January 7, 1949

I really did check the date on this AM's newspaper, for the day and the year.  Yep, it's January 7, 2017.  And I am, in some ways, in disbelief.

Can it really be 2017?  Where did the '70s and '80s and......go?  Can it really by my 68th birthday? Where did 67 and 66 and......go?

I've had occasion the past few days to reminisce and share (I don't think I'm a greedy person, but used in this context I don't really care for this word.  But I'll use it anyway.) some old memories.  Some were good memories and some not-so-good, but all were valuable.  Not everything worthwhile is fun.

It's hard to believe that I graduated from high school almost exactly, to the week, from high school 50 years ago and began college then, too.  I think I was lucky to go to Fordson when I did.  It had some dogs for teachers, but there were some really good ones, too.  Being a teacher myself for 46 years has given me some insight on this.  Messrs. Podorsek, Conte, Olson, and Nustad were great in math, really good.  In chemistry, Messrs. Brooks and even Fitzpatrick were, too.  And there were others, too, and I don't mean to slight them.

I told this story within the past week of Mr. Osterberg.  His son is Iggy Pop of the Stooges and some documentary (?) coming out prompted the recollection.  Mr. O was an English teacher, a real bear.  He intimidated a lot of students, not an easy thing to do at FHS.  In senior English, he was required to teach grammar, which he apparently hated.  So, he assigned every assignment in the grammar book for homework, literally hours a night, and completed the grammar section in about 6 weeks.  The rest of the time we had to do papers and make oral presentations on them.  And, he sat at the back of the room waiting until we finished; then he ripped on us.  I'm sure he couldn't do it today; he'd violate our "safe spaces."  But we or at least I learned a lot from him, although he intimidated me, of course.  But the story......  Like baseball teams everywhere, we took pre-game practice, the coach hitting balls to the outfield to throw to each base before the infield practice.  (Of course, they can't do that today, not even in the little leagues.  It might mess up the field.  Do they know what sort of fields we played on back then?  I remember going down to block a ball at Atkinson Field in Detroit, coming up to notice a gash on my knee.  I had knelt on a piece of glass in the OF.  It wasn't the only time.  Today, though, the fields have to be pristine.)  I was, heck, my teammates and friends who came to watch were stunned when Mr. Osterberg picked up a bat and would hit me fly balls while the others were finishing infield practice!  He really did.  And he'd often be joined by other teachers, including Mr. Brooks and Mr. Musgrove, my auto shop teacher.  (Yep, at FHS the guys had to take shop classes.  Lucky for me we did.  At Amherst I earned more than one pizza by changing the oil on buddies' cars.  One time, I gained the use of a car for a week--for the one or two dates I had in four years!--by fixing an exhaust system, the muffler and tailpipe.)  Very many good memories emanate from FHS.  Like so many things, I sometimes wish I had done some things differently.  But it was a great time and I learned a great deal.

Of course, I've related how much Amherst has influenced my life, too.  My professors were really good, at least most of them.  I feel lucky to have had the chance to learn from them.  Again, I wish I had done some things differently, like realized then what a great opportunity I had, but I'll bet that's the case with many folks, esp folks of my generation.  I had a wonderful relationship with some of them and with some of the coaches, too.  I cherish the contacts I still have with some of them and only regret I didn't keep up with those contacts with more of my professors.  And my experiences in athletics, well, those were wonderful, too.  It's funny, as one of my good buddies and I often note, most often it's not the wins and losses or the individual accomplishments, but the funny stories that matter most.  Yep......

It's hard to believe, too, that it was 55 and 60 and more years ago I grew up in Dearborn, having moved from Detroit (on E. Philadelphia St, down the block from Blessed Sacrament Cathedral).  I think Dearborn was a great place to have been a kid back then.  No, we didn't know about segregation and Mayor Hubbard; we were kids.  In fact, when we played, it didn't matter what color anyone was.  A few times each summer we'd take our bikes into Detroit, it was right next door, looking for kids to play ball, sometimes for Cokes, us against them.  We'd play who we found, white, blacks; it didn't matter.  If we won, the Cokes tasted the same.  When I got older and we traveled to the national tournament, one of my roommates was a black kid from Pershing.  I didn't see him as "a black kid from Pershing," but as a teammate who was a great guy.  What do we do to the innocence of youth?

But Dearborn was wonderful for a kid who liked to do things.  Oh, it was the city, but within a 5- or 10-minute bike ride we could be at Devil's Woods, part of the 40 acres Henry Ford's dad left him.  Much of the 40 acres was cultivated with soybeans, a favorite of the eccentric HF.  But there were woods, "Devil's Woods" we called them, with rabbits and other critters.  Even the city park, Ford Woods, for my earliest years, had a good section that was still, well, real woods.  They were ripe for city kids to explore, make forts, hide, chase (but never catch) rabbits, etc.  Later the city opted to clear them out, leaving some trees, for more picnic area.  We played ball, anything round, without adult supervision.  We followed the seasons, football, touch in the streets and tackle at the park or school field, in the fall; basketball in the winter, in the open schools or on the playground often unable to feel our fingers from the cold; and couldn't wait for baseball in the spring and summer.  Of course, hockey found its way in the winter, too, on the ponds frozen by the city at  Ford Woods or on Chase Road next to the Dearborn Pizzeria bocce ball courts.  Boy, baseball was king.  If we didn't have enough players, it was pitcher's hand out and we could only hit to the right or left side of 2nd base or we'd be out.  We played home run derby at the idle ice rinks.  And there was strikeout, where we'd make a square on the side of a building (usually one of the schools) and pitch and bat, one on one.  William Ford School was ideal, with a fence far, but not too far.  Over the fence, between two big trees, was a home run, which would bounce into Dearborn Pizzeria's parking lot.  Off the fence on the fly was a triple and one bounce a double.  Outs were balls caught by the pitcher or, of course, "strikeouts."  During the school year, there was always a neighborhood school open for activities. Boy, the Ford Motor Company money (taxes!) were great to have!  There was basketball in the gym and swimming in the pool.  The cafeteria was split for board games or even dancing.  Two nights it was at Maples, two others at Lowery, the next......

2017 and 68.  Who'd a thunk it?