By Bob S
And there I was flying not at 30,000 ft, not at 3,000 ft, not at 300 hundred feet....no it was only 30 feet. We were brave and fearless or maybe just crazy...yes crazy fits. And then it happened....we landed. Another successful mission fighting for democracy and against communism and a chance to be first at the bar at the O'club. Now that is success!
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
The Beat Begins - Alaska
"There are strange things done in the midnight sun..." Robert W. Service
When I was young my given name of Conley was the same as that of my grandfather. I never liked that name growing up because I identified it with old people.
I much preferred the nickname given me by my name sake – Snapper. Why Snapper? Well, the family story goes that when Baba (my grandfather) first saw me I was red and blinked my eyes like a red snapper. I am sure he had never seen a red snapper but facts like that never got in his way.
Times have changed and I no longer introduce myself as Snapper. It sounds sort of silly for a person of my age. I have come to think of Conley as a very sophisticated and beautiful name.
In most of the villages I lived in while in Alaska the naming of a child took on a complexity all its own.
Many children, when given a Christian name, were named after the recently deceased, relative or not. Some believed the spirit of the deceased entered the body of the person thus named. So if you take this to the extreme you can really be your own Grandpa.
Most villagers had two names, Christian and native. When given Christian names, the girls were often named after their mothers and were tagged with the Junior and Senior thing, just as boys. It was not uncommon for children to take their mother's last name.
To complicate the matter, some children were given to relatives or neighbors after being born, and they kept their birth name regardless of who raised them. For instance Sandi Collins' mother was Sandi Collins, her father was a Kohely, and she was raised and adopted by a Quinn but she is always Sandi Collins Jr. Her brothers and sisters, even if she was a twin, might have altogether different last names depending on who's who in the tribal hierarchy at the time.
Trying to tell who belongs to whom or who is related to whom got very confusing.
I have not figured out tribal naming customs to a great extent, and the natives have a hard time explaining it to an outsider. They are sort of reluctant to anyway, because they have been conditioned to feel that Gussicks (non natives) don't approve of the double name thing. Perhaps way back that was true, but all the Gussicks I knew think it really a neat thing. But old wounds do not heal very fast between cultures.
I use to ask kids what their tribal names were but I seldom called them that because I could not pronounce the names correctly and when I tried I got laughed at.
Now and then Gussicks are given an Eskimo name. Usually it is just a casual thing, and the name more often than not refers to an animal or a physical feature the Gussick might have. Like Polar Bear (for a big guy), Walrus (for someone who has long teeth), bearded one, or baldy, things like that.
These names when said in English do not sound flattering, but when said in the local language, it is almost elegant. Besides the names are not given to be insulting, just descriptive.
Sometimes, however, a Gussick is named by an elder under unusual circumstance, usually without warning, and it takes on a mystical quality, almost as if that elder has or had some connection to the ancient shamans. There are no shamans anymore, or so the natives would have you believe, once again keeping such knowledge to themselves so as not to suffer ridicule by the Gussicks. There are hints from time to time that one or two are still around, but don't try to pin a native down on who or where.
I now have a Yup'ik Eskimo name. It was given to me by an elder who was telling stories to my students one day. She stopped her story in mid sentence, looked at me and asked if I had a Yup'ik name. I had not and said so. She looked at me for a long time and said, "You will be known as Cauyam anngaa."
Don't even try to pronounce it. I have heard it several times and still can't. I wondered at the time if she was one of those closet shamans that are said not to exist.
I use to write a weekly column for The Independence Examiner and liked Tundra Drums as the title. But there was a newspaper up there that served the delta region with the same name so that was out. I also used the same title for a collection of short storie I wrote and made available to friends and family. I use to have a web page called "Arctic Drums" and the first story I ever wrote was about the making of a drum. No native at the time knew any of this.
So why do I think the elder might have been a shaman in hiding? What mystical quality surrounds my Yup'ik name to make me think such? Well the English translation for Cauyam anngaa is "Brother of the Drum." Go figure.
So this is Conley Stone Snapper Cauyam anngaa McAnally wishing you well, as always. The beat goes on.
When I was young my given name of Conley was the same as that of my grandfather. I never liked that name growing up because I identified it with old people.
I much preferred the nickname given me by my name sake – Snapper. Why Snapper? Well, the family story goes that when Baba (my grandfather) first saw me I was red and blinked my eyes like a red snapper. I am sure he had never seen a red snapper but facts like that never got in his way.
Times have changed and I no longer introduce myself as Snapper. It sounds sort of silly for a person of my age. I have come to think of Conley as a very sophisticated and beautiful name.
In most of the villages I lived in while in Alaska the naming of a child took on a complexity all its own.
Many children, when given a Christian name, were named after the recently deceased, relative or not. Some believed the spirit of the deceased entered the body of the person thus named. So if you take this to the extreme you can really be your own Grandpa.
Most villagers had two names, Christian and native. When given Christian names, the girls were often named after their mothers and were tagged with the Junior and Senior thing, just as boys. It was not uncommon for children to take their mother's last name.
To complicate the matter, some children were given to relatives or neighbors after being born, and they kept their birth name regardless of who raised them. For instance Sandi Collins' mother was Sandi Collins, her father was a Kohely, and she was raised and adopted by a Quinn but she is always Sandi Collins Jr. Her brothers and sisters, even if she was a twin, might have altogether different last names depending on who's who in the tribal hierarchy at the time.
Trying to tell who belongs to whom or who is related to whom got very confusing.
I have not figured out tribal naming customs to a great extent, and the natives have a hard time explaining it to an outsider. They are sort of reluctant to anyway, because they have been conditioned to feel that Gussicks (non natives) don't approve of the double name thing. Perhaps way back that was true, but all the Gussicks I knew think it really a neat thing. But old wounds do not heal very fast between cultures.
I use to ask kids what their tribal names were but I seldom called them that because I could not pronounce the names correctly and when I tried I got laughed at.
Now and then Gussicks are given an Eskimo name. Usually it is just a casual thing, and the name more often than not refers to an animal or a physical feature the Gussick might have. Like Polar Bear (for a big guy), Walrus (for someone who has long teeth), bearded one, or baldy, things like that.
These names when said in English do not sound flattering, but when said in the local language, it is almost elegant. Besides the names are not given to be insulting, just descriptive.
Sometimes, however, a Gussick is named by an elder under unusual circumstance, usually without warning, and it takes on a mystical quality, almost as if that elder has or had some connection to the ancient shamans. There are no shamans anymore, or so the natives would have you believe, once again keeping such knowledge to themselves so as not to suffer ridicule by the Gussicks. There are hints from time to time that one or two are still around, but don't try to pin a native down on who or where.
I now have a Yup'ik Eskimo name. It was given to me by an elder who was telling stories to my students one day. She stopped her story in mid sentence, looked at me and asked if I had a Yup'ik name. I had not and said so. She looked at me for a long time and said, "You will be known as Cauyam anngaa."
Don't even try to pronounce it. I have heard it several times and still can't. I wondered at the time if she was one of those closet shamans that are said not to exist.
I use to write a weekly column for The Independence Examiner and liked Tundra Drums as the title. But there was a newspaper up there that served the delta region with the same name so that was out. I also used the same title for a collection of short storie I wrote and made available to friends and family. I use to have a web page called "Arctic Drums" and the first story I ever wrote was about the making of a drum. No native at the time knew any of this.
So why do I think the elder might have been a shaman in hiding? What mystical quality surrounds my Yup'ik name to make me think such? Well the English translation for Cauyam anngaa is "Brother of the Drum." Go figure.
So this is Conley Stone Snapper Cauyam anngaa McAnally wishing you well, as always. The beat goes on.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Real Men Eat Real Sushi - Alaska, Panama
So you see, when people order sushi at a sushi or Oriental restaurant, I scoff at their peasantry and do not lower myself to the mundane.Some people I have known think it a great treat or sophisticated delicacy to eat sushi. I on the other hand have no such inclination and scoff. It is not that I have anything against anyone who does eat sushi, it is just that I have had real sushi and do not think eating the artificial stuff would be much better and down right pretentious. Artificial, pretentious, you might ask? Well let me explain.
When sitting on the porch of my momasita's stilted grass hut in Panama she prepared octopus that had been caught just a few minutes earlier out of the lagoon rippling up to the edge of her grass plywood hut on stilts. She cleaned and chopped the tentacles up using the hand railing of the porch as her cutting block. She then chopped up an onion, mixed both in a wooden bowl and then put Wishbone Italian Dressing with a little salt and pepper added. I ate it of course not wanting to be impolite. The twenty-five cent beer probably helped the digestion also. The cephalopod had the consistency of rubber bands but the dressing and onions were good. Now flash forward fifteen years to a Thanksgiving event in Noatak, Alaska.
It was a village tradition that all the families gather in the school gym on Thanksgiving and eat a traditional meal. However the Inupaq traditional holiday meal for Thanksgiving was not Turkey or even goose, it was raw fish.
The villagers arrived early and staked out their tables. Some brought salt and pepper, others brought hot sauce, all brought their appetite. No sooner had everyone been seated and grace said then some adult Eskimo men started bringing in boxes of frozen fish recently or in some cases not so recently caught in the Noatak River. They dumped the fish on the gym floor and a member of every family picked through the fish deciding which ones they wanted. The people had their own way of eating the fish. Some gnawed, some chomped, some cut, some tore, all used their hands and teeth.
I was asked to join one family and did so. I picked around the fish as best I could with out really committing to eating it for as long as I could, even licked the hot sauce off the scales for a bit, but then I took the plunge and bit in to it with gusto.
When sitting on the porch of my momasita's stilted grass hut in Panama she prepared octopus that had been caught just a few minutes earlier out of the lagoon rippling up to the edge of her grass plywood hut on stilts. She cleaned and chopped the tentacles up using the hand railing of the porch as her cutting block. She then chopped up an onion, mixed both in a wooden bowl and then put Wishbone Italian Dressing with a little salt and pepper added. I ate it of course not wanting to be impolite. The twenty-five cent beer probably helped the digestion also. The cephalopod had the consistency of rubber bands but the dressing and onions were good. Now flash forward fifteen years to a Thanksgiving event in Noatak, Alaska.
It was a village tradition that all the families gather in the school gym on Thanksgiving and eat a traditional meal. However the Inupaq traditional holiday meal for Thanksgiving was not Turkey or even goose, it was raw fish.
The villagers arrived early and staked out their tables. Some brought salt and pepper, others brought hot sauce, all brought their appetite. No sooner had everyone been seated and grace said then some adult Eskimo men started bringing in boxes of frozen fish recently or in some cases not so recently caught in the Noatak River. They dumped the fish on the gym floor and a member of every family picked through the fish deciding which ones they wanted. The people had their own way of eating the fish. Some gnawed, some chomped, some cut, some tore, all used their hands and teeth.
I was asked to join one family and did so. I picked around the fish as best I could with out really committing to eating it for as long as I could, even licked the hot sauce off the scales for a bit, but then I took the plunge and bit in to it with gusto.
So you see, when people order sushi at a sushi or Oriental restaurant, I scoff at their peasantry and do not lower myself to the mundane.
Eggs to Order
Due to a reorganization in the military, I was promoted to S4-Major of the 128th FA BN. That put me in charge of seeing that all the men in the battalion, especially the front lie troops were provided all the beans and bullets they needed along with other stuff that makes a GI's life a little less miserable.
The new organizational structure called for a consolidated mess operation. That meant that instead of each battery commander being responsible for hauling around their own mess hall, the food would be prepared in a central location (LOC) and delivered to where ever the unit might be at any given time.
Prior to departing to the field, the Battalion Commander said it was his desire to see to it that all the front line troops were provided with eggs to order each morning. This meant that I would have to have the LOC personnel pack up the portable stoves on a 2 1/2, take them to the designated site, un load the stoves, get them fired up, and as each troop came through the serving line ask them how they wanted their eggs prepared.
I thought this was a little inefficient given the fluidity that the modern army was supposed to have at the time. It seemed to me much more logistically sound to cook all the eggs back in the LOC, put in containers and delver to the units. This way they were able to feed when it was tactically advantageous and not worry about the LOC being able to find them all the time. When the next meal came around we would deliver new containers with hot food, pick-up the old containers and just repeat the process each meal time.
From my point of view the Battalion Commander had made a suggestion of sorts and not given an order. My thought was if he did not like the way I had interpreted his desire then he would let me know. I also thought it a wise idea to not seek him out or be in the same place he was if I could help it. To insure that I would be hard to locate I let the Captain in charge of the Service Battery use my jeep with the only radio assigned to the LOC, or at least the only one that worked.
I was doing fine keeping away from the LTC. The troops were being fed on time, the food was hot, no one complained,God was in heaven and all was well. But then I turned left and I should have turned right. The LTC was waiting for me at an intersection.
"Young man," he began while going into a low hover, "What is it about eggs to order that you don't understand?"
"We have eggs to order every morning sir, I order scrambled."
The portable stoves were not as heavy or as cumbersome when delivered to the unit site from then on it seemed.
The new organizational structure called for a consolidated mess operation. That meant that instead of each battery commander being responsible for hauling around their own mess hall, the food would be prepared in a central location (LOC) and delivered to where ever the unit might be at any given time.
Prior to departing to the field, the Battalion Commander said it was his desire to see to it that all the front line troops were provided with eggs to order each morning. This meant that I would have to have the LOC personnel pack up the portable stoves on a 2 1/2, take them to the designated site, un load the stoves, get them fired up, and as each troop came through the serving line ask them how they wanted their eggs prepared.
I thought this was a little inefficient given the fluidity that the modern army was supposed to have at the time. It seemed to me much more logistically sound to cook all the eggs back in the LOC, put in containers and delver to the units. This way they were able to feed when it was tactically advantageous and not worry about the LOC being able to find them all the time. When the next meal came around we would deliver new containers with hot food, pick-up the old containers and just repeat the process each meal time.
From my point of view the Battalion Commander had made a suggestion of sorts and not given an order. My thought was if he did not like the way I had interpreted his desire then he would let me know. I also thought it a wise idea to not seek him out or be in the same place he was if I could help it. To insure that I would be hard to locate I let the Captain in charge of the Service Battery use my jeep with the only radio assigned to the LOC, or at least the only one that worked.
I was doing fine keeping away from the LTC. The troops were being fed on time, the food was hot, no one complained,God was in heaven and all was well. But then I turned left and I should have turned right. The LTC was waiting for me at an intersection.
"Young man," he began while going into a low hover, "What is it about eggs to order that you don't understand?"
"We have eggs to order every morning sir, I order scrambled."
The portable stoves were not as heavy or as cumbersome when delivered to the unit site from then on it seemed.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Cheeseburger Blues - Alaska
One might think that living in Western Alaska one would miss fine dining. Such things as steaks and chops or even a good plate of spaghetti and meatballs are really not to be had anywhere where I was and even if there was a cafe I doubt if it would be very good or affordable. I mean seal and moose can only be fixed so many ways.
The one cafe Hooper Bay did have was closed down a couple of years before I got there when the state licensing officials realized the village had no running water. Steak, chops, and fine dining is not what is missed however. To a teacher the food item missed most is a cheeseburger.
Not just an ordinary cheeseburger, but a double cheeseburger or DCB as known hence.
Each teacher there had their favorite DCB eating establishment in the lower 48 and they were not above bragging about how much more delectable "mine is than yours." It was a never ending debate.
It came to no surprise to me then that someone eventually suggested that we each fix DCB's based on the particular recipe used back home and bring them to the next Saturday night card game. Perhaps then we could get a better understanding of why each thought their's was the best.
I found myself at a little disadvantage because I did not now how my favorite DCB-making establishment went about making what I was sure the best tasting DCB anywhere. All I knew was that they were good, and I was always stressed-out trying decide between ordering a DCB or the giant tenderloin, equally as good, every time I was in Independence.
The stress would always subside however when I decided to order both. A side of onion rings was mandatory of course. OK, it is just once a year so no lectures.
I did the best I could from what I thought I knew about preparing them but to no avail. I never even came close to the culinary delight as I remembered; my efforts came very short of perfection.
We all showed up a little earlier than usual for the card game on Saturday and proudly displayed our various concoctions. The teachers from California and Arizona did not have much imagination, I thought, because they just put slices of avocado and salsa respectively between the patties.
There was more cheese than meat on the one provided by the teacher from Wisconsin and the DCB from Pennsylvania was burnt as black as coal.
The one with the most daring, I thought, had orange peels laced across the top of the burger, compliments of the Florida representative, and the vice-principal from Mississippi breaded and deep fried his entry and insisted upon serving fried okra as a side dish.
The whole process was an exercise in futility because they each faced the same problem I had. None of us could duplicate the taste of what we remember our particular DCB to be. Any event featuring and eating cheeseburgers with friends with some onion rings and fries thrown in cannot be all bad. That evening we just made the best of the situation.
The one cafe Hooper Bay did have was closed down a couple of years before I got there when the state licensing officials realized the village had no running water. Steak, chops, and fine dining is not what is missed however. To a teacher the food item missed most is a cheeseburger.
Not just an ordinary cheeseburger, but a double cheeseburger or DCB as known hence.
Each teacher there had their favorite DCB eating establishment in the lower 48 and they were not above bragging about how much more delectable "mine is than yours." It was a never ending debate.
It came to no surprise to me then that someone eventually suggested that we each fix DCB's based on the particular recipe used back home and bring them to the next Saturday night card game. Perhaps then we could get a better understanding of why each thought their's was the best.
I found myself at a little disadvantage because I did not now how my favorite DCB-making establishment went about making what I was sure the best tasting DCB anywhere. All I knew was that they were good, and I was always stressed-out trying decide between ordering a DCB or the giant tenderloin, equally as good, every time I was in Independence.
The stress would always subside however when I decided to order both. A side of onion rings was mandatory of course. OK, it is just once a year so no lectures.
I did the best I could from what I thought I knew about preparing them but to no avail. I never even came close to the culinary delight as I remembered; my efforts came very short of perfection.
We all showed up a little earlier than usual for the card game on Saturday and proudly displayed our various concoctions. The teachers from California and Arizona did not have much imagination, I thought, because they just put slices of avocado and salsa respectively between the patties.
There was more cheese than meat on the one provided by the teacher from Wisconsin and the DCB from Pennsylvania was burnt as black as coal.
The one with the most daring, I thought, had orange peels laced across the top of the burger, compliments of the Florida representative, and the vice-principal from Mississippi breaded and deep fried his entry and insisted upon serving fried okra as a side dish.
The whole process was an exercise in futility because they each faced the same problem I had. None of us could duplicate the taste of what we remember our particular DCB to be. Any event featuring and eating cheeseburgers with friends with some onion rings and fries thrown in cannot be all bad. That evening we just made the best of the situation.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Rothenburg ob der Tauber
It was a nice little German drinking establishment. The beer was good, I talked to a lady that had actually heard JFK's speech near the Berlin Wall, had a German English teacher wanting to practice his English with a real American, the accordion player played for us several times the only American tune he knew - Deep in the Heart of Texas - and we all sang with gusto, oh yes, I discovered that Germans had at least two uses for shoes.
Our little contingent of National Guard troops were allowed to go to the walled city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber, which means on the river Tauber, one weekend while participating in a three week exercise with the regular army. It was my first time outside the United States and I was enjoying every minute of my great adventure.
My NG compatriots and I were having a grand time in the little bar, but I decided that I wanted to walk around town a little. I left my buddies and just roamed around Rothenburg. It was dark and I couldn't see much but it was a crisp Bavarian night and I was so very impressed just to be there. It dawned on me that I had been the first McAnally to cross the Atlantic going east.
I eventually went back to where my friends were and my buddy Jerry came up to me and said, "You can't believe what just happened. A bunch of Germans poured beer in one of their shoes, started singing a beer drinking song and at the end of the song they tried to slam back their beer faster than the others at the table."
"Disgusting!" I said.
An hour or beer or so later Jerry came up to me again and said they were singing that song again. I walked up to the table where the Germans were, I slapped my shoe on the table, they greeted me warmly, poured beer in my shoe and at the appropriate time in the song, we all drank the beer as fast as we could. I slammed my shoe on the table at about the same time this one German did but there was a discrepancy on who finished first. We got into a friendly argument so it was decided that a rematch was in order.
He poured beer in my shoe than his, we counted to three, he picked up both shoes, handed me his and started drinking out of mine. He won of course because he had bigger feet. I think he must have worn ten and half, at least that's what it tasted like.
Our little contingent of National Guard troops were allowed to go to the walled city of Rothenburg ob der Tauber, which means on the river Tauber, one weekend while participating in a three week exercise with the regular army. It was my first time outside the United States and I was enjoying every minute of my great adventure.
My NG compatriots and I were having a grand time in the little bar, but I decided that I wanted to walk around town a little. I left my buddies and just roamed around Rothenburg. It was dark and I couldn't see much but it was a crisp Bavarian night and I was so very impressed just to be there. It dawned on me that I had been the first McAnally to cross the Atlantic going east.
I eventually went back to where my friends were and my buddy Jerry came up to me and said, "You can't believe what just happened. A bunch of Germans poured beer in one of their shoes, started singing a beer drinking song and at the end of the song they tried to slam back their beer faster than the others at the table."
"Disgusting!" I said.
An hour or beer or so later Jerry came up to me again and said they were singing that song again. I walked up to the table where the Germans were, I slapped my shoe on the table, they greeted me warmly, poured beer in my shoe and at the appropriate time in the song, we all drank the beer as fast as we could. I slammed my shoe on the table at about the same time this one German did but there was a discrepancy on who finished first. We got into a friendly argument so it was decided that a rematch was in order.
He poured beer in my shoe than his, we counted to three, he picked up both shoes, handed me his and started drinking out of mine. He won of course because he had bigger feet. I think he must have worn ten and half, at least that's what it tasted like.
Ice Capades - Alaska
There is not a Paul's Pizza to hang out at nor a pool hall in Sugar Creek, Blue Ridge, or Maywood (remember Art's?). But the kids in the village I lived at during my second year in Alaska did seem to have an active social life of sorts along with games that are similar to those in the lower 48.
Basketball is the game of choice, of course, but I have seen very spirited baseball games played on empty lots, another game that resembles baseball, and even some hopscotching using dirt holes in place of chalked sidewalks.
The ones who have access to snow-goes and four-wheelers, which is anyone over the age of 10, buzz around the village and down to the beach, which takes the place of cruising through Sydney's I guess.
As one might suspect, the games that the kids participate in most have to deal with the winter. The one I like most was called ice hopping. That is when kids go out on one of the numerous ponds that have not been completely frozen and see if they can cross the pond by jumping from one flow to the next with out falling through.
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to walk down by the pond next to our classroom during recess and watch the kids going from one end of the pond to the other, jumping from patch to patch.
I mentioned to George it was too bad he grew up in the desert and had never done anything like that. I then went on to extol my own virtues as a boy in being able to do miraculous feats on Crisp Lake during the bitter cold days in the Midwest around Fairmount when the temperatures dipped to 20 degrees.
George is young enough to take my comment as a challenge and before I knew it he was out there jumping from patch to patch like he had his right mind. He was able to get across the pond in record time for a white guy and more remarkably without getting wet. I wish he had not done that, and more that I had kept my mouth shut.
No sooner had he completed his feat of skill and daring than a flock of my darlings swarmed around me and began to badger me about me doing the same. They reminded me that I had done a somersault off a conex into a pile of snow recently and assured me they had complete faith in my ability to cross the pond.
I have heard that the cold affects ones brain and reasoning process, and be assured it is true.
The path George took seemed safe enough so I gingerly placed one foot on the ice, steadied my balance and took another cautious step, then another. I had eventually worked my way about half way across when I came to a break in the ice that required me to jump. The distance was only about a foot, so the distance did not bother me but I sort of figured that my point of impact might not be able to take the pressure of my assault. I have gained a few pounds since I was 13 you see. I did a tentative leap and much to my surprise landed upright and un wet.
This bolstered my confidence and I moved forward to the next ice break. I had to be careful this time because I saw quiet readily the ice was broken in several places and I would have to keep hoping and could not stop until I got to the other side. I mapped out my attack. I backed up a little got a running start, traversed the first break, magically the second, and vaulted over the third and went into the pond up to my waist on the fourth. Luckily I was only 3 feet away from the opposite shore and shoved my body through the ice like a huge iron-plated boat.
Our principal never comes out to our place to visit George and me, so I was rather shocked when I realized one of the hands helping me onto the shore was his.
I immediately told the kids in a loud voice, "Now see what can happen if you are not careful." The kids went inside and I looked around and there was no George. The principal suggested that I go home and change clothes and, that while encouraging a hands-on approach and practical experiences in teaching, I might want to follow George's example of maintaining classroom decorum, be a stellar role model, and set a better example to my charges like my teaching partner.
Basketball is the game of choice, of course, but I have seen very spirited baseball games played on empty lots, another game that resembles baseball, and even some hopscotching using dirt holes in place of chalked sidewalks.
The ones who have access to snow-goes and four-wheelers, which is anyone over the age of 10, buzz around the village and down to the beach, which takes the place of cruising through Sydney's I guess.
As one might suspect, the games that the kids participate in most have to deal with the winter. The one I like most was called ice hopping. That is when kids go out on one of the numerous ponds that have not been completely frozen and see if they can cross the pond by jumping from one flow to the next with out falling through.
One day my teaching partner George and I decided to walk down by the pond next to our classroom during recess and watch the kids going from one end of the pond to the other, jumping from patch to patch.
I mentioned to George it was too bad he grew up in the desert and had never done anything like that. I then went on to extol my own virtues as a boy in being able to do miraculous feats on Crisp Lake during the bitter cold days in the Midwest around Fairmount when the temperatures dipped to 20 degrees.
George is young enough to take my comment as a challenge and before I knew it he was out there jumping from patch to patch like he had his right mind. He was able to get across the pond in record time for a white guy and more remarkably without getting wet. I wish he had not done that, and more that I had kept my mouth shut.
No sooner had he completed his feat of skill and daring than a flock of my darlings swarmed around me and began to badger me about me doing the same. They reminded me that I had done a somersault off a conex into a pile of snow recently and assured me they had complete faith in my ability to cross the pond.
I have heard that the cold affects ones brain and reasoning process, and be assured it is true.
The path George took seemed safe enough so I gingerly placed one foot on the ice, steadied my balance and took another cautious step, then another. I had eventually worked my way about half way across when I came to a break in the ice that required me to jump. The distance was only about a foot, so the distance did not bother me but I sort of figured that my point of impact might not be able to take the pressure of my assault. I have gained a few pounds since I was 13 you see. I did a tentative leap and much to my surprise landed upright and un wet.
This bolstered my confidence and I moved forward to the next ice break. I had to be careful this time because I saw quiet readily the ice was broken in several places and I would have to keep hoping and could not stop until I got to the other side. I mapped out my attack. I backed up a little got a running start, traversed the first break, magically the second, and vaulted over the third and went into the pond up to my waist on the fourth. Luckily I was only 3 feet away from the opposite shore and shoved my body through the ice like a huge iron-plated boat.
Our principal never comes out to our place to visit George and me, so I was rather shocked when I realized one of the hands helping me onto the shore was his.
I immediately told the kids in a loud voice, "Now see what can happen if you are not careful." The kids went inside and I looked around and there was no George. The principal suggested that I go home and change clothes and, that while encouraging a hands-on approach and practical experiences in teaching, I might want to follow George's example of maintaining classroom decorum, be a stellar role model, and set a better example to my charges like my teaching partner.
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