The title speaks in hyperbole but I can dwell on the many reasons why I hate winter, the flare-up of my seasonal affected disorder, atopic dermatitis, painful arthritis in my hands and hips, the chilly discomfort, static electricity, brutal wind-chill values, snow and ice removal after the city plow deposits a mountain of heavy detritus; shortened daylight hours and a faltering pulse as Lois announces our energy bill total.
I could go on but it would be a pernicious exercise so I'll consider something positive.
In my AA meetings I often hear the phrase "attitude of gratitude" and then I forget it when the rubber meets the road. Thanklessness is an affront to my Lord who rescued me from near-death alcoholism in 1989 which doctors dismiss as a medical anomaly. They haven't experienced this same miracle. To go from craving a drink so badly that I would crawl on the floor for a drink because my legs failed, to having no desire for booze at all. Zero craving! The experience repaired my belief in God, from a divine practical joker or an indifferent detached God to a personal God.
I have another blessing in Lois, my beloved wife who suffered so intensely during the last few months of my drinking. She didn't bail out, but helped me with my recovery after I graduated from treatment. She is a diamond! Women like her ain't available for a dime a dozen. I'm lucky enough to have a jewel in my life.
Another blessing: a beagle and a corgy/Scottish terrier. Their antics frustrate us and amuse us. They give us unconditional love, same as God does, and yes I see a parallel in relations, as my antics must also frustrate and gratify God.
Another blessing: seasonal affected disorder along with a disturbing dream sank me into depression. Depression isn't just a sad feeling or feeling sorry for one's self. It's deep and dark and painful. It paralyzes, incapacitates, and last Monday the 22nd it had me staring into space with internal darkness and despair and free-floating anxiety. I hid it. I'm good at hiding depression, although I did finally tell Lois. It's hard to tell that to somebody.
When I was working the night shift I was lugging this sack of heavy depression. It was difficult to think, to focus. I checked in guests with a plastic smile and I just wanted to be alone. I came to the limit of toleration and prayed out loud (in solitude) for the Lord to take away this horrible darkness, to chase away the demons that were telling me I was worthless, that bad things would happen to me because I had committed so many sins.
Within minutes the depression was gone. My tiredness replaced with energy and joy, I zipped through the shift and praised God for helping His child. I was like Scrooge after his encounters. A wonderful, quiet and simple Christmas week ensued, including Christmas eve service at Woodland Church as well as the community Christmas Day dinner, also at Woodland.
Another blessing: an elderly couple moved into the rental next door in November and I just continued to remove the snow from their garage and the front of their house as I had done for the previous tenants. The woman poked her nose out the front door as I was chopping ice and thanked me profusely with a charming Finnish brogue. "How can ve repay?" Seri lamented.
"Just do something nice for somebody else. I don't want any money, won't take any money!"
The husband, Tim left a full can of gas next to my snowblower during the night.
They will be wonderful neighbors. Little do they know that I'll also cut their lawn this coming summer.
God is good!
Monday, December 29, 2014
Saturday, December 20, 2014
The (not so) Scary No-Man's Land of Math II
I was a scared and confused kid in the tenth grade. I asked the kid behind me in Mrs. Ventrucci's homeroom a question and a booming voice far above the homeroom din shook me, "Turn around and shut up."
I did exactly what Mr. Lugviel, our Career Dayl counselor told us. I stared at Mr. Lugviel incredulously. He was burning me with laser-angry eyes, "Yeah, you! The stupid-looking kid in the glasses." A twitter of laughter arose and the giggles of the pretty girls stung as my face and ears got red-hot. I never heard a word Mr. Lugviel said during Fourth Period English that day, Carreer Day be damned.
I must have thought of at least fifty ways of brutally killing Mr. Lugviel since I was not the only kid talking before class began. Why pick on me? A hot steam iron applied to his face occurred to me.
Mrs. Pavlovich assured me of my intelligence the year before but I didn't feel intelligent. I took failing grades rather than get up in front of the class and give an oral book report. I was disappointed with sub-average work in algebra as a sophomore among freshmen. Mr. Kettula exiled me to the back corner of his World History class for the entire year because I whispered something to Dave across the aisle. I sat next to Tom Yunker, a senior in sixth period study hall. The desks were in pairs and Tom liked to talk. Whenever I responded (whispering) Mr. Hocking made me sit on the raised platform in front of the study hall. He never humiliated Tom.
At home I couldn't do anything right. Girls at school acted as if I were invisible. I was confused, scared, angry. My world was upside down and I increased my smoking of unfiltered Camels to a pace of three packs a week.
Algebra was the biggest disappointment. I got a C for the first marking period, a C-minus the second and a D for the third period at the end of the first semester.
"You better bring up those grades, mister," said Dad, as my grades slipped to a D in world History also, as did my English grade. Mom agreed. No mention that I was doing solid B work in biology. Then Mom jumped in.
"You won't get good grades hanging out at Khoury's and shooting pool and smoking cigarettes. Do the honor roll kids hang around there. No! They're at home, studying. They're not down in Khoury's hole (below street- level.),"
I was thoroughly shamed and more angry. I was also afraid that I was upsetting Dad and that could set off a fatal heart attack.
Everyone else was so happy at school, engaged in sports or extra-curricular activites. I tried that also- joined the ROTC drill team. After one practice session the PMS (Professor of Military Science ) disbanded the team because the team was too small.
Now I didn't feel a part of Ironwood High School, disconnected academically and socially. I was fifteen and a failure already. The friends of the last two years drifted away as David and Jon had girl friends and school activities. In the fall I spent much time in the caves (woods) smoking and brooding. In the cold months Khoury's was my home away from home with the click of pool balls and the cacophony of pinball machines.
Christmas recess descended upon L.L.Wright High School with an accompanying gloom. Final exams loomed the week after New Year's Day.
It was a Christmas gloom that was to become a lifelong personal tradition. I felt like a prisoner on death row.
John Hagstrom called me and asked if I would join him at the Christmas party sponsored by the choir, since he was a choir member and one of the guys I used to hang out with.. I thought that anything would be better than staying home and assembling my model of a '62 Chrysler Imperial.
As the day of the party approached apprehension arose. What would I say? There would be girls there, some of the prettiest in the school. I didn't want the disgrace of chickening out but I prayed that God would make me catch the flu before the party. I always caught the flu at some point in the school year. To have it now would be a blessing.
My prayer wasn't answered so I was stuck with attending a social event. That was something like getting in front of the English class and giving a book report. What was I thinking? I worried and brooded until Mom asked, "What the hell are you brooding about? You look like an old hound dog. Snap out of it!"
What I needed was liquid courage, some of Dad's whiskey that his boss gave him for Christmas. I checked it out but there was a little notch in the label coinciding with the whiskey level. Damn it! A little hooch before the party would perk me up and maybe I would even muster some conversation with those pretty girls. Wait a minute. Check the refrigerator. There it is, a quart of kosher wine that a fellow employee had given Dad. If I break the seal and only take a third of the wine Dad won't notice.
I needed a container for the wine but there was nothing available except an unused goldfish bowl in the storage room upstairs. I poured the wine into the bowl. Maybe I need more. Half the bottle should suffice. I hid the goldfish bowl, filled with wine and put it in an old empty Victrola cabinet and covered it with a book to arrest the fumes. There it would stay until needed.
The party was not formidable, filtered through a goldfish bowl of kosher wine. I talked to a girl and she just giggled. Tried another girl and she walked away. Then I saw Gail. I knew her, a sidekick with Jenny . Gail frowned and walked away. I followed her and from then on I was in a black-out.
I came to lying in the deep snow, shivering violently. I was in the caves and my (bare) hands and feet were freezing . I zipped up my short jacket. Somehow I found my way home. Mom hit the ceiling when I vomited and made me clean it up. I didn't admit to drunkenness but to the side-effect of Copenhagen snuff. Dad noticed the wine he received was somewhat depleted and he asked me if I took any. I confessed and was grounded for two weeks. Dad was also not happy that I didn't admit to being drunk when confronted by Mom.
When school resumed I had found fame. People had noticed me! Even a senior told me, "Chased Gail into the girl's bathroom at the choir party. Way to go, kid!"
Another kid said, "Lucky you didn't get kicked out of school. Mr. Quistorf was pissed at you when he kicked you out." It wasn't as much fun when others filled me in on my drunken antics.
I found a cadre of new friends with whom I would get drunk many times. Suddenly I went from a nobody to a bad-ass and I liked it. My friends and I would laugh at the scrapes we would eventually encounter.
The business of taking finals came and I had put forth much effort into studying for history and English, my weaknesses. Biology would be easy and algebra? I reckoned that you either know it or you don't. I did review the distance and rate problems, but nothing else. If I did a lousy job in the final exams Mom and Dad would probably kick me out. Maybe I could live with Sam Khoury and become a famous pool shark. At any rate my academic confidence was low, save for biology.
Classes resumed and the day of reckoning arrived with report cards distributed. Biology got me a B, English a C, World History a C-minus. I entered Mr. Mattson's algebra class with cold hands and a pounding heart.
Mr. Mattson had written the distribution of all the scores in all four algebra classes, the lowest being 74, which I thought was mine, to the highest score of 195 of a possible 200 points. He settled the class down and drew their attention to the scores. He used a yardstick for a pointer.
Mary asked, "Mr. Mattson, who got the 195?" A chorus of queries arose then ebbed.
"You'll never guess who got the 195," Mr. Mattson wore a smirk and he rested the tip of the yardstick on his shoulder. He sauntered back and forth, obviously amused.
"Ed Tafelski?"
"Nope."
"John Hedin?"
"Nope."
"Ken Talaska?"
"Nope."
Mr. Mattson was coming ever so slowly down the aisle where I sat.
" "Beet" Anderson?"
"I'm looking at the guy with the top score. I looked up to a joyous smile."
"Me?" I croaked.
"Yup!, you got the 195. Notice that the next highest score was 174."
If someone had dropped a pin it would sound like a hammer. The whole class was stunned, myself included.
"George has what it takes to do math. He'll be in Plane and Solid Geometry next year, right?"
I nodded, speechless.
It slowly filtered through Luther L. Wright High School that George was a smart guy. The next year I helped the principal's son (a future lawyer and judge) with chemistry, a future teacher with physics and even a few pretty girls with geometry . I went on to major in math, receiving a bachelor's degree in science for Northland College. Math became one of the things I love about life and I still go to websites and review concepts in linear algebra, calculus and many other topics.
Limitations, self imposed, keep us from successes.
I did exactly what Mr. Lugviel, our Career Dayl counselor told us. I stared at Mr. Lugviel incredulously. He was burning me with laser-angry eyes, "Yeah, you! The stupid-looking kid in the glasses." A twitter of laughter arose and the giggles of the pretty girls stung as my face and ears got red-hot. I never heard a word Mr. Lugviel said during Fourth Period English that day, Carreer Day be damned.
I must have thought of at least fifty ways of brutally killing Mr. Lugviel since I was not the only kid talking before class began. Why pick on me? A hot steam iron applied to his face occurred to me.
Mrs. Pavlovich assured me of my intelligence the year before but I didn't feel intelligent. I took failing grades rather than get up in front of the class and give an oral book report. I was disappointed with sub-average work in algebra as a sophomore among freshmen. Mr. Kettula exiled me to the back corner of his World History class for the entire year because I whispered something to Dave across the aisle. I sat next to Tom Yunker, a senior in sixth period study hall. The desks were in pairs and Tom liked to talk. Whenever I responded (whispering) Mr. Hocking made me sit on the raised platform in front of the study hall. He never humiliated Tom.
At home I couldn't do anything right. Girls at school acted as if I were invisible. I was confused, scared, angry. My world was upside down and I increased my smoking of unfiltered Camels to a pace of three packs a week.
Algebra was the biggest disappointment. I got a C for the first marking period, a C-minus the second and a D for the third period at the end of the first semester.
"You better bring up those grades, mister," said Dad, as my grades slipped to a D in world History also, as did my English grade. Mom agreed. No mention that I was doing solid B work in biology. Then Mom jumped in.
"You won't get good grades hanging out at Khoury's and shooting pool and smoking cigarettes. Do the honor roll kids hang around there. No! They're at home, studying. They're not down in Khoury's hole (below street- level.),"
I was thoroughly shamed and more angry. I was also afraid that I was upsetting Dad and that could set off a fatal heart attack.
Everyone else was so happy at school, engaged in sports or extra-curricular activites. I tried that also- joined the ROTC drill team. After one practice session the PMS (Professor of Military Science ) disbanded the team because the team was too small.
Now I didn't feel a part of Ironwood High School, disconnected academically and socially. I was fifteen and a failure already. The friends of the last two years drifted away as David and Jon had girl friends and school activities. In the fall I spent much time in the caves (woods) smoking and brooding. In the cold months Khoury's was my home away from home with the click of pool balls and the cacophony of pinball machines.
Christmas recess descended upon L.L.Wright High School with an accompanying gloom. Final exams loomed the week after New Year's Day.
It was a Christmas gloom that was to become a lifelong personal tradition. I felt like a prisoner on death row.
John Hagstrom called me and asked if I would join him at the Christmas party sponsored by the choir, since he was a choir member and one of the guys I used to hang out with.. I thought that anything would be better than staying home and assembling my model of a '62 Chrysler Imperial.
As the day of the party approached apprehension arose. What would I say? There would be girls there, some of the prettiest in the school. I didn't want the disgrace of chickening out but I prayed that God would make me catch the flu before the party. I always caught the flu at some point in the school year. To have it now would be a blessing.
My prayer wasn't answered so I was stuck with attending a social event. That was something like getting in front of the English class and giving a book report. What was I thinking? I worried and brooded until Mom asked, "What the hell are you brooding about? You look like an old hound dog. Snap out of it!"
What I needed was liquid courage, some of Dad's whiskey that his boss gave him for Christmas. I checked it out but there was a little notch in the label coinciding with the whiskey level. Damn it! A little hooch before the party would perk me up and maybe I would even muster some conversation with those pretty girls. Wait a minute. Check the refrigerator. There it is, a quart of kosher wine that a fellow employee had given Dad. If I break the seal and only take a third of the wine Dad won't notice.
I needed a container for the wine but there was nothing available except an unused goldfish bowl in the storage room upstairs. I poured the wine into the bowl. Maybe I need more. Half the bottle should suffice. I hid the goldfish bowl, filled with wine and put it in an old empty Victrola cabinet and covered it with a book to arrest the fumes. There it would stay until needed.
The party was not formidable, filtered through a goldfish bowl of kosher wine. I talked to a girl and she just giggled. Tried another girl and she walked away. Then I saw Gail. I knew her, a sidekick with Jenny . Gail frowned and walked away. I followed her and from then on I was in a black-out.
I came to lying in the deep snow, shivering violently. I was in the caves and my (bare) hands and feet were freezing . I zipped up my short jacket. Somehow I found my way home. Mom hit the ceiling when I vomited and made me clean it up. I didn't admit to drunkenness but to the side-effect of Copenhagen snuff. Dad noticed the wine he received was somewhat depleted and he asked me if I took any. I confessed and was grounded for two weeks. Dad was also not happy that I didn't admit to being drunk when confronted by Mom.
When school resumed I had found fame. People had noticed me! Even a senior told me, "Chased Gail into the girl's bathroom at the choir party. Way to go, kid!"
Another kid said, "Lucky you didn't get kicked out of school. Mr. Quistorf was pissed at you when he kicked you out." It wasn't as much fun when others filled me in on my drunken antics.
I found a cadre of new friends with whom I would get drunk many times. Suddenly I went from a nobody to a bad-ass and I liked it. My friends and I would laugh at the scrapes we would eventually encounter.
The business of taking finals came and I had put forth much effort into studying for history and English, my weaknesses. Biology would be easy and algebra? I reckoned that you either know it or you don't. I did review the distance and rate problems, but nothing else. If I did a lousy job in the final exams Mom and Dad would probably kick me out. Maybe I could live with Sam Khoury and become a famous pool shark. At any rate my academic confidence was low, save for biology.
Classes resumed and the day of reckoning arrived with report cards distributed. Biology got me a B, English a C, World History a C-minus. I entered Mr. Mattson's algebra class with cold hands and a pounding heart.
Mr. Mattson had written the distribution of all the scores in all four algebra classes, the lowest being 74, which I thought was mine, to the highest score of 195 of a possible 200 points. He settled the class down and drew their attention to the scores. He used a yardstick for a pointer.
Mary asked, "Mr. Mattson, who got the 195?" A chorus of queries arose then ebbed.
"You'll never guess who got the 195," Mr. Mattson wore a smirk and he rested the tip of the yardstick on his shoulder. He sauntered back and forth, obviously amused.
"Ed Tafelski?"
"Nope."
"John Hedin?"
"Nope."
"Ken Talaska?"
"Nope."
Mr. Mattson was coming ever so slowly down the aisle where I sat.
" "Beet" Anderson?"
"I'm looking at the guy with the top score. I looked up to a joyous smile."
"Me?" I croaked.
"Yup!, you got the 195. Notice that the next highest score was 174."
If someone had dropped a pin it would sound like a hammer. The whole class was stunned, myself included.
"George has what it takes to do math. He'll be in Plane and Solid Geometry next year, right?"
I nodded, speechless.
It slowly filtered through Luther L. Wright High School that George was a smart guy. The next year I helped the principal's son (a future lawyer and judge) with chemistry, a future teacher with physics and even a few pretty girls with geometry . I went on to major in math, receiving a bachelor's degree in science for Northland College. Math became one of the things I love about life and I still go to websites and review concepts in linear algebra, calculus and many other topics.
Limitations, self imposed, keep us from successes.
Thursday, December 4, 2014
The Scary No-Man's Land of Math Part I
"The following people will be in Group Two Math," declared Mr. Martell, my Seventh Grade math/science teacher. I didn't like him very much- made me feel stupid. I once got an "A" on a science test and his reaction was, "I didn't think you had it in you." I thought the "A" must've been a fluke since I was dumb.
I was declared a member of the Group Two Fraternity of Mathematics, those who were not adept at math. We got easier homework assignments, but there was a stigma attached to Group Two.
I struggled with math. I was bored with it. This was the fall of 1961 and each year we had a rehash of the math of earlier grades, no introduction to algebra, no geometry, just the same old stuff.
Mr. Erickson, the Principal, was my Eighth Grade math teacher. He was affable, yet stern. He was about five- foot six and he wore a suit and tie. His thick glasses hid his eyes.
Mr. Erickson took us into the realm of algebra and I liked it right away. I caught on right away as to solving an algebraic equation. There was an ascent in my math grades. This was such a relief from the same old arithmetic curriculum of the first seven grades. I still wonder why algebra wasn't introduced as early as the Fifth Grade.
At the end of the school year we were given Ninth Grade pre-registration forms and I signed up for algebra since I liked it so much. I was unsure of Latin and took General Science instead.
At the site of the Pioneer Park Apartments was the old Oliver Mining building where the miners got paid. I remember the counter inside the office and the walk-in safe behind the counter. Adjacent to the Oliver Center was Oliver field, not the present-day Little League field with a diamond and a real pitchers's mound and chalk lines. In addition to the baseball field was an area that had two standards to support a crossbar and a pit of coarse sawdust behind the standards.
We kids, practiced pole-vaulting. Pole-vaulting energized me, gave me a challenge and a thrill. My maximum accomplishment was six feet, not bad for a kid who just graduated from the eighth grade. We got sawdust in our eyes but it was great fun.
Dave Hagstrom and I were talking about high school and what sheet metal shop and wood shop and drafting would be like. "In drafting you gotta be good at math. George, are you taking algebra this fall?"
"Yeah."
"Don't do it, man. It's tough. I had a hell of a time with it." Dave was a year ahead of me and a sage at that. He knew the score.
"Can I get out of algebra?" I asked as my algebraic confidence melted away.
"Just go to the high school office and ask Miss Nelson. She'll help you. It'll be easy. Just tell her you want to take General Math instead of algebra.
The entrance to the Luther L. Wright High School was imposing- so many steps to ascend to the battery of main doors, then another ascent to another battery of doors. The smell of the place brought on a melange of school experiences and my fists got tight and I sensed that my teeth were clenched.
Miss Nelson lived just around the corner from us and many times I saw her. She was single- never married, and she had a 1960 Chevy four-door. I remembered her from my tricycle years, yet I'd never had an encounter with her. She dressed conservatively, befitting her position as organist at the Salem Lutheran Church. I'd never heard her laugh or seen her smile.
I rounded the corner toward the administrative offices. Miss Nelson was busy at the counter and I entered softly, wearing my sneakers. It was ridiculous, but I hoped she wouldn't notice me and I could just turn around and run.
"May I help you?" Miss Nelson had a pleasant, almost melodious voice.
"Um," I pressed my lips together and looked down.
"Is there something I can help you with?" This time her voice had lost an increment of melodiousness.
"I, um, you know gotta change a class for freshman year, eh?" I felt so dumb and awkward and silly and stupid.
Miss Nelson reached under the counter and produced a Change of Schedule form. "Which class do you wish to drop?"
"Algebra."
"What would you like to take instead?"
"General Math."
She wrote these particulars in the appropriate boxes. She must think I'm stupid, not taking algebra. Maybe she talked to other teachers who think I'm stupid. Dave Hagstrom told me...
"Look it over and if it's what you want then just sign on the dotted line."
I spent the summer free of the impending doom of algebra
Mrs. Pavlovich was my General Math teacher, at 1:00 each day, room 104, with a view of the traffic of Ayer street. The textbook was incredibly simple. I would just breeze through this!
On the first test I got a perfect score. Then the same thing happened on the second test. Maybe high school wouldn't be so bad after all.
The down side to this was double. The tough guys in Mrs. Krznarich's home room copied my homework. I didn't refuse lest I get a few teeth knocked out after school by Frank Gusman or Jim Siirila.
Then in class one day the clock gave it's last (minute) tick before the bell. Mrs. Pavlovich gave the usual reminders about homework and the next test and she also looked my way sternly.
"George, would you please remain after the bell?"
I tried not to show my visceral fear, the fear of a coming reprimand. My heart raced.
Mrs. Pavlovich's heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She sat down in a desk across the aisle from mine. She was a somewhat attractive woman with red cheeks, bright red lipstick and she smelled nice, but she was stern and nobody messed with her.
"What are you doing in this class?" Her tone was incredulous. "You should be in algebra."
"I changed my schedule this summer because I didn't think I could do algebra."
She rested her chin on her hand with her thin index finger pointing out. Her wedding band and diamond ring caught me eye. Was she going to kick me out of her class and banish me to the no-man's land of algebra?
"Have you thought of going to college, George?"
"No. I don't know. I never thought about it."
"If you go to college you'll need algebra." She sighed and took her pretty hand away from her face. "No matter what, I will not give you higher than a B plus, even if you have a perfect test."
I was crestfallen and she must have read this.
"George, it's not fair to the other kids in this class. You have much more mathematical ability than anyone else in this class."
I didn't think her proclamation was fair, since I thought I would just be an average student in General Math. I didn't see myself as smart and I was surprised at the easiness of the class. I never thought I could survive in algebra. So many smart kids were in algebra.
"George," She paused until I looked up and met her eyes.
Her eyes were compassionate- long dark eyelashes, with a hint of emotional ache, "Do yourself a favor and sign up for algebra next year."
"Better hurry up for your next class."
(to be continued.)
I was declared a member of the Group Two Fraternity of Mathematics, those who were not adept at math. We got easier homework assignments, but there was a stigma attached to Group Two.
I struggled with math. I was bored with it. This was the fall of 1961 and each year we had a rehash of the math of earlier grades, no introduction to algebra, no geometry, just the same old stuff.
Mr. Erickson, the Principal, was my Eighth Grade math teacher. He was affable, yet stern. He was about five- foot six and he wore a suit and tie. His thick glasses hid his eyes.
Mr. Erickson took us into the realm of algebra and I liked it right away. I caught on right away as to solving an algebraic equation. There was an ascent in my math grades. This was such a relief from the same old arithmetic curriculum of the first seven grades. I still wonder why algebra wasn't introduced as early as the Fifth Grade.
At the end of the school year we were given Ninth Grade pre-registration forms and I signed up for algebra since I liked it so much. I was unsure of Latin and took General Science instead.
At the site of the Pioneer Park Apartments was the old Oliver Mining building where the miners got paid. I remember the counter inside the office and the walk-in safe behind the counter. Adjacent to the Oliver Center was Oliver field, not the present-day Little League field with a diamond and a real pitchers's mound and chalk lines. In addition to the baseball field was an area that had two standards to support a crossbar and a pit of coarse sawdust behind the standards.
We kids, practiced pole-vaulting. Pole-vaulting energized me, gave me a challenge and a thrill. My maximum accomplishment was six feet, not bad for a kid who just graduated from the eighth grade. We got sawdust in our eyes but it was great fun.
Dave Hagstrom and I were talking about high school and what sheet metal shop and wood shop and drafting would be like. "In drafting you gotta be good at math. George, are you taking algebra this fall?"
"Yeah."
"Don't do it, man. It's tough. I had a hell of a time with it." Dave was a year ahead of me and a sage at that. He knew the score.
"Can I get out of algebra?" I asked as my algebraic confidence melted away.
"Just go to the high school office and ask Miss Nelson. She'll help you. It'll be easy. Just tell her you want to take General Math instead of algebra.
The entrance to the Luther L. Wright High School was imposing- so many steps to ascend to the battery of main doors, then another ascent to another battery of doors. The smell of the place brought on a melange of school experiences and my fists got tight and I sensed that my teeth were clenched.
Miss Nelson lived just around the corner from us and many times I saw her. She was single- never married, and she had a 1960 Chevy four-door. I remembered her from my tricycle years, yet I'd never had an encounter with her. She dressed conservatively, befitting her position as organist at the Salem Lutheran Church. I'd never heard her laugh or seen her smile.
I rounded the corner toward the administrative offices. Miss Nelson was busy at the counter and I entered softly, wearing my sneakers. It was ridiculous, but I hoped she wouldn't notice me and I could just turn around and run.
"May I help you?" Miss Nelson had a pleasant, almost melodious voice.
"Um," I pressed my lips together and looked down.
"Is there something I can help you with?" This time her voice had lost an increment of melodiousness.
"I, um, you know gotta change a class for freshman year, eh?" I felt so dumb and awkward and silly and stupid.
Miss Nelson reached under the counter and produced a Change of Schedule form. "Which class do you wish to drop?"
"Algebra."
"What would you like to take instead?"
"General Math."
She wrote these particulars in the appropriate boxes. She must think I'm stupid, not taking algebra. Maybe she talked to other teachers who think I'm stupid. Dave Hagstrom told me...
"Look it over and if it's what you want then just sign on the dotted line."
I spent the summer free of the impending doom of algebra
Mrs. Pavlovich was my General Math teacher, at 1:00 each day, room 104, with a view of the traffic of Ayer street. The textbook was incredibly simple. I would just breeze through this!
On the first test I got a perfect score. Then the same thing happened on the second test. Maybe high school wouldn't be so bad after all.
The down side to this was double. The tough guys in Mrs. Krznarich's home room copied my homework. I didn't refuse lest I get a few teeth knocked out after school by Frank Gusman or Jim Siirila.
Then in class one day the clock gave it's last (minute) tick before the bell. Mrs. Pavlovich gave the usual reminders about homework and the next test and she also looked my way sternly.
"George, would you please remain after the bell?"
I tried not to show my visceral fear, the fear of a coming reprimand. My heart raced.
Mrs. Pavlovich's heels clicked on the hardwood floor. She sat down in a desk across the aisle from mine. She was a somewhat attractive woman with red cheeks, bright red lipstick and she smelled nice, but she was stern and nobody messed with her.
"What are you doing in this class?" Her tone was incredulous. "You should be in algebra."
"I changed my schedule this summer because I didn't think I could do algebra."
She rested her chin on her hand with her thin index finger pointing out. Her wedding band and diamond ring caught me eye. Was she going to kick me out of her class and banish me to the no-man's land of algebra?
"Have you thought of going to college, George?"
"No. I don't know. I never thought about it."
"If you go to college you'll need algebra." She sighed and took her pretty hand away from her face. "No matter what, I will not give you higher than a B plus, even if you have a perfect test."
I was crestfallen and she must have read this.
"George, it's not fair to the other kids in this class. You have much more mathematical ability than anyone else in this class."
I didn't think her proclamation was fair, since I thought I would just be an average student in General Math. I didn't see myself as smart and I was surprised at the easiness of the class. I never thought I could survive in algebra. So many smart kids were in algebra.
"George," She paused until I looked up and met her eyes.
Her eyes were compassionate- long dark eyelashes, with a hint of emotional ache, "Do yourself a favor and sign up for algebra next year."
"Better hurry up for your next class."
(to be continued.)
The Dark Side of Christmas
Since grade school I've experienced a melancholy cloud descend, dampening my Christmas anticipation and joy. Mom would ask me, "What are you mooning about now? Stand up straight and quit looking so gloomy! No one likes a gloomy person."
I heard parts of sermons at St. Paul's Church in my youth that touched upon thankfulness and this brought shame because I could not pull myself up by the bootstraps and go around smiling and saying 'merry Christmas' to everyone I encountered. It was the celebration of the Savior's birth! I read it in the gospels with feeble stirrings and more shame.
I had heard the phrase, "he'll outgrow it," pertaining to my allergies and accompanying dermatitis and asthma and hoped that would apply to Christmas season gloominess. I never outgrew any of these.
"Oh, for crying out loud, get over it!" That would be the frequent parental admonition that I was incapable of obeying.
And yet it was a bittersweet experience with a few sublime moments; when the Christmas tree was erected in our living room, when mom's mood elevated to occasional cheerfulness, or the time in eighth grade when I felt the dawn of puberty and thrill of my first crush.
Bittersweet it was because it would lead back to the sadness; sadness I couldn't define or isolate, sadness for which I felt apologetic, ashamed.
As an adolescent I drowned these feelings with alcohol, welcoming the warmth, physical and emotional as well as the blackouts, and stinging reprimands from Mom and Dad. Dad got two bottles of top-shelf whiskey from his boss for Christmas so it was easy for me to get drunk and feel some false Christmas cheer.
A kindly physician, Dr. Gardner, explained that depression has cycles which could occur in the winter when the days are short or even in the springtime when darkness gives way to light. Each person has unique cycles. The Christmas season could very well trigger depression, for example in unfulfilled expectations or fear of the death of a loved one. (I used to fear the death of Dad, since he survived two heart attacks.) The elevated stress of Christmas holidays also contributes to a depressed state in some people. More must be accomplished in less time because during the holidays less work time is available.
I believe many are prone to depression including holiday depression and I'm thankful that this is no longer viewed with scorn or impatience. The intensified depression during the holidays accounts for the increased suicide rate.
I don't believe that God frowns upon depression since it is an illness and not a moral shortcoming or an indication of lack of faith in God.. I no longer feel shame for my holiday gloom. God knows us and he understands from even the quantum level why we suffer from depression.
I am blessed with a wonderful wife, Lois who is sympathetic to depressed people, who doesn't chide me or prod me. She is the greatest gift God ever gave me, second to the Savior Himself.
It's cold today, less than ten degrees, but I will suit up for a run of four or five miles in the snow and ice. (I have ice-grippers on my running shoes.) Running invariably helps- it's one of the gifts God has given me, along with compassion for those who suffer the darkness of depression during the holidays.
Merry Christmas and happy New Year, everyone!
I heard parts of sermons at St. Paul's Church in my youth that touched upon thankfulness and this brought shame because I could not pull myself up by the bootstraps and go around smiling and saying 'merry Christmas' to everyone I encountered. It was the celebration of the Savior's birth! I read it in the gospels with feeble stirrings and more shame.
I had heard the phrase, "he'll outgrow it," pertaining to my allergies and accompanying dermatitis and asthma and hoped that would apply to Christmas season gloominess. I never outgrew any of these.
"Oh, for crying out loud, get over it!" That would be the frequent parental admonition that I was incapable of obeying.
And yet it was a bittersweet experience with a few sublime moments; when the Christmas tree was erected in our living room, when mom's mood elevated to occasional cheerfulness, or the time in eighth grade when I felt the dawn of puberty and thrill of my first crush.
Bittersweet it was because it would lead back to the sadness; sadness I couldn't define or isolate, sadness for which I felt apologetic, ashamed.
As an adolescent I drowned these feelings with alcohol, welcoming the warmth, physical and emotional as well as the blackouts, and stinging reprimands from Mom and Dad. Dad got two bottles of top-shelf whiskey from his boss for Christmas so it was easy for me to get drunk and feel some false Christmas cheer.
A kindly physician, Dr. Gardner, explained that depression has cycles which could occur in the winter when the days are short or even in the springtime when darkness gives way to light. Each person has unique cycles. The Christmas season could very well trigger depression, for example in unfulfilled expectations or fear of the death of a loved one. (I used to fear the death of Dad, since he survived two heart attacks.) The elevated stress of Christmas holidays also contributes to a depressed state in some people. More must be accomplished in less time because during the holidays less work time is available.
I believe many are prone to depression including holiday depression and I'm thankful that this is no longer viewed with scorn or impatience. The intensified depression during the holidays accounts for the increased suicide rate.
I don't believe that God frowns upon depression since it is an illness and not a moral shortcoming or an indication of lack of faith in God.. I no longer feel shame for my holiday gloom. God knows us and he understands from even the quantum level why we suffer from depression.
I am blessed with a wonderful wife, Lois who is sympathetic to depressed people, who doesn't chide me or prod me. She is the greatest gift God ever gave me, second to the Savior Himself.
It's cold today, less than ten degrees, but I will suit up for a run of four or five miles in the snow and ice. (I have ice-grippers on my running shoes.) Running invariably helps- it's one of the gifts God has given me, along with compassion for those who suffer the darkness of depression during the holidays.
Merry Christmas and happy New Year, everyone!
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