The Haasienda on Shroyer…

Yesterday, Mother and I were talking on the telephone, and we discussed my Grandma Donna’s gardens. 

They were strikingly beautiful, and filled with every imaginable color, and flower/plant. 

Mother claims she, herself, does not have a green thumb, but I recall lovely flower gardens while growing up at 825 Main Street.  The crown jewel of Mother’s collection was the voluminous lilac bush. 

Grandma Donna’s garden on the corner of Elwood’s 8th and South A streets contained a spectacular centerpiece: the Japanise maple tree.  Fortunately, my next door neighbor, Kay, who resembles my grandmother in spirit and wit, has one growing in her front yard next to my driveway. 

Growing up around the corner from Grandma Donna and Grandpa Leroy afforded me much time spent with them, and my wealthy memory bank will never be overdrawn.  Whether I was Grandma Donna’s assistant baker in the kitchen, her bicycle passenger when we rode out to T-Way parking lot to watch the Panther Band’s marching practice, or helping her in her gardens, my mind’s treasury is filled with family history, family stories, tons of guidance, and an eternity of love. 

I’ve been fairly lucky with gardening these past fourteen years at The Haasienda on Shroyer.  I’m still quite ignorant of flowers, and generally stick with impatiens since they tend to grow themselves.  However, thanks to several studio/student moms, past and present (Joanie P, Shelly H, Rita B, Pam M, Debbie A, Debbie McC, and several others), I’ve managed to grow in my skills, interest, and enjoyment. 

Today, while finishing up the front yard’s production of blooms and starts, I looked around, quite satisfied with the results.  I imagined my Grandma Donna looking it over, as well, and praising my novice efforts. 

So, I am now calling the front yard, Grandma’s Garden.  

It just seems fitting. 

In many respects, it had the beginning nudges of a typical Sunday.

Then, the first student, a new piano and voice student, changed the entire emotional pattern for the day.  

The following student, my darling “studio ambassador” connected with the first student.  The emotional joy rose even higher.  

It didn’t stop. 

Each student brought with them something to impact the day even more.  

Half of today’s eight students are adopted.  

The electricity of connections, budding friendships, realizations, new chapters, and understanding was gripping, and wildly thrilling to watch.  

Perhaps it is due to the beautiful moon accompanied by the two planets hovering in the sky, tonight. 
Perhaps this is just the way it is meant to be. 

The past six months I’ve eliminated a number of negative situations/people who felt compelled to share their toxicity.  Today seemed to be the threshold of the new chapter where the negative souls are no longer present.  It feels wonderful. 

It’s all been worth it…

The magic continues….

This past week, I’ve heard the first sounds of Spring, here in the Miami Valley.

Not birds singing….  Not the sound of rustling new leaves…

The sound of PERCUSSION!

I love it when it’s winter percussion or marching band season because the ensembles/sections, next door at Fairmont High School, practice outside.  The percussion ensemble, and winter guard members do not get full spring breaks as most their friends do.  By Wednesday of Spring break, these troopers have returned for 9-12 hour practices, preparing for the final leg of regional and national grand finals.

If you have never been to one of these contests, check out MEPA or WGI schedules.  They are a blast, and one of the most exciting, and beautiful athletic art forms you’ll ever see.

Indoor/Winter Percussion

Winterguard

This past weekend, I was so blessed to see five shows involving students, former students, and friends.

I had two students serving as principals in two musicals, Brookville junior, Monica Impson scaled the rooftops of London as a dazzling Mary Poppins in Disney’s MARY POPPINS, and Alter freshman, Jack Issler, captured laughs as the quipping Mereb in Elton John’s AIDA.

Brookville High School, based in rural Ohio, and a major exit off I-70, pulled out all the stops, and magic with the large-scale MARY POPPINS.  I was delighted with the production, and even more thrilled with Monica’s commanding presence, and performance as the nanny of all nannies.

Most smaller schools are at a funding, and participation disadvantage; however, the Brookville school-community got its “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” on, and knocked it over the roof-tops of London.  There were a number of non-theatre participants that also included several faculty, and about two dozen little peeps portraying the come-to-life toys in the nursery.

Getting folks involved is crucial to performing arts programs, especially in smaller school districts, and Brookville scored beautifully while giving the younger students a taste of what’s to come when they cross the high school’s threshold.

While Monica soared vocally, and made the floor boards shutter with her acting, I was like a little kid taken with the magic of theatre as she gently lifted into the air, umbrella poised in Poppins-style, and spooning out the dazzling magic of flight on stage.

Bravo, Brookville!

One of my dozen ginger-haired students, Jack, arrived on the freshman scene ready to do battle, and he got a taste of stage battle as the cunning, rascally, yet devoted servant, Mereb.

I’d not seen AIDA, but have always loved Elton John’s score.  The production, under the direction of my one of my top five directors, Megan Wean Sears, did not disappoint.  I’ve been to AHS’s productions prior to Megan’s arrival, and they were good.  However, even Megan’s two preceding, very strong AHS productions, CHILDREN OF EDEN and INTO THE WOODS, were pebbles in the Mideastern sands compared to AIDA.

Something was definitely written in the stars, and it wasn’t just a love song!

Enough about Megan!  This was to be about Jack’s performance….

Last Spring, I attended Jack’s St. Charles’ talent show where he pulled off a brilliant interpretation of “It’s Your Wedding Day” from THE WEDDING SINGER.  I’d heard him sing the song in lessons, and he was great.  I was not expecting the sheer confidence, and ownership from the then-8th grader.

I was not surprised his AIDA audition merited him a principal role, as well as understudy to the male lead.  Jack’s tenor voice floated, and his wisecracks crackled with hilarity that endeared him to the audience, thus making his late Act Two death quite shocking.

Bravo, Alter High School!

Seldom do I cry, but tonight, it could not be helped upon learning such a lovely man, Dan Clark, had departed this human-life.

Only weeks ago, Dan retired from Wright Patterson Air Force Base, ready to join his beautiful wife, Candy, already a retired art teacher from Fairmont High School, on many new adventures.  There were baby grandsons to love on, and show choir contests to cheer.

Dan was sick but a short time, but even throughout these past few days of knowing the end was nearing, it still feels like a glimpse…

As my years advance, I am acutely aware of glimpses: children grow, graduate, go to college, marry, raise children of their own…  beloved grandparents and uncles leave us…  family and friends move on in every conceivable way…. pets grow up, and romp over to Rainbow Bridge…

I am not surprised by these natural, circle-of-life-glimpses, but I am made more aware the second hand of life’s clock continues without fail, never allowing us to set back the time as we Midwesterners get to do each Autumn to adjust for Daylight Savings Time.  Still, with the recaptured hour, we are not afforded the recapturing of lost loved ones, or other life-glimpses….

There are times when life does seem a bit unfair, but there are always reasons, and always lessons in this process.  So, be it.

Glimpses…  don’t let any ever slip by…

Ahhh! What a fantastic day, already.  

  
 I relaxed, played with the dogs, explored my new Staff Pad music program on my new Surface Pro 3 tablet, and just finished a fantastic lesson with a student preparing for a professional musical theater audition tomorrow. She made this day all the more exciting due to such tremendous progress these past few weeks.
It’s a low key weekend with nothing on the docket: no winter guard or indoor percussion competitions, and hopefully just creative hours spent writing, and composing.
Sending out tremendous prayers, and heartfelt love to a darling lady who lost her husband in the wee hours of the morning. Know you are loved, Maribeth Crowe….

Wednesdays are my long days.

Generally, I take it easier during the morning since I begin teaching at 1:30 PM; however, this morning, I was revved up at 7:30 PM.  Many household chores were accomplished by 9:00 AM, and then I stepped into the backyard where I was greeted by a brilliantly lit sky, and 58-degrees.

The afternoon was high with anticipation, and anxiety, for the impending blizzard which seems to have been scaled back.  My brother, a Hoosier superintendent, cancelled school for the day, so we were expecting a similar scenario for The Miami Valley.

The afternoon, and evening were spent with some outstanding students making some great music.  Three new students have joined the ranks, this week, and I’m excited with this additional talent.

I am a bit let down that there will not be the forecast blizzard.  I do love the anticipation!

From the very start as a two month old puppy, Bailey has maintained an interest in ladies’ purses, or any kind of bag.  Many times, I’ve heard students, or mothers, in the living room, say, “Oh, Bailey!  That’s mine!”

The adorable little beagle had retrieved something from a purse.

Last spring, my wrestler boys were cleaning the walls and baseboards throughout the house, and when they moved one of the twin beds in the guest bedroom, they discovered a collection of lipstick, chap stick, pens, and other small items.

This morning, as I was pulling out blankets from their crate to wash, these items fell out of the blankets.  Only one item belonged to me: the chap stick with the adoption agency.

Oh, how I love my Bailey!

Flashback: 825 Main Street in Elwood, Indiana; December 24, 1971…

It was Christmas at the Jolliff home in the two story home on the big hill that overlooked the intersections of Main Street (also IN-28) and 9th Street.  The house was filled with the usual holiday familiars, my parents, my Grandpa Leroy, Grandma Donna, my teenage maternal uncles, Ron and Tom, and my maternal great-grandfather, Garrett Clary.

There was a knock at the door, and my mother ushered in Santa Claus!

Elwood was blessed with two outstanding souls who offered their hearts to the citizens of the small community each holiday season, police officer, Harley Shinkle, and Jim King.  On this night, Santa King stopped by our house, retrieved the package placed on the front porch, and delivered my Christmas cheer.

After taking me through the usual round of Santa’s questions, he pulled from his pocket a letter.  The letter he had received from me earlier that December.

Santa Claus exclaimed it was the best penmanship for a first grader he’d ever received in all his years receiving letters from boys and girls all over the world.  For a good minute, Santa praised my letter.

The jolly old elf left our home, but not before laying the letter down on a table.

A little later, Mother picked up the letter to show my proud grandparents, and then there was silence… the worst kind of silence that put the fear of God, and all things holy, in the little soul of a seven year old.

“This is my letter!”

Flashback: several weeks earlier, same house, same year…

The first grade class at Washington Elementary School was learning how to write in cursive.  I wanted my letter to Santa to be in cursive, but since I’d not yet mastered the style on my own, Mother wrote out the letter per my dictation, and my job was to copy the letter exactly as Mother had written it in her own beautiful penmanship.

Task accomplished, I proudly showed my 1st grader’s scrawl to Mother who showered me with praise and hugs at my first true attempt writing in cursive.  She then instructed me to fold the letter, and place it in the pre-addressed, envelope.  We drove up to the post office on Anderson Street where my great-uncle, Dewey Smith, greeted me with my favorite moniker he always used, “Well, hello, Mr. Jolliff.”  The letter to Santa was in secure hands with Uncle Dewey, and I was relieved the mission had been accomplished.

What had been accomplished was Operation: Santa Letter… I’d placed Mother’s template-letter in the envelope, and disposed of mine.

Santa did not catch me in this crime, but Mother did when she prepared to show my grandparents!

My hometown had the Elwood Drive-In.  
I can remember the excitement of putting on my pajamas, and being carried to the car. Mother always popped a grocery sack full of popcorn, and we had juice.  
As I got older, I stopped wearing my jammies, and joined other kids in the play area in front of the large screen.  
The first movie I recall is SNOW WHITE. Mother, and her younger brother, Ron, took me. At some point I fell asleep, and all I remember is Uncle Ron waking me as the prince lifted her onto his horse. I could not have been more than three years old, and why, 48 years later this memory is still so clear is beyond me.  
So many wonderful family times at the Elwood Drive-In.
  

I finished my last lesson by 2 PM, and within 15 minutes I was Skype being with several show choir directors who are implementing my breathing technique.  By 3 PM, I was snuggling with three of the sweetest dogs in the world for a long awaited nap.  

Then, it was off to downtown Dayton’s Schuster Center for the Performing Arts to see one of my favorite vocal groups, Straight No Chaser, a wonderful gift from the Houser family.

   
   
These 10 fellows are some of the most phenomenal entertainers I’ve ever witnessed. Their vocal artistry, tremendous wit and antics, and overall gift of entertaining is One thing I so look forward to seeing each December.

   
    
   
After visiting with friends before leaving the Schuster, I spent some time photographing the wonderful cases that contain some of the old Rike’s Department Store Christmas window displays.  What a treasure of Dayton’s history.

   
   
I spent some time enjoying some of the architecture, and holiday lighting downtown, not wanting to leave the 59° weather.

I’ve one trip on the docket, and a number of projects I am hoping to complete until I resume teaching again, January 4.

Before launching into this amusing story, let me first introduce my student, Sam, an eleven year reproduction of me forty years ago. 

 We’ve all read the social media memes: What kind of conversation would you have with your younger self?

I live that question each week!

If the toe-head, mischievous grin, and air of terrific energy are not enough in this photograph, the personality, inquisitive nature, and wit are defining replicas of a young Me!  It’s uncanny at times.  I never need to figure out Sam.  I’m way ahead of him.

Monday, Sam and his mom, Karen, came in for his lesson, and they began looking at the Christmas decorations as I grabbed my cup of coffee.

When I entered the living room, Karen was chuckling.  And as I am writing this, I am already realizing this is one of those “you had to be there” scenes because I am not capable of completely capturing the hilarity in writing!  Karen said, “Sam wanted to know if you were Jewish,” and she nodded toward my tree, completely decorated in blue and silver.

I could not leave it alone…

 Yes, Sam, I am Jewish, but since I have so many non-Jewish students I always put up a Jewish Christmas tree.  

Sam pointed out the star was not David’s star.

No, that would be a Methodist star for my family members who are Methodist.  But, if I flap this Smithsoian 1903 Wright Flyer ornament fast enough, it resembles The Star of David.

Sam was convinced.

Later in the evening, Karen sent me a text, applauding my acting skills:  Sam eagerly described to his dad my Methodist-Jewish Christmas tree!

Merry Hannukah! 

Another unpublished blog entry from 2013…

In 1989, I wrote a song for my Mary Lincoln musical for a young Abraham Lincoln to sing as a proposal of marriage.  I went with nature, and based it on the John Brainard poem, “I Saw Two Clouds At Morning.”

Since writing that song, I’ve become a little more interested in clouds.  As a young boy of 4, my great-grandmother died.  I assumed that heaven was the clouds, and for many years following her death, I would select the largest, most beautiful cloud and think, “That must be Grandma Belle’s heaven-cloud.”  Nearly 45 years later, I still look for Grandma Belle’s heaven-cloud.

I’ve flown commercially countless times since 1984.  A majority of my trips were to New York City.  However, today, riding in a 4-seater, I felt as though I finally saw clouds – both sides, now.

I loved the mountains of clouds.

I loved the canyons of clouds.

I loved surfing the clouds.

I loved soaring beneath the clouds and through the clouds.

Today, a student’s family flew me to see Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater, an architectural wonder.

Kevin Houseman, my pilot, was remarkable in explaining so many things about the controls, and flying.  My knowledge about flight ends in 1915 when Orville Wright sold The Wright Company.

Blog not completed…

I tripped across this blog item in my draft file… Somehow it slipped through the publish cracks about two years ago.

I’ve battled sinus and chest congestion for more than a week, and have returned to a different urgent care – The Little Clinic at Kroger on Dorothy Lane.

I have been impressed with the service so far.

A very slowly moving elderly genteel man entered to have his ears cleaned. I was not aware that this service was offered! There is now a computer sign-in, and I handled this with ease.

The gentleman, however, was entirely confused. The poor soul seemed frustrated, and so helpless, and did not know where to begin. The young clinic assistant, a student at Sinclair community college, looked up, and smiled at the gentleman. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. Step over here and I’ll help you. We can get this taken care of.”

The young nursing student won me over.

Then, the gentleman could not pull his drivers license front is wallet, and could not determine which of his two insurance cards to use. The young clinic assistant was so gracious, patient, and terribly kind and maternal.

Finally, the gentleman nestled himself into a chair to await the nurse practitioner.

As I gazed upon the gentleman, he seemed to be from an era long dismissed by this current generation. I know many his age who are still vital, and seemingly youthful. And, I know those who have allowed life, in a variety of ways, to pass them by.

When does this happen? 

 How does it happen?

I still feel I’m a part of the Pepsi Generation, but I know there will be a day when some of life has passed me by. 

 It has already happened with technology, as I feel there is always something on which I am behind. Popular music does not count as I’ve never been on top of current music as I should. Heck, I am still learning about music from my high school and college years.

Within the past hour, I’ve resolved that while my body will certainly age with time, and I will experience all the hideous side effects that accompanies the aging process, I will fight to maintain a grasp on not allowing life to move too far ahead without me.

I found this blog post from July 2013, two weeks before Flyer died.  For some reason it never got published….

Monday, July 15th:

• 3:30am, Flyer had a seizure
• Teaching day went by nicely
• 4:14pm, Flyer had a seizure
• Flyer: did not complete breakfast, or dinner; d
• id not keep everything down

 



Chief does not leave Flyer’s side

 
• No interest in going on walks
• Chief & Navi seem to be on best behaviors; took extended walk last night
• Kept dogs downstairs in second bedroom

Tuesday, July 16th:

• Mary Lincoln passed away on this date in 1882
• Flyer did not wish to walk
• Another extended walk for Kids – lots of dogs out
• Flyer did not finish breakfast; lethargic

Halloween 2015 is almost in the books!

I’m not a big fan of Halloween, and detest getting creative for a costume. In fact, I’m wearing jeans and a flannel shirt over a T shirt which could constitute as a costume.

By 11:00 AM I was on the road to Chillicothe, Ohio to hopefully capture the last of the autumn foliage. Nestled between the majestic hills of southeastern Ohio, and the Scioto River, Chillicothe is quite a step back in time when it served as Ohio’s capital from 1803-1810.   

 Adena Mansion, the home of Ohio’s first governor, Thomas Worthington, sits perched high up on a densely wooded hill overlooking the town below. The mansion was designed by one of our nation’s earliest architects, Henry Benjamin Latrobe, who had a great deal of influence in Washington DC, and at the White House in our nation’s infancy.

 

 

 After some time strolling the grounds, I spent a good deal of time walking through downtown Chillicothe. Beautiful architecture.  

I returned home, fed the dogs, took care of leaves in my front yard, and in my next door neighbor’s before taking a quick nap. 

At 7:30 PM, I headed down to Stoddard Street to a hill just beneath the Greek Orthodox Church. The entire hillside was filled with some of the most beautifully designed, and carve jack-o’-lanterns. I had never heard of this event until last night, and it is one I intend to attend from now on. 

I really wanted to meander through the Oregon District to see some of the costumes. I’ve lived in Dayton for 25 years, and I’ve never been to the Oregon District for Halloween. However, I wanted to spend time with my furry trio. The weather this evening has been absolutely beautiful, and I am taking advantage of it by sitting out on the deck under my tent.

What a nice way to enjoy the last day of October, and to celebrate Halloween!

This is not any simple hair-tie or ponytail tie: this is a dastardly tool used in the construction of a device used to project water onto an unsuspecting victim.  
Ahhhh…. The great joy and humor Sue Branson, a student, and dear friend, who has delivered numerous moments of creative hilarity to my home!

Quite often, Sue and I will have a cup of tea, and chat, before her lesson.

Yesterday, at the end of her lesson, she took her tea cup into my kitchen, and I noticed she was taking a little more time than this typical weekly ritual of delivering the tea cup to the kitchen.

After she left, I quickly checked the typical areas of target for this science teacher-prankster: No dry ice flowing out of my toilet – check; no chicken feet from a classroom dissection project on my car’s windshield – check; no tin cans tied to the front of the car – check; no snap pop things (typically sold around July 4th) under the toilet seat, tied to cabinets, etc. – check; no little tiny, tiny devices that make a frequent, random beep to drive one crazy for several days – check; no molten snake skins in my napkin basket – check; and the list continues.

Last night after teaching, I picked up my neighbor from baseball practice. Before delivering him home, we went to Wendy’s. Therefore, I only passed through the kitchen.

This morning, however, I went to fill my coffee maker, and as I raised the faucet handle, a steam of water shot past me, missing me but alarming me! I thought my faucet fallen apart!

Good one, Sue!

For future reference: when attempting this prank, you need to adjust the sprayer’s hose a bit so that it will aim directly at the person. I learned this when the sons were home.

Oh! And if you unscrew the nozzle of the sprayer and fill it with Kool Aide or cocoa powder, and then reattach, some pretty fun results. Yeh, so what if I had to go buy a son a new white dress shirt for concert band; it was so totally worth it to see the huge purple blast on him!

When I was leaving Woodland Cemetery, driving through some of the campus housing, there were a number of visiting families eager to enjoy the football game with their college students.
I always enjoy observing parents. Some seem very comfortable in this environment, while others seem to be the proverbial fish out of water.
One dad, who appeared very hip and cool, was unloading something from his car, surrounded by college students that looked equally hip and cool. 

 We all know the Steve Martin – Chevy Chase types of dads. I always seem to fall into this particular category (I was never cool like some dads I knew: Mike Wager, Bob Ditto, Brian Pollock, John Moore, Rusty Cochran to name a few). The Steve – Chevy combo are semi-cool, but just seem to barely escaped being a Homer Simpson or Peter Griffith kind of dad.  

 Then, I spied THE dad. We’ve all seen him. The only way I can think to describe THE dad is: Eugene Levy who plays The father in the AMERICAN PIE films.  

This THE dad want so badly to be hip and cool. They are generally some of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet, but I still can’t help but to find them amusing.

On a southeast corner hillside in Woodland Cemetery, just opposite the backside of Governor Cox’s tomb, an elderly gentleman sits in a lawn chair near a grave. A boombox, or whatever they call them these days, is playing music.  
I’ve seen this gentleman in the same spot for several years on Saturday mornings.

 In some ways it’s sad, but many other ways it’s a beautiful testament to time and life shared with someone he dearly loved.

  

Three Dayton schools are on lockdown at the moment, and it is it is not even 9:30 AM on this Thursday morning.
The past three weeks, several schools in the area have had early dismissal’s due to bomb threats, or have been placed on lockdown for a variety of reasons.  
These dangerous disruptions don’t disturb just the students, faculty, and personnel in the schools, but have a wide reaching impact on: 
:: school transportation: drivers need to be called back in, or different drivers acquired for the routes; the entire bus end of the day schedule may need to be adjusted depending on the time of the disruption (I cannot even imagine this scheduling nightmare)
:: parents at work which could also impact the parents’ employers
:: families juggling children in other schools
:: while some students might take these threats/precautions lightly, hoping to get back home in front of the gaming system, there are those individuals who are deeply affected by such stress 
:: yes, teacher’s and schedules are disrupted, but imagine the fear/horror they must endure while protecting their students
:: some neighbors next to the school who bomb threats seriously and leave their homes until the area is deemed safe
:: most often, evening activities at the school are canceled
:: stress throughout the school district, and the entire community
:: police, fire fighters, paramedics are called into action, and whenever these items occur, it should never be far from one’s mind: who might truly be needing the services while this prank is being played out?
:: traffic patterns adjusted
I’m sure there are many more scenarios wedged into these critical moments. There is so much more damage than disrupting a school’s schedule.
 
 God bless the administrators, teachers, staff/personnel who immediately jumped into the circle of potential danger to protect our students.

What a fantastic day! 

  

 I skipped going to the high school cross country meet since it was cold, windy, and wet. Plus, it gave me an opportunity to complete some items around the house.  

By 2 PM I was on the road heading east to Columbus, chatting with mother along the way.  
I arrived at the Ohio State University horse shoe/football stadium with 30 minutes to spare before seeing Avon high school marching band, directed by one of my all-time favorite people, Aaron Jacobs. At the ticket booth, I was told, “cash only.” By this time it was 3:40 PM. The gentleman told me there was an ATM several blocks away at the hotel.   I honestly do not know how I managed it, but through the rain I went to the hotel, and back to the stadium, actually making it to a seat on C deck as Aaron’s band was taking the field for warm-up.

Duncan Titus, a 2014 Beavercreek high school graduate, now a music education major at OSU, joined me to watch Aaron’s band as a steady rain fell.  The Avon high school band delivered a mighty fine performance.

Duncan and I moved beneath an overhang where it was much dryer. Although we watch the bands, we spent a great deal of time chatting about teaching, music, and life in general.

Another highlight was getting to see Aaron’s mom and dad, Linda and Mark. Since Aaron is no longer in Beavercreek or at Wright State, I really miss seeing the Jacobs family.

And of course, there was “the best damn band in the land,” the Ohio State University Marching Band. (By this time, Duncan and I had moved to a fantastic spot at the very top of the stadium right on the 50 yard line! Spectacular!) Somewhere on the field was Matthew Conrad, another Beavercreek high school graduate. As always, my favorite collegiate band did not disappoint.

Duncan and I went for a late night dinner in the Short North area on High Street. I don’t remember the name of the restaurant, but it was the same one where Jim Buxton and I ate last December. (if it helps at all, Jim, I got the Buddha bowl, again.)

After about two hours of enjoying a delightful chat with Duncan, I dropped him off at his residence hall on campus, and have now completed refueling.
A great day, spent either on the phone, or in the presence of some wonderful, wonderful folks.

While waiting for the light to turn green, I looked over into the Flowerama parking lot to see a mother and father loading at least a dozen pumpkins into their hatchback. Peeking over the backseat to supervise was a very young face of about three or four years old.  

The child’s eyes were obviously lit up with excitement over the orange treasures.

As a child I remember our family carving pumpkins. I don’t recall carving another pumpkin until I had sons of my own.  When it was time to carve the pumpkins, the boys were terribly excited.  I merely went through the motions deeming it my paternal duty.
Seeing the young child’s expression this morning prodded a renewed attitude about those orange treasures.  
It’s just those little things. 

Even the small, misshapen orange treasures.

  

I did take a gander at the lunar eclipse for a few minutes.  Chief seemed puzzled why I stood staring at the sky, but he often looks puzzled by most things I do.

There are tons of folks watching this celestial event: Facebook friends, far and near, are commenting on the eclipse, posting photographs; there are quite a few people on the front lawn of the high school, and neighboring yards are enjoying the spectacle.

It so reminds me of my childhood when the Apollo missions seemed more frequent.  Naturally, the highlight of that era was Neil Armstrong’s famous walk on the moon which I clearly remember. But there were other missions that stand out in my memory.

One summer night when I was between 5 and 7 years old, my mother, father and I took sheets and pillows and blankets outside to the backyard.  An Apollo craft was to fly over Elwood Indiana around 1 AM.  It was a quiet night, and quite beautiful with an array of stars splattering the black sky.  You could hear neighbors cheerfully chatting with neighbors, and it seemed the entire community was having a sleepover.

After a while, the friendly chatter and laughter subsided.  

To the east of our home at the corner of Ninth & Main streets, situated on one of the few hills in our hometown, I heard what seemed much like the roar of an ocean wave.  At first I was a bit confused, and can remember feeling a bit uncertain.  Within seconds I realized the growing roar was cheering from those who were seeing the spacecraft on the other side of town.  Eventually the flickering lights came into view as cheers erupted on the west side of Elwood.

It was an exciting time to be a little peep growing up in the beginning stages of the space-age.  The fire from the rockets fueled the imagination of countless boys and girls.  Barely 60 years before Neil Armstrong’s first step on to the moon, two brothers from Dayton Ohio, my current town, flew the first airplane over the sands of Kill Devil Hill on the Outer Banks of North Carolina.  

I feel fortunate to have grown up in such an incredible era of technological advances, the dawning of the space-age, and those few years in the late 1960s and early 1970s that took us out to our backyards to look up into the sky.

      
 

 
You can say one thing about ABC’s daytime talk show, THE VIEW: it knows how to maintain ratings.

When this innovative talk show premiered in 1997, I was thrilled that the voice of women would take center stage, spear-headed by legendary news personality, Barbara Walters.  I honestly believed that Ms. Walters participation made this new media vehicle genuine, and reliable.

With in a year, I was beginning to frown during certain segments, primarily “Meredith’s “Guilt Trip,” which seemed so forced, and even hokey.   When the show began, I really liked Meredith Vieira, however, within a few months something just did not jive.  The guilt trip segments, wanting to perform on a Broadway stage, and other contrived scenarios not only diminished the luster of this product, but also the integrity.

Starr Jones graded on my nerves just as much as another media attorney, Nancy Grace.  I’ve always enjoyed Joy Behar’s salty humor, and Barbara Walters presence seemed to always balance the table.

Exit Meredith. Enter Rosie.

Now, I admit I’ve always like Rosie O’Donnell.  I appreciated the spotlight her talk show aimed on theater/musical theater, and the many wonderful things she did to promote adoption, and children in the performing arts.

THE VIEW was in need of higher ratings when they brought on Rosie, and boy did they get the ratings.  Rosie always shoots from the hip, and her unapologetic tone delivered with her opinions really began lighting the fuses that would soon explode in the tabloids, and on other talkshows.

Everyone acted so surprised.

Why?  It was Rosie O’Donnell, for crying out loud, and you knew what you were getting with Rosie O’Donnell.

It was not too long until Barbara Walters was getting involved in the drama, and behaving in a manner I always found quite surprising given her royal status in the legitimate news department.  When Barbara began her middle school girl drama, this was the moment the show jumped the shark.  I figured it would be over within a year or so.

Not so.  THE VIEW just continued jumping more sharks.

Controversies over Donald Trump, Bill Cosby, Rosie and Elisabeth’s feud, Rosie and everybody else’s feud, Barbara and Donald’s feud, and the list continues… Barf….

It’s nothing short of daytime reality television seen on Jerry Springer, and some of the other deplorable examples of mindless, sophomoric marketing.

With Ms. Walters at the helm, the show maintained enough validity; however, it lacked the attractive entertainment quality to keep folks tuned in.  Thus, the team adopted the “reality” bait.

Obviously, it worked.

September 2015: ABC’s Operation let’s get ratings up….

Begin: controversy with nurses.

I’m not surprised the ladies of THE VIEW pushed this button.  Look how it has worked.  Again.  The merry-go-round of celebrity feuds has run its course, and producers have extended the intrusive circle of attacks to include nurses.

It’s definitely working…

Bait.

Hook.

Trust me, the ABC executives are already attaching bait to the next hook once thi s controversy blows over.

A friend’s birthday shout out led to the mention of a story from my freshman year of college.

May 1984, I traveled to Greece, Cypress, and Crete with the Ball State University Singers.  We were scheduled to perform, as well as tour many ancient ruins, and some of the most beautiful scenic locations in the world.

Our first dayg in Athens Greece, we arrived mid afternoon, and checked into an old hotel where you still had to pull the gate on the elevator.  My roommate, Greg, and I were getting settled into the room when we both noted this little sink nestled into the bathroom’s floor tiles.  

For only a moment, Greg and I pondered the uses of this sink.  Since we were in a part of the Mediterranean coast where sandals were often worn, I suggested it was a footbath.  Greg, perhaps being a little more resourceful, insisted it was an ice chest built into the floor: you placed your pop/soda bottles into the sink, and then filled it with ice.

Next door to us were married chaperones, Jan, and her husband Rod Richard.  Jan, a charter member of the show choir, and I met while seated on the plane.  I said something about my mother being 39 years old, and Jan shoved her face in between the seats in front of me and groaned, “I’m old enough to be your mother.”

For some reason, a few moments following Greg’s and my questioning of the floor sink, I meandered into Rod and Jan’s room. 

As Rod and I stood looking over their balcony railing, Jan joined us after leaving the bathroom, and said to her husband, “Oh, Rod, come see the bidet in the bathroom.”

I am mediately asked to what she was referring.  Ever the schoolteacher, Jan escorted me into their bathroom and gestured to the little sink in the floor.  I exclaimed Greg and I had been discussing the uses for the sink.  

Jan looked at me, and asked what we had considered. 

To my amusement, Jan aptly described the use of this Grecian floor sink.

To my horror….

I rushed from their room, back into ours to find Greg pouring ice over soda bottles placed in the floor sink.

Neither of us had the stomach to drink from these bottles, and place them in the trashcan.