Aurora Schools Hall of Fame, 2015

Late yesterday morning, I drove over to Aurora for the 2015 Induction Ceremony for the latest members of the halls of fame in the Aurora City Schools: Athletic Hall of Fame, Distinguished Alumni, and Honored Educator/Staff Member. I had connections of various sorts to all the inductees, and it was a thrill to sit in the audience and hear all the wonderful stories about them.

I was thrilled for other reasons, too--among them: I was able to re-connect with colleagues and students from the very earliest days of my career (I was 21 years old when I taught my first year, 1966-1967--7th graders), and I told some of those students from long, long ago that I hoped they had poor memories, for I was making about a mistake-a-minute in those days. Or more. (By the end of my career I was much better--a mistake about every 90 seconds.)

It was especially moving for me to be together with the seven children of the late Donna French, a wizardly librarian who was inducted this year. Her daughter Linda (who was in 8th grade the year I began) helped me and some others write the first play I did in Aurora, spring of 1967, The Founding of Aurora; or, The Grapes of Wrath. It was Shakespearean ... not.

I taught most of the other Frenches (six girls, one boy) in the ensuing years, and many of them were in play productions in the middle and high schools. Oh, they were not just in the productions; they were wonderful in them. They were also instrumental when, in the late 1960s, we started the Aurora Youth Theater, a (mostly) summer program which flourished for a while but eventually died. Too bad.

At the end of the ceremony yesterday, I talked about how kind Donna and her late husband, Park ("Bud" to everyone), had been to me at the dawn of my career--supporting me not just professionally but, well, in even more basic ways. I had so little money those early years (my first year's gross salary: $5100), and the Frenches frequently fed me, sometimes because I knocked on their back door about 5:45 pm on some bogus errand, and they--recognizing signs of starvation--invited me to their table. I felt at home with them. And I still do. I cannot adequately express my profound gratitude to that remarkable family.

There were so many stories from yesterday. Just one other ...

Diana Brehm Leitch (AHS, 1975) gave a fine introductory speech for her classmate Dave Edmonds, the winner of the Distinguished Alumni award this year. I'd taught Diana in seventh grade--Way Back When (1970-71), and I had begun having students make little 8mm/Super 8mm films in my class. And yesterday I reminded Diana (whom I've not seen since the early 1970s) about her film--a stop-action animation film about a little figure caught in a box of trash--a big box I kept in my room for weeks, a big box whose enduring presence annoyed the custodian (can't blame him, not at all). I fiercely (?) defended its right to exist. She finally finished, the box went the Way of All Trash, and, after a few months, the custodian began smiling at me again.

Diana told me she'd kept that little figure for years.

The other teacher inductee this year was a spectacular kindergarten teacher, Shirley Duval, whose son Ray I taught my very first year. I knew she was great for lots of reasons, but one of them? My seventh and eighth graders still talked about her fondly, even in middle school, the time when the cynicism gene begins to declare itself.

Geoff Jewett, who received the athletic award, was the older brother of two young men I'd taught early in my career, Mark and Tom. Both were there yesterday, and both did an amazing job of pretending they didn't remember what a Rookie I'd been.

And I'd also taught members of Dave Edmonds' family long ago. He went on to a spectacular career with FedEx and has become a generous patron of the arts. His remarks yesterday were self-effacing and affecting.

There's no way to thank adequately the Aurora Alumni Association for sponsoring this event--for actually creating this event a few years ago. It has enormous significance for those honored--and for those who gather to join in the celebration.

Frankenstein Sundae, 165

I was not in Naples very long. Neither, of course, were the Shelleys—just a few months, from the end of 1818 to their departure at the end of February 1819 (they headed to Rome).

After my Vesuvius ascent, I had a short time before I would “enjoy” one of my most unpleasant experiences during that 1999 trip: an all-night train ride from Naples to Munich on the night of April 27. Here—lightly edited—are some passages from my journal during that trip.

Finally aboard train about 6—after some initial confusion w/ the ticket: It was unclear (to me) which compartment I was in (a young man was sitting in what I thought was my seat), but after some fooling around, I think we have it straightened out. So far, I’m with two other men, one in his twenties, the other in his 40s or 50s, both of whom speak as much English as I do Italian.  I’d spent the last couple of hours reading, walking over to the pizza place and spending what I hope will be my last money in Italy (ever!) and—paranoid—checking the track (binario) on which the train will depart.  I’m nearing the end of Glenarvon [Caroline Lamb’s novel about her former lover, Lord Byron] and will probably finish it tonight as we’re rolling up Italy, into a bit of Austria (a 1^st for me), and on into Munich tomorrow a.m.

All in all, this has been a humbling experience for me, Italy. Every day—every single day—I’ve felt stupid; every day I’ve felt afraid, especially since (and probably because of) the incident of pick-pocketing in Florence. When you are totally ignorant of a language, it places you in real jeopardy … I’ve also been very discouraged & depressed by the poverty, the vandalism and destruction, but mostly the desperate hopelessness which greets so many millions of people every morning. I cannot imagine it. At home, what do I worry about? Really worry about? Nothing. Food, shelter, clothing, a little spending money, a few investments—all I have. Best of all, I am loved by a wonderful woman who supports everything I do, every project I undertake; what else on earth could I possibly want? The answer is more than simple: Nothing. To ask for more—to even wish or hope for more—is greed in its violent aspect. It is a sacrilege.

6:20  Right on time, we roll out of Naples! (I’m riding backwards—appropriately.) I notice as we leave that there are in the center of town quite a few glass-and-steel office buildings, rising above the city. But they are quite literally surrounded by low-income high-rises, every bit as depressed—and depressing—as those in Chicago or the South Bronx. They go on for miles.  Not even the intense Neapolitan sun can brighten them.

Plots Twisting Themselves into Knots

A couple of nights ago, Joyce and I finished streaming the final episode of the most recent season of Longmire, now a Netflix series. (We'd watched the others when it was on A&E, the network that canceled it, leaving an opening for Netflix.) And we were disappointed.

And the major problem is this--a problem shared, I think, by a lot of contemporary TV shows: Because the episodes are not self-contained but part of an ongoing plot, the screenwriters are soon forced into writing stories that grow ever more bizarre (one twist after another) and eventually, for me, lose all interest as they depart the orbit of planet Plausibility.

"Back in the day" (when TV series began), most (all) shows had self-contained episodes--and this went on for decades. For an example, let's use one of my favorites, The Rockford Files (1974-1980). Occasionally, the hour-long show would have a double episode; sometimes a character from a previous episode would reappear for another (like Rita Moreno, who several times played the Hooker with a Heart, Rita Capkovic). But for the most part, each episode told its own one-hour story. Sure, relationships among the regular characters evolved and deepened, but this did not depend upon any particular plot twist.

We watched some of Dallas years ago (the series originally ran from 1978-91) but lost interest because it did what I'm complaining about: become ever more impossible to believe.

Then came the series 24 (2001-2010), a series that we didn't watch when it actually aired. But we started watching it later on DVD and--hooked!--binge-watched them all.

But the problem? Viewers knew, of course, that nothing would be truly resolved until the final episode. So the screenwriters twisted themselves into [cliche alert!] pretzels trying to keep us interested for 24 episodes. It got tiresome.

As did--for us--House of Cards, which we stopped watching after a single season. The same with Revenge.

And such has been the fate of Longmire, which this latest season veered ever more weird and implausible. I still love the characters--Sheriff Longmire himself, his daughter, his friend Henry Standing Bear, his deputies, etc.--but the situations have become so ludicrous that I found myself not really caring too much. Not a good sign. (Craig Johnson's Longmire novels, by the way, are very different--at least early ones are; I've read four or five of them.)

(One example, though, of someone who's done it successfully: David Simon (The Wire, Treme). He twists plots, sure (a season is not a wee thing), but he does so in ways that I have ever found effective.)

I'm not a big watcher of TV series, so I'm not certain how much of this is an industry-wide phenomenon. And perhaps I'm just an old-fashioned viewer (very likely), too accustomed to the self-contained to adapt.

But I do know that these new, never-ending stories (sooner, later) bore me.

Frankenstein Sundae, 164

As I wrote earlier, I did have some recent climbing experience in Alaska, a trip along the Chilkoot Trail across the mountains from Alaska into the Canadian Yukon. For an amateur like me, it had been tough, and the final ascent had required some hand-over-hand work in a very rocky terrain.

So I was surprised to discover that the trail up Vesuvius was more like an unpaved road—mostly wide and accommodating. It was less of a climb than a hike—a hike being midway between a walk and a climb. (I’m assuming this will make sense.)

My journal reminds me that the trail to the summit did not open until 9 a.m., so I had to wait a bit. A bar-gate blocked access. At nine the attendant appeared and offered me a walking stick, a kind gesture which I took with gratitude, only then realizing that I was renting the stick.  Oh well. I gave him 500 lire, which barely satisfied him. But he probably figured a guy in shorts wouldn’t know any better.

The trail was about eight feet wide, covered with cinders (hmmm), and barely had I begun than the sun cooperated, popping out to reveal ever-grander views of the Bay of Naples and the city itself.

Before I reached the summit, I arrived at yet another gate: 900 lire to continue (about $6 at the time). Sigh. These days we celebrate entrepreneurs, but on the Vesuvius trail I had different sorts of thoughts about them.

As I approached the crater, I saw a bit of steam emerging from vents, and at the very summit were two souvenir shops. I bought some postcards at one. There was no bubbling cauldron; I had no Dickens-moment when airborne cinders landed on and scorched my clothing. It was very, very calm. Except for that steam, of course, the small cloudy hint of subterranean power.

I was alone. Except for the vendors, I had Mt. Vesuvius to myself. I took many pictures (35mm slides, remember—oh, if only it had been the digital camera age!)

By the time I started down, I wrote later that day, (my driver had stipulated 10:15), the sun had gone away, and swarming up the trail were busloads of tourists and several school groups (all of whom enjoyed my shorts). I should add that some of the kids looked like middle-school age, some of the adults were, well, senior citizens (which I now am), and no one seemed too challenged by the ascent. Still, I cannot imagine the days when porters carried people (like Claire Clairmont) to the summit.

At the bottom, waiting for the taxi, I wrote cards to Joyce and my mother, noting that I’d picked up a little piece of lava and pocketed it.

And where is it now?

No clue.

Photos from that 1999 ascent.

Anniversary

Yesterday, I posted on Facebook the information that it was my parents' 76th wedding anniversary. (My mom, 96, is still with us; Dad died in late November 1999.) Anyway, going through an old manila folder--I think it had belonged to my grandmother, Mom's mom--I found some very detailed information about their wedding on Oct. 12, 1939, in Enid, Oklahoma. The newspaper story had appeared in the Jackson (Ohio) Herald. My mother's Osborn grandparents had lived there.

I'm re-typing the story here because the old newsprint, yellow and fading, is so hard to read. I corrected some of the errors--but left the odd capitalization in places. In a few places, in brackets, I added a little information.

I learned quite a few things here--and not just about the clothing of the bridal party--and the music that day. I learned the name of the Denver church where my dad was preaching (still standing, still a church), the address where they lived in Denver, and the objects my mom carried (moved me to tears). And much more.


DYER-OSBORN NUPTIALS READ

The many Jackson friends of Dr. and Mrs. G. Edwin Osborn of Enid, Oklahoma, will be interested in the account of the marriage of their only daughter, Prudence, to Mr. Charles Edwin [sic--his name was Edward] Dyer, of Denver, Colorado, son of Mrs. Parl [sic--her name was Pearl] M. Dyer, of Freewater, Oregon. The marriage took place at the University Place Christian church at Enid, at eight o'clock the evening of October 12th.

Dr. Osborn officiated at his daughter's bridal which was witnessed by a large company of friends, many of whom were classmates of the couple at Phillips University [in Enid]. The vows were taken before an altar formed of Autumn leaves, ferns, palms and tall standards of chrysanthemums, with candelabra carrying lighted cathedral candles at either side. The windows of the church each held a lighted white taper, and white satin ribbons marked the pews reserved for family and close friends. Miss Osborn was attended by a maid of honor, four bridesmaids, a flower girl and ring-bearer. Mr. Ronald Osborn, brother of the bride, served Mr. Dyer as best man. Four ushers were chosen from the groom's college friends. A program of bridal music preceded the entrance of the bridal party, the pianist playing "I Love You Truly" and "Liebestraum," and a friend singing "O Perfect Love" and "Because." The Lohengrin and Mendelssohn wedding music was used as processional and recessional. The bridesmaids were dressed alike in romance blue taffeta with long circular skirts and short bustle backed jackets. They carried arm bouquets of dubonnet chrysanthemums. The maid of honor was gowned in rose satin made on similar lines to the gowns of the bridesmaids. She carried dubonnet chrysanthemums and deep pink roses. The small flower girl and ring-bearer wore Alice blue taffeta frocks.

Miss Osborn was lovely in an empire bridal gown of white satin fashioned en train with sweetheart neckline and long tight cuffed leg-o-mutton sleeves. Her finger tip veil of tulle was fastened to her hair with a Juliet cap and a short face veil was thrown back during the ceremony. Instead of the usual bridal bouquet, she carried a white satin-bound Bible whose boards were made of olive wood brought back from the Mount of Olives, the book a gift of the groom. A shower of white ribbons with valley lilies and tuberoses fell from the book. For her "something old," the bride carried a handkerchief sent by a family friend from Richmond, Va., who had carried it at her own wedding 25 years ago. The Bible held also a lucky six-pence brought by the Osbornes [sic] from Scotland.

Dr. and Mrs. Osborn received at their home following the ceremony, Mrs. Osborn being handsomely gowned in blue lace with a corsage of Talisman roses. A white tiered wedding cake topped with a miniature bride and groom, together with tall white candles, formed the centerpiece on the dining table from which guests were served by a group of the bride's college friends.

The couple left in the evening for Denver where the groom is minister at the South Broadway Christian church [link to church website] For traveling, Mrs. Dyer changed to a suit of Capri rose wool with brown fur collar and brown accessories.

The new Mrs. Dyer, a granddaughter of Mrs. L. A. Osborn of this city, was prominent in campus activities at Phillips University at Enid, and is listed in "Who's Who in American Colleges and Universities." Her early schooling was taken at Sciennes School, Edinburgh, Scotland, and historic Thomas Jefferson high school of Richmond, Va. She plans to complete her university work at Denver.

Mr. Dyer is a graduate of the University of Oregon, North Western Christian college, and Phillips University, where he received his M. A. last June. He is a member of the Sigma Delta Psi fraternity, and of the Kiwanis club of Enid. Possessor of a fine tenor voice, he was prominent in musical circles while in Enid, serving as tenor soloist with the Cimarron Opera Company.

Mr. and Mrs. Dyer will be at home at 2 Lincoln Street, Denver, Colo. [Right across the street from the church, probably the parsonage.]

Frankenstein Sundae 163

I begin my ascent of Vesuvius ... sort of ...

I got up early the morning of April 27, 1999 (well, not too early: 6:45), and prepped for the climb, dressing in shorts (wouldn’t it be hot? and I do perspire a lot, thanks to some soaking Dyer genes that I’ve shared with my father, brothers, son). I found the local train I needed—called the Circumvesuviana—had some ticket difficulties (my fault) but eventually got aboard for the ride that would take me near the trailhead.

I had not been outside long that morning before I’d begun feeling like an idiot. I did not see a single other person wearing shorts—not on the streets and sidewalks, not on the train. As I walked past groups of people sitting at coffee shops and restaurants, I noticed fingers pointing at me, heard some Italian (which I—for the first time—was supremely grateful I did not understand), followed by some sniggering laughter (which I did understand). I’d made a cultural blunder.

On the train, I found a seat and pretended I wasn’t wearing shorts, fooling no one. People continued to look and smile. Or laugh.

When I arrived at my stop … nothing. Something very like a slum. And there I stood. I found the station master and learned that the bus that would take me to the trail would not arrive for an hour—and that it did not return until 6 p.m., impossible since I had a 6:20 train to catch to Munich.

Someone helpful (or someone mercenary?) knew of a taxi driver who would take me. Said driver—Guitano, I learned, was his name—appeared but said he needed his coffee first. So away we went, I wrote later in my journal, my shorts turning heads and activating voices all along the way. The price was ridiculous—about $37 US—for a brief ride—oh, and that was each way.

So our first stop was not at the trailhead but at an ATM. We made some arrangements for his return to pick me up after the climb.

My driver drove through the miserably impoverished streets of Ercolanto & started heading up. The sky was cloudy, but the sun was making an effort to break through—maybe I’d get lucky.

***

Some shots of Naples I took in 1999.

Sunday Sundries, 70

Going with a new logo. Get over it.

1. AOTW--The competition was tight this week. At first I was certain I would name the two drivers who were heading south on Aurora-Hudson Rd. while we sat the stop sign on Old Mill, waiting to turn left (north) on A-H Rd.  Better description: It was a T-intersection; we were at the top of the T waiting to turn left. Two cars--one right behind the other--approached from our left, so we waited, and then both--at the very last second, turned on their right turn signals and turned onto Old Mill. Meaning: We had to sit there and wait to get out onto A-H Rd., which, of course, we would not have had to do if they had used their @*@*@*# turn signals!

But a better--and winning candidate--presented himself/herself on Friday night. We were in downtown Cleveland for a production of King Lear (see below) at the Hanna Theater. We were in the Hanna Parking Garage. In a slot. When we came out, ready to head home, someone (the AOTW) had parked virtually right behind us in a place where there is no slot. At first, I thought we would not be able to get out at all, but after some masterful (!) geeing and hawing, we managed. I said some bad words.

2. My father would be in deep mourning today: His beloved OU Sooners lost yesterday to the despised Texas Longhorns. Dad's Ph.D. was from OU, and his best friend from college, Paul Sharp, became not only the president of Hiram College (when Dad was teaching there) but also, later of OU. Dad loved college football (and high school and pro and playground and backyard), but he adored the Sooners.

3. Joyce had an idea for me this morning. We were walking over to the Open Door Coffee Co. for our Sunday morning with the Times, and I was reciting to her (as is my wont) some of the recent poems I've memorized. She suggested I get a tin cup and a little footstool and stand on Hudson's Main Street and recite poems for money. I said I'd put up a sign:

Feeling low? From bad to worse?
Drop a dime, and hear a verse.

The only scary thing: I think she was serious.

4. This week I finished the very fine book Fallingwater Rising: Frank Lloyd Wright, E. J. Kaufmann, and America's Most Extraordinary House (2002) by Franklin Toker. I'd bought the book because of our recent trip with our grandsons to see the house. It's a fine book, and I especially enjoyed the sections about the actual construction--and the choreography between owner Kaufmann and architect Wright (a love-hate dance). I was less interested in the overlong post-construction story. But it was fun to read about the enduring problems they've had with the engineering--especially the cantilevers supporting the balconies. (They had some serious problems early on--and some publications called the house "America's Leaning Tower of Pisa.")

I learned, too, about Kaufmann's "libidinous and unfettered private life" (58). It seems, too, that the Kaufmanns are responsible for all the trees and vegetation around--the place looks like the forest primeval in some ways (thank you, Mr. Longfellow), but it was all carefully designed and planted.

Astonishing research. Profound understanding of the construction.

5. Friday night we drove to the Hanna Theater in downtown Cleveland (where there was an amazing amount of traffic for Garth Brooks and Gladys Knight with the O'Jays and other attractions) to see King Lear, a Great Lakes Theater production that really didn't work for me. (I told Joyce that if she hadn't been with me, I would have left at intermission.) So much mumbling and failure to do an actor's principal job: deliver the lines comprehensibly. The three daughters--sadly--were especially weak, each in a different way. Lear himself--Aled Davies, a long-time GLT favorite, principally a character actor--was very competent and did a much better job with his lines than most of the others--but I thought his voice lacked ... color? He was loud, soft, yes, but emotional coloring was not what it needs to be. The Fool--Tom Ford--worked hard to communicate the humor--very hard to deliver the lines the Bard wrote for him, lines that in some cases are confusing to modern ears. He managed with his talent and exaggeration (necessary exaggeration) to entertain even when the meaning was obscure.

And the character of Edgar (J. Todd Adams)--who, to escape execution, is forced into hiding as someone, well, homeless and mad--appears later on sans shirt and looks as if he's spent all the intervening time in a gym and consuming protein drinks. The guy was cut--but not really the look, I don't think, for that particular part. You don't want the homeless guy looking more fit than everyone else in Cuyahoga County. (What abs!)

They had a major technical glitch near the end--some scenery was misbehaving--and they had to stop the show at a very emotional moment to fix it. (Some people left.)

Very small house--maybe 1/3 full? Sad to see. The company has done some wonderful productions over the years. This was not one of them.

Lear with daughters Cordelia (left) and Goneril