused accountants and tax experts for years to come.

I was not in Washington for long, because I had to complete my Ph.D. dissertation by deadline or I would be required to retake my preliminary examinations, a fate worse than anything I could imagine.  But I was in D. C. long enough to experience the Kennedy aura, to watch Caroline ride her pony on the south lawn, and to attend hearings at the Capitol as one of many backup functionaries standing around while the heavy artillery boomed from both Congress and the Treasury.  I watched Teddy.  He and I are the same age, he born in February, I in September.  He died at 77 years of age, I will be 77 in another month, God willing.  Thus, it was only natural that I would empathize with his life, his career, and feel a distant though consuming interest in his life and accomplishments.

JFK was assassinated during the middle of my Ph.D. doctoral dissertation defense, an event that saved me from any serious examination since some of my committee had worked in the Kenendy Administration.  Bobby's death followed, and then Teddy was left to defend the family dynasty.  I always thought that if had not been for Chappaquiddick, Teddy might have been president.  He was one of the towering orators of his day, matching the eloquence of his brothers.  But the cloud of Chappaquiddick would never leave so Teddy settled into the routine trenches of hard work of hearings, constituents, legislation, and trying to make the country healthier, better educated, and to make life fairer and more abundant. I don't know that even the most empathetic person in existence could possibly have even come close to experiencing the heavy losses and burdens resting on Teddy's shoulders as the guardian of the Kennedy legacy and family. 

The enormous workload Kennedy carried for so many years, all of the hearings, all of the negotiations, all of the political debates, all of the intensities of politics, all contributed to his legacy as one of the great giants in the history of American government.  Most work in Washington is tedious, bone-dry, contentious, lonely, and often unrewarding when facing vitriolic attacks from well-heeled adversaries with enormous vested political and economic interests.  That Teddy was to survive this maelstrom of political give-and-take for so many decades surely warrants admiration, even from his political enemies.  Most senators give up and quit after two or three terms, not willing to take the heat any longer, to endure the endless hours of hearings and paperwork, and anxious to return to a more normal life.  Teddy never gave up.  He never quit.  His love for the Senate, for his colleagues, for his country was unbounded.  He died leaving a huge void and an irreplaceable legacy.  Others gave up, exhausted and disillusioned.  Teddy just kept going to the end of his days.

I am only an observing citizen who has watched and marveled from afar the extraordinary life and accomplishments of this great man.  And I always remembered that we had one thing in common:  We were both born in 1932.  Though I never met him, I will miss his quirky smile, his booming voice, the Kennedy twang, and his dedication to those causes he felt were critical to the well-being of the Americans for whom he worked and sacrificed for so many decades.  RIP.

Memories of July 4ths Gone By

A few things I remember from July 4ths gone by:

• Blowing up ant hills with firecrackers and watching the angry big red ants scurry off.
• Blowing up tin cans on top of fence posts.
• Blowing up anything else that needed to be blown up.
• Spending $2 on enough firecrackers to blow up everything.
• Dropping the watermelon on the way to the car for a rare 4th of July outing with my family when I was about 12 years old.  That would be the only watermelon we would have that year.
• Taking food across the field to our grandparents' home and having picnics on the front lawn.
• Going up Dead Indian Hill above Cody WY on the way to Sunlight Basin for a picnic with two sets of uncles and aunts and cousins.
• Watching fireworks wherever we lived in Laramie WY, Fort Collins CO, and Orem UT.
• My granddaughters' epic Fourth of July song composed and sang loudly during our family reunion in Marble Falls TX.  "It's the Fourth of July, Firecrackers in the sky, etc."  Next year they tried to write a new one and gave up.  We later found the draft in our downstairs store room, crumpled up, with the words disgustedly written, "This song sucks."  They tried.

I couldn't find the photo of the bug funeral from the same family reunion years ago.  Editorial correction:  Actually, this is the funeral procession for the bug, and these are the mourners.

 

The Curmudgeonly Professor Remembers When He Forgot His Speech: February 8 2009

During high school in Powell, Wyoming, I loved entering public speaking contests. If you won the local high school (chapter) public speaking contest, you went to the district; if you won the district, you went to the state.  During my junior year, I was orating away, full of self confidence, enunciating in mellifluous and influential tones, and all of a sudden, I forgot my memorized talk.  Cold, stony, silence.  Stare at the audience.  Wetting my pants was not an option.  Stare some more.  Hope for deliverance.  And then, it came back.  I finished the speech and, notwithstanding a theatrical pause, won the contest.  I learned there is some merit in not giving up and just trying to keep going rather than walk off the stage before an eager audience of the entire high school student body, all excited at the forced opportunity of listening to an FFA public speaking contest.

Who Can Remember Dr. IQ, the Mental Banker?

You will be giving away your age if you remember the weekly radio broadcasts of "Dr. IQ, the Mental Banker."  We listened avidly every Monday night to every word of the broadcasts in which Dr. IQ identified, say, "a contestant in the lower balcony" and then posed a question.  If the contestant answered the question correctly, Dr. IQ intoned "a box of Mars Bars to the lady in the lower balcony," which we kids all envied because we couldn't afford candy bars during the Great Depression.  I can't remember what the contestant received if he or she lost.

The Curmudgeonly Professor Remembers When He Left Home for College

I remember when I left home for college at the University of Wyoming, 450 miles away just after I turned 17 with $75 total resources in my pocket. Our much loved little white house had no telephone, no running water, no inside plumbing or bathroom, and was heated by a coal stove and another cooking stove.  In winter we piled up the quilts in our unheated bedrooms.  Mother had no kitchen appliances or conveniences except a small refrigerator.  We bathed in a round tin tub. Since this was the way things were, we didn't think much about what life would be like if we had everything.  We loved the life we had.

The Curmudgeonly Professor Remembers When He Lit Up a Cigar: February 3 2009

I remember when I returned from the National FFA Convention in Kansas City when I was sixteen years old.  I was an "official delegate" to the convention, being the Wyoming State FFA president, the highest office I ever held in my life, then or since.  I had a cigar in my pocket, which I proceeded brazenly to light up in front of my parents. Ordinarily, this was a mortal sin, and I expected all hell to break loose.  Instead, both of my parents just watched for a couple of minutes until I choked, gasped, gagged, and tossed it on the ground.  No lecture was needed.  I clearly was an inexperienced cigar smoker and I never tried one again.

Remembering When I Used to Grade Thousands of Exams: February 2 2009

I dreamed last night that I gave an exam to about four or five hundred students, which included about half written answers, diagrams, equations, and other questions that had to be individually graded.  I was cursing myself for not giving totally computer-graded multiple choice exams.  And then I remembered all of my teaching assistants had gone home and I was going to have to do the entire job myself.  What a nightmare.  Then I woke up.

All of this trauma brought back memories of proctoring exams in rooms full of anxious, sometimes angry, students.  The tension was palpable, and you could discern nervous perspiration.  Skillful operators would always try to gouge out a free answer or two by asking "Do you mean this or that by this question?" or something similar, even though I always announced beforehand that I would not answer questions during the exam to give someone an unfair advantage.  No matter how hard I and my TAs watched, we knew there were always some ingenious cheaters getting away with one method or another of copying answers.  Occasionally a student would slam a test exam down and make him or herself feel better by announcing that "this was the most unfair and stupid exam I have ever taken" or some other equally purgative expression.  And then, even after announcing that the grades would not be available before they received their grade reports, the phone would start ringing literally as soon as I returned to my office with overanxious students asking "Have you got the grades ready yet?"  Worse, when the grades were posted, then the grade whining began, which was always one of the few really annoying parts of teaching school.  I had some sympathy for pressures facing students, but had no sympathy for piteous grade whining and bitter complaining. Grading the exams and getting the grades out often consumed much of my Christmas vacation and ate seriously into my brief spring break, but I regarded this burdensome task as an important one.  Unfortunately, a continual pressure seemed to emerge to "dumb down" exams and give higher grades than deserved, so that the use of grades as a discriminating indicator became less and less significant, since all students seemed to become uniformly excellent.  At least, I never relented in my grading standards, no matter the decibel level of the whining or the number of complaining letters written to the dean's office.

The Curmudgeonly Professor Remembers When . . .February 1 2009

I remember in the third grade I fell in love with a cute girl named Rose who had curly hair and looked like Shirley Temple.  I remember in the eighth grade I fell permanently out of love with Rose who fell head over heels for my worthless cousin.  I suffered much pain.