Brothers

On By scottpetersenIn Augustana College, Brothers, GAB FraternityLeave a comment

“Behold how good and how pleasant it is for brothers to dwell together in unity.  It is like the precious ointment upon the head . . . . and as the dew that descended upon the mountains of Zion . . . .”  Psalm 133:1-2

[A repeat of August 5, 2015] In July 2015, I posted on attending the 100th anniversary of the Gamma Alpha Beta fraternity at Augustana College.   Many of the brothers from my era showed up.  We have remained a close-knit group since graduation.  This last weekend, we had a reunion of “GAB’s” in Rockford with about 20+ brothers — all of my vintage.

I wasn’t destined for college (see post of October 13, 2013).  My future was to work as an assistant plumber after high school.  Frankly, it’s a fluke that I even applied (around the time of high school graduation) and got in to “college.”  And that I came to know my Brothers. 

There are amazing memories and stories.  One I smile at is the dark night when my entire pledge class was corralled by police and taken off to the police station for borrowing a neighbor’s ladder at midnight (the neighbor was awake, thought it was theft and called the police).  One quick-witted pledge escaped detention by launching himself over a window well and clambering up onto a fire escape.   Yeah.  That was me. . . . 

The GAB’s won the Homecoming Sing with the ballad I sang to Lauren every night when she was young — “Oh Shenendoah.”   It was that song I picked for the Father-Daughter dance at her wedding (see post of August 14, 2011).  We had tears in our eyes as the music played.  It’s interesting how when you meet old friends, you pick up where you left off.    It’s as if time stands still and I’m 19 years old again.  With my brothers. In my brain, I’m still 19.  Now if only my body would cooperate . . . . .        

Fourth of July!

On By scottpetersenIn Fireworks, Fourth of JulyLeave a comment

[A timely Holiday repeat from July 2, 2017]
On this Independence Day eve, here’s a distillation of a few prior posts on a subject near to my heart.  

Fireworks? Firecrackers? Cherry bombs? Should they be legal? In Wisconsin, fireworks stores seem to outnumber cows.  Weekend festivities are often punctuated by the staccato of firecrackers or the magnificent boom of larger devices.

In 1956, the Hungarian Revolution began.  My 9 year old pals and I learned about “Molotov cocktails.”  So we thought – why not?   We filled pop bottles with gasoline, stuffed a rag in the top and lit it — tossing the bottle into Weller creek.  WOW!!   Spectacular eruptions of flames (not to mention the bumblebee whiz of shards of glass and rocks).   

I was a bomb maker.  We’d break open firecrackers, shake out the fulminate of mercury powder into cigar tubes with homemade fins, balance them on an incline and then light a fuse sending the “rocket” skyward or sometimes just bouncing along the ground.  Sometimes we put “Lady Finger” firecrackers in the nose.  Wow!  These would end with an airborne explosion.  We would grab handfuls of match books at the local pharmacy and snip the heads off.  And stuff match heads into thin pipes, shaking in the fulminate powder for more incendiary displays.  And bombs.  We made cannons stuffed with BB’s held in place by dripping candle wax.  And once a hand grenade – using Slaymaker lock dial.  Every boy had a supply of firecrackers, cherry bombs, M-80’s and such.  And my neighborhood was frequently ripped with massive explosions. All thanks to 9 to 12 year old boys. . . . .  

I am aware of the arguments of some against fireworks. But Wisconsin and 39 other states allow them.

Little Feet

On By scottpetersenIn Little FeetLeave a comment

[A valuable spring repeat from November 26, 2017]  When I was about 10 years old, I pestered my father to let me drive the family car.  Sooooo. . . . one Sunday, my dad let me drive home from Church.  Not all the way – but the last mile or so — on a road that was pretty vacant and ran in part along a corn field. I’d sit there peering over the steering wheel – my father with one hand on the wheel, one hand on the ignition and one hand on the gear shift.  From then on, I was the “Chuber” driver (“CHurch UBER“) on Sundays.  

Sometimes, my dad would take me to an empty parking lot and let me drive.  Round and round.  So I “learned” to drive at a pretty early age. When Lauren was about 12, I let her “drive” on occasional Saturday afternoons in our Church parking lot.  

My father had a lot of wisdom to impart to me in my formative years (which – Donna comments – are still in progress).  My dad always told me when driving to keep my “eyes moving.”  Watching.  Left.  Right.  Check the mirrors.  And he told me to always watch for “little feet.”  As I drive along a narrow street, I was told to glance forward — under the cars parked along the street.  Why?  Because you can see if there are little feet — on the other side — below the car.  And you can slow down.  It’s easy to see an adult standing by a car.  But there’s no way to see a child unless you see the “little feet” under the car you are approaching. 

I’m always watching for “little feet.”  Try it next time you’re driving.  Keep an eye out for little feet. . . . .

My Grandmother

On By scottpetersenIn Pacific Garden Mission, The knock at the doorLeave a comment

[A repeat from April 4, 2020] My grandmother – Ruth – would occasionally speak of the Great Depression – an agonizing time when unemployment skyrocketed and nearly everyone had financial problems. She said that periodically there would be a knock at the door. And a man would be standing there wearing coat and tie – with his “hat in hand.” Or it might be a lady in a dress.  “Ma’am, I’m just wondering if you have any food that you can spare.”

My grandparents did not have much.  But they went to Church every Sunday and they believed in charity — however small.  My grandfather – Frank – volunteered his time and scarce dollars to the venerable Pacific Garden Mission in downtown Chicago while my grandmother was busy raising three children.  But Grandma said that she would always answer that knock on the door.  She would tell the stranger to wait.  She would go to the kitchen, take a slice of bread and smear it with butter. Then sprinkle it with sugar. She would put it in a paper bag with an apple (if she had any) and give it to the grateful stranger.

We are going through unprecedented times. Many economists say that we are entering a recession. Some say it could be worse. . . .  Regardless of our means, I tend to think that each one of us will be receiving a “knock on the door.”  Whether from a charitable or religious organization, a family member or from a stranger.  The question is – will we answer the door. . . . ?   

Palindromes

On By scottpetersenIn PalindromesLeave a comment

[A summer repeat from April 16, 2012]

Can you say “Anna backwards“?  The usual response is “Anna.”  But the correct answer is “Anna backwards.” 

Anna is a “palindrome” (it is a word that reads the same forwards as backwards) just like Otto, Eve, Hannah and Elle.  “Anna sees Anna” is a palindrome.  “Did Hannah see bees Hannah did.”  Sure she did – backwards and forwards.  One of the first palindromes I learned was “Madam I’m Adam.”  Then there was “A man, a plan, a canal – Panama” referencing Teddy Roosevelt.  I began using palindromes for tutoring at Chicago Lights Tutoring (see prior posts).  “Read this backwards” I would say to the student.  And get blank stares.  And then suddenly – the lights (and smiles) went on.  🙂

Cigar?  Toss it in a can.  It is so tragic.

Enid and Edna dine.

Hey Roy!  Am I mayor?  Yeh!

My gym. 

Never odd or even. 

Now I won. 

Too bad I hid a boot. 

Was it a car or a cat I saw? 

Too hot to hoot!

Live not on evil.  

Mr. Owl ate my metal worm.

So Ida – Adios. 

Tuna roll or nut?

Stella won no wallets. 

The earliest recorded palindrome dates to 79 A.D.  In Latin, it is “Sator Arepo tenet opera rotas” (“the sower Arepo holds works wheels“).   The longest palindrome?  It’s 17,826 pretty random words.   No I won’t repeat it here . . . . .

Why Wildfires Have Gotten Worse

On By scottpetersenIn WildfiresLeave a comment

[A timely and unfortunate repeat from January 27, 2019] I have posted occasionally on TED Talks I watch while having lunch or working out. I just finished my chicken avocado sandwich while watching a TED Talk bearing the title above – “Why Wildfires have gotten Worse” by Dr. Paul Hessburg http://www.ted.com/talks/paul_hessburg_why_wildfires_have_gotten_worse_and_what_we_can_do_about_it#t-839042 . .             

Dr. Hessburg is a forest ecologist with the U.S. Department of Agriculture – Forest Service. He has a doctorate in Forest Pathology from Oregon State University and he is an Affiliate Professor at the University of Washington. Dr. Hessburg’s message is that “unless we change . . . our forest and fire management habits . . . we will lose many more beloved forests. . . . ”  

On November 9th, the New York Times had an article titled “Why Does California Have So Many Wildfires.”  The answer – according to the Times is fourfold:  climate change; people (who start fires); fire suppression policies; and the Santa Ana winds.  Dr. Hessburg’s 14 minute video is an excellent primer which tracks in part the NYT article.  So why is the situation worse today?   Misguided forest management is a major reason. If you want the details, invest 14 minutes and watch his presentation.       

“Sully” – Redux

On By scottpetersenIn SullyLeave a comment

In response to my post “Sully” and the influential swing thought that I derived from it (“HEAD DOWN – STAY DOWN“), a friend suggested a scenario where that imperative might be ignored.

A very angry and discouraged golfer, having played 18 horrible holes, at the end of the round looked over at his caddie and pointed to the water hazard and said “I think I’m going to drown myself in that pond.” To which his caddie replied, “Sir, that would be great – but do you think that you can keep your head down long enough?” 

The angry golfer looked at the caddie and snarled “you must be the worst caddie in the world” to which the caddie replied “no sir – that would be too much of a coincidence. . . . ”

A Ten. . . .

On By scottpetersenIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

[A summer repeat from July 3, 2016] I scored a point or two by asking Donna if she wanted to go out for dinner on Friday (ka-ching).  “No she said . . . how about if we stay home and have something simple.” Now I have come to realize that “simple” in Donna’s parlance means plain chicken, rice and asparagus.  Three of my favorite things.  Not.   So I offered to make dinner.

I went to Fresh Market (my usual haunt for dinner inspiration) and bought 3/4 of a pound of wild Atlantic sockeye salmon for Donna.  Simple.  And I got three crab cakes for myself (a regular crab cake; the “ultimate” crab cake; and a salmon cake). I wanted to try them all.  The salmon was drenched in olive oil.  Seasoned with turmeric and pepper and baked for 20 minutes at 400.  The “cakes” I sautéed in olive oil until brown. 

Then (be still my heart) I got organic white potatoes; organic carrots; and some Shiitaki mushrooms.  The potatoes I diced thinly and sautéed in butter.  Topped with ground pepper, turmeric, Kosher salt and garlic powder.    The carrots and Shiitakis were washed (the carrots were filthy), the carrots skinned and everything diced and sautéed  in olive oil.   Both took about 40 minutes on low(er) heat.  Candles.  A little Gato Barbieri crooning in the background.   “Well?” I asked.   Donna looked up.  “This is probably a nine and a half.”  She paused.  Savored a bite.  “Actually a ten” (ka-ching).  And then – the píece de résistance – I whipped out a Talenti Sicilian Pistachio gelato to close the meal.  And did the dishes.  Ka-ching ka-ching . . . . .        

“Sully”

On By scottpetersenIn Head Down - Stay Down, Sully1 Comment

I like to golf. I’m okay at it. Not great.  I play a few times a week in the summer and shoulder seasons. I have a 18 index that (I think) is moving down.   My attitude on any given day can affect my game.  The reason is — golf is 65% mental. And 35% mental. . . . .

In days past, I used to have a dozen swing thoughts that would spiral and pulse through my small brain as I addressed the ball, raised the club and brought it down for an imperfect “whack” on my Pro V-1. Yet on any given stroke, I might forget half of the most important swing thoughts (slow back, hands tight, right elbow in . . . .). These days, however, I have pared down my swing thoughts to a single mandate. I have Captain Chesley “Sully” Sullenberger to thank for it.

Have you ever seen the movie “Sully”? If not, watch the trailer – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mjKEXxO2KNE It will explain – in an “ahaaa” moment – the origin of my swing thought.

When Captain Sullenberger realizes that he cannot make it to LaGuardia or Teterboro Airports – he knows he will have to “land” in the Hudson River. He takes his microphone and announces over the loudspeaker the iconic words – “Brace for Impact.” At that point, the flight attendants begin yelling – what is etched into my mind as I address the ball. . . .

“HEAD DOWN – STAY DOWN!” In short, I try to keep my head stationary – and down – as I swing and follow through. That directive usually works. Though sometimes the swing thought disappears and my mind becomes a tabula rasa (blank slate) as I’m swinging down. And I will immediately look up (often before I hit the ball) and want to see where the ball is going. And you can guess what happens then . . . . .

Do You Play Golf?

On By scottpetersenIn Do you play golf?, Golf1 Comment

[A repeat from March 19, 2017]  Years ago, when I was a States Attorney, I played golf with 7 other guys. Every Saturday morning for several years.  From April to October – we played at Cog Hill. Number 4. Dubsdread. Reserved tee times.  6:30 a.m. or so depending on sunrise.   Second and third foursomes off the tee — usually after Larry Lujack and a group from his radio staff.   

Since I lived in Wilmette, this meant traversing 45 miles to Lemont. Every Saturday morn.  To arrive by 5:45 a.m.  Thus, each Saturday, I was up at 4:00.  Showered, dressed and on the road by 4:30 a.m.

When I left my house, I would not waste time.  If you get my drift.  I gunned the car when I left the driveway and by the time I hit Lake Street, I was doing maybe 50.  In a 30 zone.   Never a soul on the highway.  Except one morning when in the black of night, way back, I saw the flicker of Mars lights moving swiftly in my direction.  #%&X!.  I slowed.  Stopped.  Got out of the car and stood there.  Holding up my license.  A police squadrol ground to a stop and an officer got out.  I was wearing khaki shorts, flip flops and a golf shirt so I didn’t look like much of a threat.  “Do you know how fast you were going?” he asked as he approached.   I handed him my license.  “Yes sir – I do.  I was going too fast.”  And then I offered “Are you a golfer?”  He looked at me.  “Yeah.  Why?”  I responded “I live back there.”  I turned and pointed.  “Every Saturday morning, I play golf at Cog Hill in Lemont.  We tee off in about an hour.  And I confess that I sometimes go faster than I should when I leave my house.”  

The officer looked at me.  Chewing on my comment.   “Well most Saturdays, I’m sitting right back [he turned and pointed] there. Keeping an eye on things.  Do me a favor.  Go the speed limit from now on.”  And he handed me back my license.  “Hit ’em straight” he said.  And walked back to his cruiser.