May 5, 2011. To most people the day will pass without much notice unless they’re of Mexican heritage. Cinco de Mayo is a big deal to them. The fifth of May should be a big deal to Americans, too, but most of us are too young to remember and a lot of us who were around then have forgotten.
It had been only three and a half years since the Russians surprised us by putting the first man-made satellite, Sputnik, in space. On April 12, 1961, they did it again by sending the first human, Yuri Gagarin, into orbit.
On May 5 it was our turn. More specifically, it was Alan B. Shepard’s turn. We, as fellow Americans, were riding along vicariously. The Russians’ rocket launches occurred in extreme secrecy and were announced to the world only if successful. Our attempt would be broadcast on live television and radio. Shepard, strapped into a space capsule he named Freedom 7, which would be launched atop a Redstone rocket, would succeed or fail in front of the whole world. America’s nascent space program was riding on this mission.
To this seventh-grader at St. Sabina School on the South Side of Chicago, Room 32 was Mission Control on that sunny, warm Spring morning. The only difference was that half the room was full of girls and there was a nun. The boys looked like anyone in the control room: crew cuts or flat tops, white shirts, dark pants, dark ties. Some of us even had pocket protectors. For years we’d watched Sunday morning reruns of Flash Gordon movies and Buck Rogers TV shows. This was the real deal.
We didn’t have a TV but the principal announced that she would begin playing the radio coverage over the PA and reminded us to remember the day for the rest of our lives. She also requested (in Catholic school any request from a nun was considered an order) that prayers be offered for the safe journey of our astronaut.
Then the countdown crackled through the wooden box above the blackboard. “Ten...nine...eight”. With every second, the tension mounted. “Four...three...two”. Our collective breath was held. “One...zero...ignition...” And, after what seemed an eternity, “liftoff.”
For the next 15 minutes and 22 seconds we listened to snippets of conversation between Shepard and Mission Control, hanging on every word but not really understanding much of it. Our room, indeed the whole school, was never as quiet as during those few minutes.
Then, splashdown in the Atlantic. When Shepard announced that he was safely back on Earth, the school erupted. Girls cried and hugged, boys shook hands and slapped backs. Finally, Sister got everyone calmed down and had us sing a hymn written hundreds of years before but nonetheless perfect for a day when someone would slip the surly bonds of Mother Earth and safely return. I never forgot it.
Now thank we all our God with heart and hands and voices,
Whom wondrous things has done, in whom this world rejoices.
Who from our mother’s arms has sent us on our way
With countless acts of love and still in ours today.
In the ensuing years we’ve watched as Americans walked on the moon, Lt. Colonel Shepard among them. We’ve seen the triumphs and tragedies of the shuttle program. I have had the privilege of witnessing two shuttle launches in person. But nothing compares to that first time we went into space on that sunny Spring morning fifty years ago.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
A Day Off
I woke up late this morning. It was so late the other half was already up and dressed. That rarely happens; she's not a morning person. That gave me pause. I knew I'd been doing a lot lately but didn't realize just how tired I was until this morning. I decided then and there to take the day off.
There were magazines to be read, lots of loafing to do, and a book to finish, all good things to do on a crummy April day. Looking out at the leaden sky started me thinking--always a dangerous thing. Last April was much warmer and drier. What was the difference this year? Then it hit me. I had promised myself to do a project this winter. Now, four weeks into the Spring that isn't, I had not given a thought to that winter project. My unkept promise had kept the winter going. I was the reason for the lousy weather.
Back in September I moved my table saw, bench grinder, and drill press out of my small basement workshop and into the garage. That room was way too small for any job of size and the effluvia from those power tools was choking in such a small space. I put the saw and grinder on a movable table which I roll to the open garage door when I use it and all the dust goes outside.
That left a lot of space in the basement shop. Unfortunately, that space was in the form of an empty workbench. Like any horizontal surface on the planet, it began to collect stuff and the space became less usable than it had been with the tools on it. (Disclosure: All that stuff on the bench was what I'd moved out of the garage to make room for the power tools.) My promise was to organize all that stuff which was mostly hardware of every size and description. Screws, nuts, bolts, clamps, drill bits, and countless other small items littered every corner of that room as did sawdust collected from years of projects. Also on the bench was the compartmented container I was going to organize all the small parts in.
So, this evening after the wife came come from work and made me a nice pasta dinner (yep, she has sisters and they're available), I got a burst of energy and went downstairs to keep my promise. I never got to the organization project but, after two hours, I now have a clean space in which to do it. Stuff was ruthlessly thrown out or recycled and all those small parts are in containers from which they'll be assorted into containers with their kin.
Spring should start any day now.
There were magazines to be read, lots of loafing to do, and a book to finish, all good things to do on a crummy April day. Looking out at the leaden sky started me thinking--always a dangerous thing. Last April was much warmer and drier. What was the difference this year? Then it hit me. I had promised myself to do a project this winter. Now, four weeks into the Spring that isn't, I had not given a thought to that winter project. My unkept promise had kept the winter going. I was the reason for the lousy weather.
Back in September I moved my table saw, bench grinder, and drill press out of my small basement workshop and into the garage. That room was way too small for any job of size and the effluvia from those power tools was choking in such a small space. I put the saw and grinder on a movable table which I roll to the open garage door when I use it and all the dust goes outside.
That left a lot of space in the basement shop. Unfortunately, that space was in the form of an empty workbench. Like any horizontal surface on the planet, it began to collect stuff and the space became less usable than it had been with the tools on it. (Disclosure: All that stuff on the bench was what I'd moved out of the garage to make room for the power tools.) My promise was to organize all that stuff which was mostly hardware of every size and description. Screws, nuts, bolts, clamps, drill bits, and countless other small items littered every corner of that room as did sawdust collected from years of projects. Also on the bench was the compartmented container I was going to organize all the small parts in.
So, this evening after the wife came come from work and made me a nice pasta dinner (yep, she has sisters and they're available), I got a burst of energy and went downstairs to keep my promise. I never got to the organization project but, after two hours, I now have a clean space in which to do it. Stuff was ruthlessly thrown out or recycled and all those small parts are in containers from which they'll be assorted into containers with their kin.
Spring should start any day now.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Corporate Giants versus Mom and Pop
I normally don't write newspaper columnists but Neil Steinberg's column in the the Sun-Times of Monday February 14, 2011, got my attention. He wrote about the difficulty of a mom and pop business trying to keep its head above water in a era of mega-retailers. Being in the same boat, I had to respond.
Dear Neil,
I read your column regularly but today's forced me to sit down and write you.
Like Holly Sjo of Cupcake Counter I'm "concerned" about the encroachment of giant, soulless conglomerates who snuff out the dreams of small business people like them, and myself. You absolutely do get "a little heartbroken." Actually, a lot heartbroken. They've been at it two years. We've been doing it almost seventy-four. It doesn't get any easier.
You could probably spend the rest of your career writing about the plight of mom and pop businesses making a stand against the relentless force of giant mega-retailers with their economies of scale, fancy logos, and huge advertising budgets--if they last that long. Unless something changes, and quickly, small retail business in this country is doomed.
At some time in a dismal future, I see Walmart as the only retail outlet of any consumer commodity. Gone will be the days of visiting a store and dealing with the same person again and again. You won't get to know anyone in that store and they won't care about you any further than what it takes to sell you something and get you out of their hair. You'll know their name only because it's laminated on a plastic tag hanging on a lanyard or pinned to their apron. They won't make an attempt to learn yours. Personal, caring service will be a thing of the past. Doing something for the love of it and making a living at the same time will be long gone. Making a buck will be the only reason to go to work.
Until that day comes, we'll be here in our little stores, ready to help our customers any way we can. They'll know us even though we don't wear fancy name tags. We'll know their faces, greet them personally, and even start getting their orders ready when they walk in the door. That's customer service, a rapidly dying art.
I read your column regularly but today's forced me to sit down and write you.
Like Holly Sjo of Cupcake Counter I'm "concerned" about the encroachment of giant, soulless conglomerates who snuff out the dreams of small business people like them, and myself. You absolutely do get "a little heartbroken." Actually, a lot heartbroken. They've been at it two years. We've been doing it almost seventy-four. It doesn't get any easier.
You could probably spend the rest of your career writing about the plight of mom and pop businesses making a stand against the relentless force of giant mega-retailers with their economies of scale, fancy logos, and huge advertising budgets--if they last that long. Unless something changes, and quickly, small retail business in this country is doomed.
At some time in a dismal future, I see Walmart as the only retail outlet of any consumer commodity. Gone will be the days of visiting a store and dealing with the same person again and again. You won't get to know anyone in that store and they won't care about you any further than what it takes to sell you something and get you out of their hair. You'll know their name only because it's laminated on a plastic tag hanging on a lanyard or pinned to their apron. They won't make an attempt to learn yours. Personal, caring service will be a thing of the past. Doing something for the love of it and making a living at the same time will be long gone. Making a buck will be the only reason to go to work.
Until that day comes, we'll be here in our little stores, ready to help our customers any way we can. They'll know us even though we don't wear fancy name tags. We'll know their faces, greet them personally, and even start getting their orders ready when they walk in the door. That's customer service, a rapidly dying art.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Catholics, Come Home
Our local archdiocese has been running a series of beautiful, moving commercials attempting to get fallen-away Catholics to return to their faith. These spots run one to two minutes and would make even the most hard-core lost sheep consider coming back. If they’d preached in the past the message of love and forgiveness they’re presenting now, maybe they wouldn’t have to call for Catholics to come home.
But that’s not the problem for me. As anyone of a certain age who went to Catholic school knows, the nuns, priests, and brothers were sticklers for grammar and punctuation. An error in either of these areas would get the errant student a rap across the knuckles or any convenient body part with a wooden pointer, steel ruler, leather strap, or other instrument of torture.
In my own experience the worst was Brother Collins, my junior-year English teacher at Leo High School. His weapon of choice was a leg from a broken stool. The student would read a sentence with no capitalization or punctuation while standing next to the good Brother. The student would make corrections as he went. Brother Collins stood ready to reward a wrongly-placed comma, missed capital, or errant quotation mark with a swift shot just above the knee. Make another mistake and he struck a little higher. Those of us who were taught this way strive for perfection in our writing under a threat of swift retribution, permanently etched in our cerebral cortex, by teachers like Brother Collins and his ilk.
Let’s face it. They turned us into grammatical sticklers. Our eyes are immediately drawn to a misspelling in the text of one of those tiny disclaimers that flash for two seconds at the end of a car ad on TV. We cringe when we see a sign that says “Kitty’s for sale” on the side of the road. We actually pull over to determine if they’re selling kittens or trying to get rid of their daughter, Kitty.
Therein lies the problem with the Catholics Come Home campaign. Anyone taught the way we were would catch it right away and fear being struck blind by seeing such a linguistic travesty. It’s the bane of sticklers.
Catholics Come Home is direct address and requires a comma. Otherwise it’s merely a statement of fact. For example, “boys run” isn’t the same call to action as “boys, run.” Catholics, Come Home says, “We want you back.” Hard to tell what it means without the comma.
Any stickler not “comma-tose” from the error of the ad campaign would be stopped dead by the sign outside our church door as they try to return. It reads, “Welcome Home Catholics.” Without the comma it sounds like the name of a Christian Band. This weekend at all Masses: The Welcome Home Catholics. Welcome Home, Catholics would keep the leather strap in its sheath.
As one who’s seen the declining attendance at Sunday Mass I hope this campaign is a success of biblical proportions. Maybe it would do better with proper punctuation,.
But that’s not the problem for me. As anyone of a certain age who went to Catholic school knows, the nuns, priests, and brothers were sticklers for grammar and punctuation. An error in either of these areas would get the errant student a rap across the knuckles or any convenient body part with a wooden pointer, steel ruler, leather strap, or other instrument of torture.
In my own experience the worst was Brother Collins, my junior-year English teacher at Leo High School. His weapon of choice was a leg from a broken stool. The student would read a sentence with no capitalization or punctuation while standing next to the good Brother. The student would make corrections as he went. Brother Collins stood ready to reward a wrongly-placed comma, missed capital, or errant quotation mark with a swift shot just above the knee. Make another mistake and he struck a little higher. Those of us who were taught this way strive for perfection in our writing under a threat of swift retribution, permanently etched in our cerebral cortex, by teachers like Brother Collins and his ilk.
Let’s face it. They turned us into grammatical sticklers. Our eyes are immediately drawn to a misspelling in the text of one of those tiny disclaimers that flash for two seconds at the end of a car ad on TV. We cringe when we see a sign that says “Kitty’s for sale” on the side of the road. We actually pull over to determine if they’re selling kittens or trying to get rid of their daughter, Kitty.
Therein lies the problem with the Catholics Come Home campaign. Anyone taught the way we were would catch it right away and fear being struck blind by seeing such a linguistic travesty. It’s the bane of sticklers.
Catholics Come Home is direct address and requires a comma. Otherwise it’s merely a statement of fact. For example, “boys run” isn’t the same call to action as “boys, run.” Catholics, Come Home says, “We want you back.” Hard to tell what it means without the comma.
Any stickler not “comma-tose” from the error of the ad campaign would be stopped dead by the sign outside our church door as they try to return. It reads, “Welcome Home Catholics.” Without the comma it sounds like the name of a Christian Band. This weekend at all Masses: The Welcome Home Catholics. Welcome Home, Catholics would keep the leather strap in its sheath.
As one who’s seen the declining attendance at Sunday Mass I hope this campaign is a success of biblical proportions. Maybe it would do better with proper punctuation,.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Packer Backer? No Way!
I recently received this forward from a friend:
Every Red Blooded American should now jump in line to support the Green Bay Packers!
The Packers defeated the Chicago Bears last Sunday thus earning them the opportunity to go to the Super Bowl. By doing so, they saved the Hard-Working, Red Blooded, Taxpaying Americans literally several million dollars of tax money.
How you say?
Simple.
We were told that if the Chicago Bears had won that Chairman Obama (and probably his family) would be attending the Super Bowl to cheer on his hometown team. Since the Bears lost, the Chairman won't be attending. The money saved from not using Air Force One, the limousines, all the additional security, and let's not forget Michelle Obama's extensive entourage, is literally several million dollars!
Therefore every American should cheer on the Green Bay Packers at the Super Bowl to show them our gratitude.
Back the Packers? No Way!! I'm not gay.
BTW, I looked it up. No sitting President has ever attended a Super Bowl! I didn't know that either.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Round 1
This will be my first, and maybe my last, foray into the world of blogging. Some of what you'll read will come from the journal I've been keeping since 1977. The rest will come from the daily occurrences that make up the three-ring circus that is my life. In keeping with the title, it will be broken into three categories:
Rants: stuff that ticks me off. There will be lots of these. I work with the public every day.
Raves: stuff that really impresses me. Other than my grandchildren and my wife's cooking, these will be few and far between.
Random thoughts: stuff that doesn't fit into the above categories.
There will be no indication as to which category each post fall into. I'll leave it up to you to decide. So feel free to check back often, or not at all. I'm doing this for my personal amusement anyway.
Siochana
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